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Halo: Excursion


The UltimoScorp

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IC: Alice - The Madrigal -

"Affirmative captain!" The AI said in response as she assumed direct control over the plasma turrets. The turrets systematically fired at the lead enemy ship, making sure it's shields stayed down. As Alice fully took over all of the Madrigal's plasma cannons she hummed a little tune to herself. 

A very happy unbirthday, to me! 

Naturally she was also doing work in the background, trying to worm her way into the enemy ship's systems, looking for cracks in their firewalls and networks. If she could start systematically shutting down their systems it would make it rather easy for the Spartans and friends to capture. 

 

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My Bzprpg ProfilesGhosts of Bara Magna

Skyra | Hakari | Oceanna | Taleen | Arisaka | Zanakra | Kaminari | Drakkar

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  • 2 weeks later...

IC: Taylor [SPEHSS]

Staff Sergeant Taylor Gull, forty-seven years of age, closed his eyes and inhaled, and a biting tang of smoke and embers filled his lungs.  The breeze felt painfully warm and thick enough to choke him, and it left his scars tingling and face sweaty as it passed.  He wondered if he ought to put on his helmet, still swinging loosely from his right hand in the bitter draft, but his arm felt as stiff as iron and twice as heavy.

The ground shuddered beneath him, and even after it stopped, he felt like he was about to fall from the mountaintop, tumbling down to the city burning below.

From behind him came the soft footsteps of one of the Bullfrogs accompanying his platoon, and a gloved hand on his shoulder-

<<You doing okay back there, Gunny?>>

Good question.

Gunnery Sergeant Taylor Gull, fifty-three and probably mostly sane, maybe, perhaps, clutched at the grips of his turret and thought hard about exactly what had just happened.  Reach had been bad, yes, but hardly the first time he’d seen a city glassed- and more pertinently, while he’d had flashbacks before, they had never been so… distracting.  Just a flash, nothing more.  What in the world was this?  Pre-op jitters?  Zero-g nausea?  Both?  Probably both.  He eyed his vitals dancing in his HUD and tried not to think about what deep space was doing to his circulatory system.

Wait.  Question.  Whoops.  Taylor scowled and forced his breathing under control again.  <<Well,>> he grunted, <<turret's still a bit sluggish, but other than that…>>  He shrugged, then remembered his pilot couldn't exactly see him.  <<Little worried my head’s not quite in the game.  I’m hoping the shooting lets me take my mind off it all, but until then->>

Plasma flare.  The Madrigal’s hull flashed as its main guns activated, and a shining bloom of pale fire began to chew its way through the asteroid field towards the pirate corvettes.  Taylor winced as a burst of bright blue seared afterimages into his eyes in the fraction of a second it took for his visor to polarize (down in the mountain basin, the city of Manassas vanished in a swirling cloud of black smoke and blinding light), and then the bloom streaked past above and he twisted in his gunner’s perch to watch it land.

One of the trails of light flying beside him flashed as well, and a bolt of twisting energy emerged from its ventral cannon and lanced a dark shape in the distance.  The Seraph’s shields popped and a blue gash blazed into existence along its hull, and it spun out of formation to trail fire into the endless night.  First blood to Nikolai.

Taylor straightened, and suddenly the booster frame seemed so much sturdier beneath his boots, the turret so much lighter in his hands.  He smiled thinly as his VISR began to feed him IFF markers; his smile widened two more frames pulled up beside Vasquez’s, and some of the markers vanished as quickly as they appeared, each disappearance perfectly synchronized with the death of a Banshee.

<<Never mind.  I’m fine.>>

An acknowledgement marker flashed inside his helmet, coupled with a full-squad broadcast: <<I’ve got the leader.>>  The booster frame shuddered beneath him, and another Banshee marker winked out of existence.  Another broadcast followed: <<Splash one.  I’m going in for guns.>>

Taylor sent his pilot a green marker of his own, already eyeing the wing of Banshees that had just lost their flight lead.  Two broke off early on a direct intercept course, only to vanish in a quick salvo from a passing Broadsword; two more threw themselves into a wider turn, presumably trying to keep their distance until they could find a safer approach vector.

Taylor tapped the trigger of his M41 experimentally; the turret shuddered in its grip as a brief torrent of bullets sprayed out, but the barrel did a remarkable job of staying pointed exactly where he wanted it pointed at- everything he could have hoped for.  He heaved the gun around and fired again, and one of the Banshees’ engines sputtered out as its flank disintegrated amidst a storm of depleted uranium shells.  The other Banshee, cold and alone, wisely reversed directions and retreated.

<<Banshee down.>>  Taylor spared Vasquez the quickest nod he could; she still couldn’t see it, of course, but it made him feel good.  <<And still fine.>>

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It is not for us to decide the fate of angels.

Dominus Temporis, if you're out there, hit me up through one of my contacts.  I've been hoping to get back in touch for a long time now.  (Don't worry, I'm not gonna beg you to bring back MLWTB or something.  :P )

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  • 7 months later...

Things were going very well for Nova. They were making good time, and keeping the enemy on the back foot. But all battles have an ebb and flow, and the tide came quickly and fiercely to bear upon the team. For Artur and Julia, a banshee slipped “under’ their Booster frame, and a wash of plasma drained their shields before a fuel rod vaporised the entire nose of the small craft. Radiation and electrical feedback danced across Julia’s armor, her armor locking up. Her visor polarised completely and her comm unit fried. Artur was left more or less alone, with a booster frame that no longer functioned, a pilot that could not respond, and several hundred kilograms of explosive ordinance that may as well be a sitting duck for the banshee that was already swinging around for a second pass.

It was Spartan Herrera who ultimately made the ultimate sacrifice, however. The wash of plasma fire that caught his Frame’s ‘wing’ boiled away the maneuvering pod and cooked off several of the warheads on the strut, sending the former Bullfrog spinning. Miguel did not quit. His entire right side was scorched from the explosion, and his HUD let him know in no uncertain terms that his suit had been breached. Pain told him that his body had similarly been breached, bits of shrapnel digging into him, and breathing gave a hitch as the soft tissue of his lungs caught on the edges of a broken rib.

Automatic seals kept oxygen in his lungs, but parts of his body were still exposed to vacuum, and he felt the decrease in temperature, as heat slowly began to be leeched from his body by the bitter temperature of space. The burning sting of biofoam filled his veins and cavities, a familiar but unpleasant companion. Far worse was the feeling of ebullism in the exposed sections of his body. His armor had bought him time, but not enough of it. There was a grim certainty he’d be dead soon. Shock came for him, and after that, stuck in the vacuum of space, he’d die. But Miguel did not quit. The certainty of death did not sway him from his task, nor did it quell the fire within his soul. He would die. And they would die with him.

 After a breath and a cough that was more blood than saliva, he opened TEAMCOMM, “Nova 2-1, 2-3, I’ve been hit bad, but I’m clearing the lane for you. Make it count, buddy.”

Managing to turn the frame toward the corvette’s hangar, he threw the throttle wide open,  loosed the remaining warheads on the left spar, then let go. The doomed booster frame screamed into the hangar, taking a few of the defending Kig-Yar with it, and then enveloped the entire hangar in flame as it impacted. The explosion set off fuel tanks stored in the hangar. But Miguel did not quit.

Having jumped from the craft before impact, the proud son of New Toledo drew his side arm and began making work out of exterminating every living thing remaining in the hangar. 12 rounds. 14 dead jackals. He was peppered with plasma burns now. But he did not quit.

The blunt forces of the Magnum’s frame netted him two more kills, and it’s mangled remains were thrown at a third, and then his knife came into play. In the end, Miguel Herrera was personally responsible for the deaths of over 100 enemy combatants before plasma fire overwhelmed his broken body, and he fell. To the very end, he did not quit.

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  • 1 month later...

IC: [ Vasquez]

Nova Lead was in the middle of a high-g turn, causing both of the frame’s occupants to strain against the force of the continuously firing maneuvering thrusters as they tried to keep an escort Banshee from lining up a shot on them, when the team status alert popped up in Myra’s HUD: Nova 2 was hit. The small window displaying their vitals and armor flashed all sorts of warnings and colors she never wanted to see - especially Herrera. 

<<Nova 2-1, 2-3, I’ve been hit bad, but I’m clearing the lane for you.>>

Even with the slight distortion over the comms she could hear the rattle in his breath. Her eyes darted towards the other corvette, instinctively trying to pick out the stricken Spartan’s frame. It was just human nature, but useless at these velocities and distances. She could only see the larger ship, everything else was a twinkle of starlight and plasma fire.

<<Make it count, buddy.>>

Her own heart rate spiked as the realization hit. Don’t you do it, tonto! Vasquez immediately opened a channel.

<<2-3, break off enga - 

Her comms erupted in static from the burst of plasma rounds suddenly whizzing by, way too close for comfort and causing sparks to erupt in her vision as her visor instantly upped the polarization to maximum to keep her from being blinded. She didn’t see the alien ship’s shields flare up as Herrera’s booster frame punched a hole through to the hangar.

Vasquez!

She wasn’t sure if that had been her internal voice, Taylor or Madrigal, but it didn’t matter, she knew she had to focus on her own situation. There was nothing she could do for Spartan Herrera from here. If she let herself get distracted the only thing that was guaranteed was her and the Gunny getting fried too.

She instantly pulled the frame into a roll and dove, causing the Banshee to overshoot slightly and miss with the next volley too, but other than that the alien craft stayed glued to them, right on their tail.

She could feel the vibration as  Taylor did what he could with the turret but so far the bandit was undeterred. Tough customer.

Then inspiration struck, born out of a childhood memory: History class, early space flight. To initiate their return to earth, the earliest spacecraft had to perform deorbit burns - turning the whole ship around and pointing the engines the direction you were going to slow down while maintaining trajectory.

Grossly oversimplified, sure, but she doubted the Banshee pilot would see that one coming. Covenant tech was so advanced and passed down from their prophets, so that they hadn’t had to do this kind of maneuvering in centuries - if ever. Meanwhile, humanity in its quest for space had happily taken the odds of either landing, bouncing off into space, or burning up - because as a species, humanity was kind of insane that way.

She throttled up the main boosters to maximum for a second, generating that little bit of extra distance needed, before instantly cutting them back to idle and engaging the maneuvering thrusters once again, spinning the entire frame along the rotational axis of Taylor’s turret.

Suddenly the Banshee found itself not just facing one turret, but three. A moment later, the alien craft disintegrated in a triple hail of chain gun rounds.

“That’s how NASA did it.” Myra commented, spinning the craft back around to its previous orientation and throttling up the main-engines once more.

Scanning her instruments she noted they were clear for the moment. Her focus immediately returned to Nova 2. 2-1's situation hadn’t changed, but 2-3’s signals were throwing up nothing but alerts and - was he aboard the corvette!?

<<2-3, Nova Lead, what’s your status?>>

Nothing. She waited a beat.

<<2-3, status!?>>

<<Miguel!>>

Then his vitals flatlined. Myra felt like her armor was filled with ice water. She cursed under her breath. A hundred thoughts of how she could have saved her fellow Spartan started to form in the back of her mind, but that’s where they were forced to stay until the debrief. Training took over and she channeled her feeling into a cold, focused anger. A different notification sounded in her helmet and she glanced at the weapons display.

 

M92 - 100%

 

She let out a deep breath and keyed the comms once more.

<<Nova Lead, proceeding to targets.>>

She continued evasive maneuvers for a few more seconds, until she was happy with their range and relative position to their designated corvette, then she spun the booster frame once more and began the attack run. First, she locked the MITV pods onto the corvette’s point defense turrets and let them fly. A few of the pods were picked off before they could deploy their missiles, but most of them managed to deploy their volleys, at which point the turrets became too busy to focus on their frame. She lined up the MAC target indicator with the blue square of the hangar and pulled the trigger. She could feel the shudder of the Gauss firing in her bones. The missiles hit home and the entire broadside of the corvette erupted with a series of smaller explosions - just before the MAC round it. Completely overwhelmed, the ship’s shields flared up and collapsed.

<<Nova 1 - finish what you’re doing then follow me.>>

<<Nova 2 - you heard the man. Let’s get in there.>>

Vasquez piloted the booster frame straight towards the corvette, only decelerating just before they passed the threshold of the hangar, flaring the frame and bringing the 80mm guns to bear once more, ripping into the jackals and anyone else with armor piercing depleted uranium rounds.
 

OOC: @The UltimoScorp@Endless Sea (Alaki Nuva)@Krayzikk

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  • 4 weeks later...

IC: Taylor [Hangar, DAV-class light corvette]

Taylor locked his turret and braced as best he could as the booster frame swung into the fighter bay.  There was a sudden, disorienting yank from beneath his feet as he entered the artificial gravity field and the concept of “down” became slightly less arbitrary, and then they were in, surrounded by steel and fire and screaming, dying Jackals.

It was Taylor’s first time inside a Covenant ship, and though he’d been briefed on the corvette’s architecture before the op, he still found it difficult not to gawk.  The light was cold and blue; the metal was rich, polished violet.  There was an awful lot of clutter for an empty hangar; the floor was uneven, the walls lined with large platforms and balconies.  There were certainly alien design sensibilities at work, but even so, the room felt less like a warship bay and more like a luxury observation deck- albeit one where most of the guests were dead and everything was on fire.  You go, Miguel.

Taylor’s VISR traced IFF outlines across the hangar as it adjusted to the saturated glare of incandescent plasma.  There, a squad of Jackal sharpshooters, scrambling for cover on a balcony; there, a pile of discarded carbines and grenades, spilled just out of reach of Miguel’s funeral pyre; there, Miguel’s body, buried beneath a mountain of the dead.  Taylor was surprised to find the fallen Spartan’s armor still registered a power signature- perhaps, when the mission was over, they’d be able to retrieve his body.  Get him a proper burial.

It would be a kinder fate than most soldiers ended up getting, he imagined.

Until then, however…  he had a job to do.

Taylor’s turret was still spinning.  He raked the sniper balcony with bullets, then started hunting for strays on the ground floor.  Miguel, he promised himself, would be the last casualty of the day.

OOC:  @The UltimoScorp @Vezok's Friend 

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It is not for us to decide the fate of angels.

Dominus Temporis, if you're out there, hit me up through one of my contacts.  I've been hoping to get back in touch for a long time now.  (Don't worry, I'm not gonna beg you to bring back MLWTB or something.  :P )

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OH #### WE BREAKIN' PAGES YO TAKE IT FROM THE TOP PEOPLE LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

March 4th, 2558

Sverdlovsk System

0800 hours

 

  In the star dotted blackness of space, a single UNSC Halberd class destroyer floated serenely through an asteroid field, darkened save for the light of her sub-light engines and the occasional thruster firing to adjust course through the dense three dimensional maze of the drifting chunks of rock and ice and ore. She'd left slipspace a week ago, and had made her way silently Through the asteroid field on the outer edges of the system since then. On the other side was a fueling station frequented by all kinds of pirates, including one very important target. The very ones the Madrigal was here to find and intercept. ONI had requisitioned the Joint-Venture warship to find their own missing ship, UNSC FFG Prophet of Retribution, and finally the Madrigal had picked up a lead here on the edges of human space. Two old DAV Covenant Corvettes, the spoils of a large pirate gang, had seen the ship, and even tried to attack it, but the ONI ship had gotten away. Local intelligence had pointed to this fuel station, and so the Madrigal had lain in wait, running dark as space, waiting for their target to return to fuel.

 

  Now it was time. The two corvettes had dropped out of Slipspace just hours ago, escorted by four Seraph fightercraft. The Madrigal began to increase its pace as it came alive, lights and weapons activating across the destroyer, ready to begin the inevitable conflict that would be a part of the following hours. Inside, the bustle of activity was even more frenetic. Crew scrambled to ready stations and joked with each other that it was about #### time they'd been allowed to turn on the lights. Even so, there was certain level of anxiety. The Madrigal was untested following her refit. She hadn't seen a real battle since she'd nearly been lost during the Battle for Earth in 2552. Energy shields and plasma weapons were now a part of her complement, but there was no accounting for unforeseen circumstances. The armory prepared for Spartans to begin suiting up if they hadn't already, and in the hangar, the pilots and techs began readying the Broadsword Interceptors, G79H Pelican, and the OF92 Booster Frames that would allow the team to complete their missions.

  Each member of Nova and Saber knew their mission, it had been gone over time and again before they'd even arrived in-system.

>>>begin transmission

Office of Naval Intelligence brief on Operation: TAKEN FLAG

Target: Log data of two (2) DAV Corvette class Covenant vessels under control of Kig-Yar Pirate group. Group is led by T'voan Matriarch D'vorra . Spartan Operatives are issued eight(8) OF92 Booster Frames to facilitate attack and boarding of Corvette vessels. Target's are protected by escort of Type-27 Banshee fighters, reports suggest no more than a dozen(12) of these craft. Targets have additional escort of at least four(4) Seraph fighter craft. Crew of corvettes is presumed to be largely Kig-Yar of various phenotypes. Disposal or capture of vessels following extraction of data is for team lead determination.

Secondary Targets: D'vorra is well documented for capturing and torturing humans, locate any aboard frigates and assess for rescue operations. If possible, capture D'vorra alive, information gained from her could go on to save further lives.


Intelligence file on subject D'vorra:

Subject is veteran of Human-Covenant war, and a brutal and bloodthirsty one at that. With a penchant for capturing, torturing and even eating human prisoners, she is not to be taken lightly. Post war she has built a formidable pirate gang out of twin DAV class Covenant frigates, using their superior shielding and firepower to ransack corporate and colonial holdings all across human space. Wanted by ONI for interrogation.

 

<<<end transmission

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IC:

 

 

Check.

 

A small figure sat in the corner of the hangar. It had been there for hours. Its deep violet blended surprisingly well with the shadows surrounding it.

 

Magazine: Check.

 

Its blue visor was mirrored, its expression indiscernible as it focused on the object lain out on a sheet of spare plating rested on its legs.

 

Magazine slide: Check.

 

Spartan Carol-A215 set the magnum to her side, beside her Gadulo-pattern needle rifle. It had already been checked over. its Subanese crystal canister lay beside it, not to be loaded until she arrived at the mission objective. The volatile crystal was safer stored until needed.

 

It was a ritual before every mission. Check. Re-check. Nothing could go wrong if all of her equipment was fully functional. And if something beyond her control happened… well, she'd have the best chance possible of making sure her teammates were safe.

 

"Check," she spoke aloud. The sound would not pass the face of her helmet. 

 

"All systems nominal" came a voice in her ear. "Thrusters operational, plating repairs completed as of 0200 hours. Shield capacitors primed and ready for engagement. Active camouflage module diagnostic shows one hundred percent predicted functionality with modified plating."

 

"Thank you, Apogee," Carol responded.

 

 

They called her Jinx. Or… they used to, at least. Things would sometimes just… go wrong on missions she was sent on. Sometimes horribly. 

 

If she was fated to be a bad luck charm, though… well, she'd best make sure her teammates weren't the ones who were feeling the pinch when things broke bad.

 

Emotional state:...

 

Carol wasn't shaking. Spartans didn't shake. They especially didn't shake with anxiety. With fear of seeing the new faces walk in. Fear of seeing those faces buried in the mud or staring, blankly, up into nothing. 

 

Spartans also never cried.

 

But Carol did. The tears were small and few, more nerves than anything. And rather than eroding, they strengthened her resolve. She slotted her spare ammo onto her armor, clipped her magnum and rifle to her hip and back respectively. Looked out across the room.

 

Spartans didn't sing, that people ever spoke of.

 

Carol's voice echoed in her helmet as she trailed out a soft melody half-remembered from her early childhood. It always calmed her down.

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Whatever mountain you are climbing, you can do this.

                                       BZPRPG character masterpost

20220406_234727.jpg

                      "Just promise me something... don't let me go."

 

 

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IC:

Leave it to the Covvies to be this inconsiderate.

With no way of knowing when their target would arrive Madrigal had been maintaining fifty percent watch since entering the system. That was a standard week where half the crew was on duty at all times, and the other half was only off duty to sleep. That was only a step below general quarters, rather than the usual shift rotation in place on any UNSC vessel. If the crew was feeling it, that went double for the lunatics who'd be out on boarding action soon.

Not quite the same way. Nikolai had done this before, and it used to be much worse. As a trooper he'd been awake 'cause of enough stims to set his teeth on edge, hanging in there until the adrenaline kicked in and banished the last traces of fatigue. Spartans were— quite literally— built differently. Minimal sleep didn't pose an issue. It did leave him feeling a little scruffy. Seven days with minimal downtime hadn't really left any time to shave, and it was enough time to leave him with a little stubble. No one was gonna see it once his helmet was on and it didn't hold a candle to how a trooper might have looked during the war, it was just a little... Irritating.

Well, no. That wasn't really true. In the grand scheme of things he wouldn't've cared if he went out there with marker drawn on his face. But complaining about the enemy's timing was a time-honored and familiar tradition, just like the preparations he was going through. It didn't matter that he'd done them every day for a week. He did a brass check. He made sure not one of his firearms had developed a jam. He checked his sight alignments. Smooth, efficient, precise. No, he was complaining to keep his mind off the one— well, two— things that just weren't quite right. There'd be two members of the mission that used to be Covenant, up until war's end.

It was like a pebble in his shoe.

It was just about showtime, though. Magnum, carbine, and combat knife found their magnetic strips again and Spartan Markov rose to his full height. He tucked his helmet under his arm and headed for the hangar.

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On this eve, the thirtieth anniversary of that first colony, many are left to wonder; is the world fast approaching a breaking point?

 

 

  Breaking Point: An OTC Mecha RPG

 

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IC Cassie A-313 - Madrigal Hangar:

Waiting was not Cassie's strong suit. In fact if she had to make a list, waiting around would probably make right below those ####ing bird aliens but just above clearing out unexplored Forerunner structures. You never knew what you'd find in those ****** things.

So, much like everyone else, she'd been idly checking, rechecking, packing, unpacking and then repacking her gear just to give her hands something to do. Duffel full of various shaped charges, danger putty, wires, and detonators. For the Pelican. M41 on her back. For anything that needed a deft touch at range. And of course.... Felicia.  100 beautiful centimeters of metal and polymer that spewed 7.62mm airburst rounds with reckless abandon and and even 40 millimeter grenades when the situation called for it. When Cassie held her, the situation often called for it. The cut down M6H2 she had more for posterity than any attachment or need. If her primary armaments weren't doing the trick, she had much bigger problems.

Of course now she had a team to look after. That would be new and interesting. She'd never had leadership roles before, the nature of her work often meant she was something of a lone wolf, or part of an attache. More interestingly was a particular member of her newly created Saber Team.

Carol-A215. Now there was a a name and tag she hadn't seen or thought about in a loooong time. In fact....

Cassie slipped her EOD helmet onto her head, and sent a green status light to her teammate in the corner, then opened a tight-beam comm channel to her.

"Care-Bear, it's gonna be tight quarters over there, you gonna be good?" She asked, genuinely. Of anyone aboard the Madrigal, Cassie was probably the only one who'd had any prior experience around her fellow S-III. She'd never been particularly well suited to close quarters fighting, and while Cassie had no intentions of trying to push her into something she wasn't ready for, things happened. Battles changed and situations went south. You didn't serve nearly 40 years on active combat duty and not know that intimately.

@Lady Takanuva

Edited by The UltimoScorp
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IC: Carol-A215

 

Carol paused her singing when she saw the status light. The message came through loud and clear, and she adjusted her own transmitter before responding.

 

She flicked over a green status before replying with a confident "Yes ma'am."

 

Cassie a team leader. She supposed time did things like that. The gung-ho explosives aficionado had never been a good fit to the sneak and stalk lifestyle of Alpha company. But it seemed she'd landed soundly on her feet with this position. And, even if that face was now, shockingly, older than her own it was good to know she'd have somwthing close to a friend at her back.

 

Cassie lying, armor shredded by shrapnel from a plasma burst igniting one of her rockets.

 

She shook her head for a microsecond before catching herself. Nobody not gifted with spartan-time would have noticed.

 

Cassie falling to a Kig-Yar's well-aimed laser carbine shot, her yellow armor blistering and running like quicksilver.

 

Would she be ok? This was her first mission since… 

 

Since.

 

She looked at her right arm. Flexed the fingers of her mechanical limb. Weeks of practice at the firing range had gotten her response time and aim back to where they had been before. Even so, it was thus far untested.

 

Like her.

 

"Ma'am…" she amended, after a short eternity of contemplation. "I must admit to some anxiety regarding the coming mission. I worry my current skillset and state may prove insufficient to ensure no casualties on this deployment. Nonetheless, I promise to ensure such doubts do not impact my performance. Ma'am."

 

Her ODST-esque helmet faced towards Cassie. The armor techs called it Firefall. It had a mean look to it, big and angry. It felt almost at odds with the almost curvy silhouette the rest of Carol's armor had.  

 

And while it was impossible to read expression through the mirrored sapphire lens, Carol put on her war face. "Am I still cleared to go on the mission, ma'am?"

Edited by Lady Takanuva
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Whatever mountain you are climbing, you can do this.

                                       BZPRPG character masterpost

20220406_234727.jpg

                      "Just promise me something... don't let me go."

 

 

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IC: Vir Yet The Madrigal

Claws clacked against the floor of the cold corridor as Vir stalked towards the hangar. Her pace was brisk, but still a far cry from what she would consider running. There was no need to rush. The more quickly she got there the more time she’d have to spend getting side-eyed by Spartans who probably thought her no different to the Kig-Yar they were getting ready to kill.

She didn’t blame them. Humanity had earned the right to their rage, and Vir’s allegiance alone was never going to be enough to dissuade them from their distrust. The mere fact that the Madrigal was about to engage two Makar’s full of Kig-Yar pirates was enough to reinforce several unsavoury stereotypes about the species.

Her left shield, then her right, flared into existence as she fitted her bracers onto her arms, eying the wavelength of each energy field to ensure they were functioning properly, before switching them back off. Her needler and rifle were already loaded and ready, holstered at her hip and on her back respectively. Her helmet was tucked under her arm, all systems checked and functional.

Everything was ready. Physically, at least.

Her mental state was another matter.

It was easy to tell herself now that she had no qualms about killing her own kind. She’d fought other Kig-Yar before, in the Swords’ campaigns against Covenant remnants. But disorganised packs of demented zealots still clinging to the Covenant ways were very different to crews of free Kig-Yar embracing the ancestral traditions that they had long been denied. Traditions that they had fought long and hard to reclaim. Traditions they would fight just as hard to keep.

But those traditions had come at a price, in pain inflicted most often on those least deserving of punishment.

Misguided though they were, the Covenant remnants still believed in something. Killing for a cause at least had some nobility to it. But pirates took for the sake of taking, slaughtered for sport... it was senseless. Selfish. The fantasy and folklore fell well short of the reality. 

Even free Kig-Yar weren't free from consequences. 

Edited by Nato G
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BZPRPG Characters - Minnorak, Kain, T'harrak, Savis, Vazaria, Lash

BZPRPG Mercenary Group - The Outsiders - Description - History - Base

Ghosts Of Bara Magna - Ash Tribe - Precipere - Kehla, Somok, Skrall, Gayle, Avinus, Zha'ar

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IC: [Vasquez] - Aboard Madrigal

“Markov.”

The voice spoke up in the corridor from just to the left and a little behind him before closing the distance, footsteps falling into rhythm beside him. In his peripheral vision the voice’s owner walked smoothly in her valkyrie armor, but sans helmet. The scanner with its distinctive square enhanced imaging system was clipped to her side still, leaving the brown-eyed spartan beneath free to enjoy the soft breeze of Madrigal’s environmental system through her hair.

The fact that there was a spare clip was equally unsurprising and impressive, given the amount of extra pouches and webbing mounted on the search & rescue specialist’s armor. Her DMR was securely mounted across her back, SMG and M6 sitting in their respective thigh mag-holsters. Checked and ready.

She mentally ran through the checklists for the booster frames, but caught herself lagging by a fraction of a second, causing her eyebrows to narrow by a similarly miniscule amount. The brief had mentioned the possibility of captives aboard the corvettes. It was a secondary objective, but it was nagging at the back of her mind. What if they were held on the other corvette from the one she would board? She wasn’t the biggest fan of simultaneous boarding action. But it was the logical plan of action. Anything else would just carry too much risk. Still, what if it came down to letting the matriarch get away and rescuing prisoners…it was an incredibly remote scenario for a spartan op. And yet…

She squashed the thought with banter.

“Ready for another EVA?”

OOC: @Krayzikk
 

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IC:
 

"Well, I haven't risked throwing up the galley's food for a while. I figure I'm due."

Nik flashed an easy grin at the (slightly more) senior and (slightly) shorter Spartan to his left. He hadn't personally worked with her before Madrigal but she was alright in his books. They were all Spartans now and that spoke well for 'em but what they were before held a lot more sway with him. Vasquez was a 'jumper before she'd ever been a Spartan, and that was a standard to respect. Something was bugging her a little, though. Mixed crew, maybe? Nah, with a Valk probably...

"I find anybody with a hole in 'em I'll keep 'em from leaking too bad before you get there, doc." He grinned again, then tilted his head a couple degrees. "Are you thinking this crew's as weird a mix as I am?"

@Vezok's Friend

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On this eve, the thirtieth anniversary of that first colony, many are left to wonder; is the world fast approaching a breaking point?

 

 

  Breaking Point: An OTC Mecha RPG

 

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IC: [Vasquez]

“Sure, but hopefully the Kig-Yar will bring some semblance of normalcy back to the team.” she deadpanned, with a glint in her sidelong glance, before replying seriously: “As long as they’re pointing their guns at the pirates I’m happy to leave those kinds of concerns to you-know-who.”

That would be whoever had supplied Markov’s Mjolnir rig. Gen2, sure, but Myra could tell the difference between something confidential like her own Valkyrie suit, and something completely off the books.

She let out a small sigh.

“Honestly, a second Pelican would be nice. Make sure we have a way to get any prisoners off of both those ships.”
 

OOC: @Krayzikk

 

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IC Cassie-A313 - Madrigal Hangar:

"There any reason you feel you shouldn't be?" The question was casual enough, but Cassie did pause in her gear stowing and turned her helmeted gaze to meet her fellow Spartan-III's. Pre mission jitters were one thing, but if Carol had a legitimate concern about her efficacy on the battlefield, Cassie needed to hear it, and address it before it led to problems.

 

IC Kathrine Vail - Madrigal Hangar:

Following others arrival, a red armored Spartan with helmet tucked under her arm stepped into the hangar deck and blew out a nervous breath, her emerald eyes flicking over the vehicles being prepped therein. Booster Frames. "Just had to be booster frames again, didn't it." She spoke mostly to herself. Testing new equipment was one thing, but doing so in the open vacuum of space with little more than a weaponised space Mongoose strapped to her back was quite another. And she'd never really liked EVA to begin with.

@Lady Takanuva

Edited by The UltimoScorp
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IC: 

 

Behind her visor, Carol shifted her eyes in what might seem an odd pattern to an outside observer. It was a technique she had been trained with to deprogram the negative thought patterns and to regain some control. She went from feeling like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff face to standing there, looking down. Her heartbeat slowed a little, and she was able to compose a response.

 

"Nothing beyond the basic: this is my first real mission after ten years on ice. I could run a thousand sims and still be caught off guard by the real thing. Just worried some of my old reflexes might be dull, ma'am."

 

That was accurate enough, even if it was not the entire truth. But saying that she was scared of her old nickname proving true on this mission, that she'd lose her teammates the same way she had on Longinus… that would get her pulled off of the team for sure. Spartans didn't get hangups, just results. Especially Spartan-IIIs.

 

She still was one, despite what the records now reflected. Rather than admitting they'd shoved a broken Spartan in cryo for a solid decade, they'd altered her records to pass her off as a Spartan-IV recruit. The ages matched, and Carol had always been more… human… than a good few of the other recruits. Close enough at least to pass as a soldier who'd chosen the upgrades.

 

But Cassie was Alpha. Cassie knew the truth. And, more than anybody else, it was Cassie Carol was scared of disappointing. It was possible only she would know this wasn't her first mission as a Spartan. And she would weigh her mistakes more heavily as a result.

 

Carol stood up. 

 

The Mjolnir felt so much different than her old SPI armor. It moved like an extension of her body. It had taken weeks to unlearn the overcompensation for the SPI's laggy assistance and to adjust to how fluid the generation two assistance algorithms were. Her mind cast back to the figure attending to them with a trauma kit. Their mirrored black Mjolnir so different from her ashen SPI armor. Undamaged after a full assault, while theirs were tattered from plasma droplets and shrapnel flechettes. 

 

Her teammates here would be better armed. They'd probably all come out looking as shiny as those Spartans had, all those years ago. But fear doesn't like to be set aside. It still writhes and coils just below the surface, waiting for a chink in the armor. 

 

But Carol was a Spartan, after all. She'd make sure that chink was as hard to find as possible. The fear might coil around her after the mission, squeeze shivers and tears from her already exhausted body. 

 

But now she had to be strong. Had to keep them all safe. That was her job. She would be as much of a ghost as she felt among the group, sliding along unseen beside them.

 

But she'd keep them safe.

 

She walked over to Cassie, and stood to attention.

 

"Ma'am," she said, presenting herself for inspection like she had so many times as of late.

 

@The UltimoScorp

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Whatever mountain you are climbing, you can do this.

                                       BZPRPG character masterpost

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                      "Just promise me something... don't let me go."

 

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

IC:


"Don't trust people who make that much more than I do."

Banter aside, it was the God's honest truth. Nikolai knew who Vasquez meant as well as she did. Markov was a reformed troublemaker; he didn't go poking around places he wasn't supposed to be, snooping out files he shouldn't see, or squeezing information he wasn't supposed to have out of unsuspecting marks. Much. But that instinct didn't go away, and he wasn't the only person to be able to add two and two and realize they don't make five. Office of Naval Intelligence didn't always have the same priorities as everybody else. Spartan Program timelines were a big one, but not the only one. And after the war, that business he saw on Sangheilios...

Point was, being on the side of the angels (and he wasn't prepared to say humanity was) didn't make you an angel. ONI was no angel. Some— even a lot— of what they did was necessary. But they had their priorities, and Nik had his. They didn't always line up. Even when they did there could be a string attached. He tapped his helmet against the plating on his thigh, unconsciously emphasizing the point to himself. ONI hadn't been displeased enough when he turned 'em down. And ONI's point man back when he was a 'jumper bringing him his 'graduation gift' after passing Spartan Ops' training? He could see the hook buried in that bait a mile away. But they didn't have to hide it, either. They knew he wouldn't turn it down before he even saw it.

Angel or demon, good or bad, ONI kept the other demons at the door. Their one, inalienable priority above all else. He'd take whatever weapon they handed him, and they knew it. He just hoped he wouldn't regret that hook in his mouth.

"Mad's a Halberd, right? They used to squeeze two squadrons of Nandaos in the hangar during the war. OF-9's not even a quarter the size. They've gotta still have that second Pelican in inventory." He scratched at his stubble thoughtfully. "We rigged one up on remote during New Alexandria. LOCUS'll take its HUD feed just fine. We set it up before we go I could probably guide it over once we pacify anybody on board. Won't do nothing fancy but all I gotta do is get it from hangar to hangar."

@Vezok's Friend

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On this eve, the thirtieth anniversary of that first colony, many are left to wonder; is the world fast approaching a breaking point?

 

 

  Breaking Point: An OTC Mecha RPG

 

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IC: [Vasquez]

Myra considered the suggestion. Rigging up ships for remote piloting was hardly new tech. It was a sound strategy. But depending on what kind of snags they’d hit it could well backfire. Of course they could attempt to capture both ships entirely and then hard dock with Madrigal after. But Kig-Yar pirates were capable of all sorts of nasty surprises. Always had been, back to the earliest encounters humanity had had with them. Depending on how gung-ho D'vorra was, she might well decide to overload the ship's reactors rather than risk capture. If that happened while docked...Hopefully their recently embedded jackal crewmate could share some insight there at the final briefing. 

She rapped her armored knuckles against her harness. “Either that, or I take the second bird in myself. Valk’ll make it dance as well as any booster frame.”

Despite her confidence in her flying abilities, her mind already conjured up worst-case scenarios: spartan fireteams stranded on either pirate ship with jammed comms, meaning they couldn’t call the remote pelican. Or if they took the dropship in directly and it got busted. Either way meant it’d be them plus a bunch of prisoners unable to go EVA. Far from ideal. It’d also mean taking a step back from the initial assault. She didn’t like that idea either.

Nik could see her jaw muscles tighten as these new thoughts came to mind, then, they suddenly relaxed.

“Actually, scratch that. Bet those pirates got a dropship or two of their own.”

There wasn’t much raiding and looting to be done with Seraphs and Banshees alone. And using their corvettes directly for that would put their capital ships at great risk. Unlikely. They had to have other support craft. Which her armor was very adept at interfacing with, thanks to some dedicated RnD folks that probably spent way too much time with covvie flight-sims. But, it meant more options, which put her at ease again.

She shot him a mischievous glance as the clearly labeled passage leading to the hangar appeared ahead.

“Think these guys are more the spirit or phantom type?"
 

@Krayzikk

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  • 2 weeks later...

IC: Vali

It had been some time since the warrior had roamed the Madrigal’s dimly lit corridors, freely or not, as her time aboard the vessel over the past week had been spent alternating between the human warship’s bridge and its distinctly non-human main battery. As the resident weapons expert on loan from the Swords of Sanghelios to assist the humans with this experimental merger of technology she was kept more than busy troubleshooting systems and getting the Madrigal into what could be called a fighting shape. While as crude and primitive as the human’s adapted plasma technology was, there was a certain unmistakable… thrill to the challenge of working with the odd mirror of her own people’s technology. Roughing it, as she had heard one of the techs say while they thought she was out of earshot. While she still found the human technology to be without grace and lacking the true touch of an artisan-engineer that gave every piece a unique edge, there was no denying the effectiveness of the direct practicality.

That, and it allowed her to ease herself into the decidedly strange military which she found herself surrounded by. Much like their technology, the humans' military structure was… mechanically rigid. They moved about their vessel like so many busy ants, each with a specified task and position that seemed scarcely deviated from. It was an odd contrast to the otherwise familiar way in which she had observed they addressed one another, even among those of wildly differing ranks. Even from her short time aboard, it was apparent how this type of hierarchical organization was honed to a fine edge, and all it took was a competent leader to wield it effectively… Or an incompetent one to shatter it against an enemy. Perhaps this is why the human's victories during the war seemed as extraordinary as their defeats.

These, of course, were past musing which the warrior know to her people as Vali Sakuai, and any manner of other amusing names by the humans when they thought her out of earshot, had kept herself busy with during the long hours of simply waiting for their quarry to show. With nothing of particular note happening, and her time otherwise occupied with troubleshooting and simulating systems on board, perhaps she could be forgiven for her admittedly hasty request to take a more active role in the impending operation. Of course, she was well within her right to do so, as her one stipulation to being assigned to the Madrigal was that she be given the same status on missions as any of the Spartan warriors which she knew were to be stationed on the vessel as well.

Even so, she had not had time to acquaint herself with said Spartans before her insistent request was made to the captain.

Though perhaps that was simply on her mind as her path towards the hangar brought her towards two of the aftermost mentioned Spartans, neither of whom she had encountered before. Still unfamiliar with the rather strange rank which the Spartans fell under, Vali elected to simply stop at the junction and wait for them to pass.

@Krayzikk @Vezok's Friend

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IC:

Science scoffs at the concept of 'ancestral memory'. It was one of the dumbest opinions the scientific community held, which in Nikolai's considered opinion was saying something. No, the memories of his great-great-grandfather or whatever weren't buried in his DNA. But certain responses were hardwired into the human nervous system, responses understood before anything else. Over however many ridiculous thousands of years humanity had evolved its most basic, fundamental operating system for the most sophisticated organic computer ever created. Instinct. What is an instinct except the memory of the survivors?

He'd be long dead, even with a Spartan's lifespan, before he knew what instincts the survivors passed on from the war with the Covenant. But he knew what his were saying— screaming— when he came face to face with Madrigal's Sangheilli representative.

Markov didn't really hold grudges. It wasn't professional, and they only get you dead. But for his entire life— nearly— the Sangheilli had been dedicated to the eradication of humanity. Not to their defeat, not to their surrender, but to their extinction. It wasn't personal; it couldn't be when your enemy was an entire species. But it sure felt personal when the dust settled.

"Miss 'Sakuai," He greeted, remembering the unfamiliar glottal stop that preceded the surname. He couldn't be certain what his face had looked like for just a moment, there, when his first impulse tried to take control; but he schooled it now into a friendly, casual looking smile. The hand that had drifted a few bare inches towards his holstered Magnum he extended in greeting rather than draw attention to what his instinct had been by moving it away. "Don't think I've had the pleasure."

@sunflower@Vezok's Friend

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On this eve, the thirtieth anniversary of that first colony, many are left to wonder; is the world fast approaching a breaking point?

 

 

  Breaking Point: An OTC Mecha RPG

 

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IC: [Vasquez]

Myra similarly stopped when Vali came into view. She’d caught glimpses of the sangheili around from a distance. Scuttlebutt made ‘em sound pleasant enough for a hingehead. Even so, an ultra like ‘Sakuai was best met with a healthy amount of respect. In general, elites could usually back up whatever title they held with the expected skills.

So far those skills looked like they served Madrigal well - so for her part Myra was glad they were allies these days. In fact she was curious what working together with Sangheili would be like.

But however rational her thoughts were on the elite liaison and however nice she wanted to play it, almost two decades worth of training, live fire exercises and combat had drilled into her that that silhouette ahead in the corridor was the enemy. 

She felt her shoulders start to rise. She checked the motion -  hoping the bulk of her armor masked the split second of tension - and placed her hands casually on her hips instead, accompanied by a greeting nod that coincided with Markov’s offered hand. 

 

OOC: @Krayzikk @sunflower
 

 

 

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IC Cassie A313 and Kathrine Vail - Madrigal Hangar

She chuckled, and gave her fellow Spartan a pat on the shoulder, "At ease, Care-bear, if you say you're good, then I believe you. Speaking of good, Vail! C'mere, got an assignment for ya."

Kat, hearing her name called across the deck, rushed over, helmet still tucked under her arm.

"Alright, quick and easy, just how I like it. Vail, this is Carol Blake, she'll be your EVA specialist today. Carol, this is Kathrine Vail, she'll be your CQC specialist today."

The red armored Spartan managed a smile, "EVA specialist, huh? Glad to have you, call me Kat," she offered her left hand.

@Lady Takanuva

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