Insomma c’è la solita campagna online annuale di infinity e questa volta mi sono fatto prendere un po’ di più dalla parte RP. metto qui sia per dare accesso al di fuori dal forum nomad, sia come archivio. A voi.
“I mean until they chose to shoot on the Corregidor, what did the Combined Army ever did to us?”
“Shut up Voltage, you dumb alien apologist, not this again…”
“No, for real, listen to this–”
The two pilots of the Nomads frigate Hatsune Miku were, as usual, engaged in banter. The captain let them enjoy themselves, knowing that this could very well be one of their last missions. Voltage was always a contrarian, but no one doubted his loyalty to the nomad nation. He had family on Satèlite. Hell, most of the ship’s crew had.
The familiar beeps and boops of the console (Highlight, their resident technician, actually rigged the bridge console to clearly say “BEEP BOOP” when an alert popped up) meant that they were almost arrived at Raveneye and soon the boarding procedure would start.
“Ok, listen up People!” the captain shouted in his mic, waiting for a couple of second to be sure to have the attention of the crew throughout the ship.
“We’re almost at the station. Now, I don’t appreciate these Aleph motherfuckers more than any of you but we’re here for one reason: to teach these aliens that you will not attack the nomads and go unpunished. I won’t repeat what we already know, so just remember what we lost, remember that aleph is always watching and remember to kick some furry monkey ass for the glory of Corregidor, the nomad nation and, why not, for personal fun. Boarding operations will commence momentarily so whoever of you sorry bastards is on the first drop, get ready sooner rather than later.”
The captain flipped the mic off and turned to his bridge. the two pilots, as well as the navigator, the weapon official and various specific ship engineers were waiting for the second, private part of the briefing.
“ok guys, this is going to be an interesting operation”, he started. “Does anyone have questions before we get to the meatgrinder?”
A bunch of hands shot up.
“Sir! where do babies come from, sir?”
The captain sighed.
“Questions about this specific operation?”
A couple of hands got back down, with a few sniggers. Morale was still high, at least.
“Captain! Is it true that Ariadnan troops are moving to engage us? Also, how the hell do ariadnan into space?”
“it’s an old meme, but it checks out, lol”
The captain, again, sighed.
“You heard the same briefing I did, guys. Personally, I would hope to avoid fighting ariadnan troops since they are the only other people smart enough to not trust aleph. But then again, they apparently graduated from fucking dogs to fucking bears, so what do I know? let’s hope it won’t come to that”
“You mean that as in “oh those fucking dogs” or as in they are actually engaging in the act of buggery with dogs, captain?”
“Um actually I come from Bakunin and that’s offensive to my people since–” the Scientific Officer interceded, “Um AcTuAlLy i CoMe FrOm BaKuNiN- shut up Krugerrand, we know you come from Bakunin you furry freak” said the other pilot, Blizzard.
“That’s not– It’s not- It’s called interspecies eroticism and…”
The captain waited for a bit for the crewmen to settle down. When it became obvious they wouldn’t, he opted to sit back down in the captain’s chair to finish up some paperwork
“Uhm, captain, sir?” a voice chimed up. It was Pharma, the navigator.
“Yes? what?”
“Do we… should we be wary of sabotage? is aleph going to be an issue this time?”
The chatter subsided a bit the captain took a beat to think up an answer.
“Look, people – we’re part of a defensive effort against the worst enemy humanity has ever faced. People from all nations are setting apart decades old feuds to form a united front against the aliens”
He looked around the bridge as he spoke, scanning his crew.
“Of course we have to be wary of Aleph sabotage. Fucking AI won’t think twice about fucking us over. She hates us, because what are we?”
“Nomads!” shouted the crew in response.
“And what are Nomads?” asked the captain, knowing the answer already.
“Free!” shouted the crew, in elation.
“Damn right we are. So let’s keep our eyes peeled, let’s do the job we’re here to do, never trust Aleph and maybe – just maybe – we’ll all get to go back home to Corregidor– or Bakunin, yes, Krugerrand, thank you very much. We’re nearing the stations and the morat-controlled defenses. Please make sure we don’t get shot down before the fun begins, shall we?”
—
The captain reached the ship’s hangar. Highlight, the Head Engineer, was checking on the final details before boarding. His military attaché, under the command of an Intruder, was finishing loading weapons and supplies in the landing modules.
“Crates. not landing modules, those are fucking crates I’m sending my people in. sweet mother of God.” the captain thought.
That was the plan, though; Morat defenses proved to be deadly efficient in shooting down even the smallest crafts, but smaller supplies drop got through. Not all, though. There was always the possibility to get shot down even before setting foot on the station. He knew it, and the soldiers before him knew it.
He scanned “his troops”. It was a ragtag bunch, in the greatest nomad tradition. There was a bunch of fresh faced alguacile, no doubt joining up after the attack on the mothership, and a greater number of veterans. A couple of EVAders looked already ready for the slaughter, any slaughter, and that did warm his hearth.
“Commander Delios, how are we doing? ready for the drop?” the captain asked. The Intruder turned to face him, scarred face and all. He did look the part of the grizzled veteran, that was for sure.
“Captn’” he grumbled. “We’re ready as we’re going to be. You want to address the troops?”
The captain nodded and turned towards the troops. The Intruder barked an order, and the soldiers gave the captain their attention.
“Well, soldiers, this is it. We’re as near as we could be and soon we’re going to, let me be frank, stuff you guys and girls in crates and shoot you at the station. We’re going to shoot supplies, too, and several decoy crates in the hope that the morat defenses shoot down those and not you. But you’re Corregidor; you knew the risks, you signed up all the same and I’m sure you would swim through the vacuum of space to get your vengeance. Hell, some of you are equipped to do so!”
That warranted a chuckle and an “hell yeah!” from the Evaders. They, as all the other soldiers, sported the “Corregidor does not forget” motto on their weapons.
“There is not much more to say. I hope you guys reach Raveneye and show these monkeys what does it mean to pick a fight with the nomads. For Corregidor!”
“FOR CORREGIDOR!” answered the troops, getting finally ready and entering the landing modules.
—
The familiar hiss of the door – this one, also, was modified by Highlight to say “HISSSS” when opened – alerted the bridge crew of the captain’s return.
“Just answer the questions, Voltage – how much wood would a woodchuck chuck?”
“For the last time, Kruger, what the FUCK is a woodchuck—captain on bridge!”
“lol? At ease, I guess” said the captain. Was the crew fucking with him?
“Are we ready to launch? No last minutes issues? No smugglers sleeping in the launch tubes?”
“Yes Sir! No Sir! I mean, we’re ready to launch and we have no smugglers sleeping in the tubes. Can’t guarantee the soldiers aren’t smuggling stuff, though” answered Boomer, the weapons expert.
“Very well.” The captain answered, looking at the Raveneye Station through the bridges screen-windows. “Let’s hope this goes well. Launch the landing crates, and fuck the Combined Army.”
“Captain, I realize the gravitas of the situation but maybe language?” a voice called out from one of the bridge speakers. The face of some high-ranking member of the Yu-Jing army appeared on the main screen, along with an Haqqislamite character and an unmistakably Tohaa Navy member.
“oh shit- I mean, hello people- salutations…” the captain floundered for a bit, the bridge crew sniggering. They would pay for this; he’d make sure of it.
“Excuse me gentlemen, the moment was indeed, as you said, filled with gravitas. I may have just sent my compatriots to their death.”
“We know, captain, do not overly worry about formalities” interceded the Haqqislamite officer “we just wanted to receive an update. I gather the troops are en route?”, he asked.
“That they are. ETA is in a few minutes. If you want, you can stay on call and discover with me how many letters I must write grieving families today” said the captain, mirthless. He always tried to be upbeat, if not for himself, for his crew at least. But now, watching the tiny dots representing the “landing pods” on the main screen, he didn’t feel particularly prone to jesting.
“Specialist Boomer, we have a status report?” he asked to the towering weapon specialist. Boomer shook, as if woken from a stupor, and answered: “Yes Sir! Pods are halfway there. Morat defenses have destroyed the initial pods but those where expected losses, so they were mostly decoys and just one had actual equipment. Troop pods will proceed protected by the debris and hopefully will be unaffected by the artillery, Sir!”
“Hopefully…” murmured the captain.
________________________________________
Despite the overall situation, the morale was high inside Drop Pod “Spirit of Corregidor”. The name wasn’t official – there was no reason to name glorified space container after all – but the soldiers in the pod decided to give it a name for good luck. It stood to reason, they said, to name a spacefaring vessel to avoid bad luck, no matter how short the voyage. Neither the captain nor their commander prohibited it so they went with it and chose a fitting name.
All the troops in the pod were, of course, Corregidor born and raised. There were a couple of Jaguars, covered in scars and tattoos, trying to light a cigarette while strapped to their seat. The EVAder next to them stopped fiddling with his tinbot to look at them for a long minute, before asking: “Really? In a closed container, with little to no air, hurtling through space toward almost certain monkey death?”.
“Well, if not now, when, bro?” asked one jaguar, sending a small nervous laughter through the pod. The other soldiers were alguaciles: young, the EVAder thought, maybe too young. Did they lose someone in the attack? Almost everyone did.
They looked sick with worry and, probably, motion sickness.
“Try not to be afraid, lads” he told them “it won’t do you any good. If we land, we fight; if we’re shot down, we probably die before noticing it”
“Well said!” said one of the jaguar “want one?” he added, offering a cigarette.
“Is that a, uh, tobacco cigarette?” asked one of the alguacile.
“I am offended at the very question.” answered the jaguar, putting the rolled cigarette in the boy’s hand. The EVAder sighed and offered a lighter to the Jaguars first, and the alguaciles after.
“Well,” he said, waving away an offered joint from the Jaguar “does any of you know any songs?”
“Ah, uhm” said one of the Alguacile “an old classic maybe?”
________________________________________
“Ok captain, sixty second to impact for the first pods.” said Boomer, now looking transfixed at his console. “We’ve lost some more equipment crates but no troops— oh shit”
________________________________________
“Y alora el pueblo, que se alza en la lucha, con voz de gigante, gritanto: ¡adelante!” shouted the Alguacile. The rest of the pod shouted in response “El pueblo! unido! jamás será vencido”, to follow with the song and to try and drown out their fear.
________________________________________
“Sitrep, Boomer! What is going on out there?” barked the captain, leaving his spot at the center of the bridge to go and check the specialist’s console.
“We lost two troop pods, sir. ten soldiers and some REMs. Other pods are making contacts” said Boomer.
“Shit, that’s a good twenty percent of the drop gone. fucking monkeys” muttered the captain, gripping the sides of the console.
The proximity sensors started beeping onboard of the Spirit of Corregidor. That would mean one of two things: either they were approaching the Station or a torpedo was approaching them. Either way, the EVAders thought, it would be over soon.
“Strap in boys, here we go!” he shouted “El pueblo! Unido!”
“Jamás será vencido!” joined in the rest of the pod. Then the crash came.
“Launch is over captain. We lost the two troop pods and a bunch of equipment- five crates I think.”
The captain sighed in relief. Ten corregidorian gone, just like that, before even having the chance to fight. The combined army would pay, no- the Morat would pay for this, and for every life lost on Corregidor.
Taking a moment to compose himself he went back to his own station, facing the officers of the Haqqislam, Yu-Jing and Tohaa fleet.
“We’re also a combined army of sort today” he thought “poor monkey bastards, you have no idea what you brought on yourselves”
“Well, officers,” he addressed his guests “as you have seen the launch was somewhat of a success. We have more troops on the ground than yesterday, at least, and they are sure as hell more motivated than anyone in the sphere. If that’s all, I have a ship to command, so…”
“Yes, very good” said the Yu-Jing captain “a very successful operation. I commend your men captain. Captain Fa Yulong out” he said, closing the connection.
“Very well. We will do our part as agreed. Inshallah, Captain” said the Haqqislamite commander, closing out his connection.
The captain was left alone with the Tohaa delegate.
“Captain,” they said “I am grateful for the sacrifice of your people. Such things are unavoidable when fighting the Evolved Intelligence but they should never be minimized. I hope we will able to offer whatever support you might need. Jeem-Ka Out, and… godspeed? yes, godspeed, captain.” the screen went black, and then showed the familiar port view.
“Did… did the tohaa empathize with us? what the… wait” shouted the captain “why the fuck did no one tell me the whole Defense Coalition was online? whose brilliant idea was it?” the bridge fell silent, but there was no tension now.
“Well, Sir” said Blizzard “it’s just that you came in like a veritable wrecking ball and we had no time to alert you before you started swearing like a drunken sailor, sir”.
The rest of the bridge was laughing now, while the captain fell into his chair,
“yeah, right, for sure” he said “I hate all of you motherfuckers. Let’s put some distance from this fucking station and get ready for the next drop.”
The Spirit of Corregidor, somehow, reached the Raveneye Station. It was not a delicate affair; the container tumbled inside one of the barely opened hangar bay ports, skidding around the floor of the wide room before reaching a stop, crashing against one of the walls. Noises from outside confirmed that they were not alone, which was good, and there were no gunshot, which was either also good or very bad.
The EVAder unbuckled his straps and stood up in the container, finding his balance. He helped one of the Alguacile boys before turning his attention to the door. the mechanism was, of course, busted during their so-called landing, but tha wasn’t a problem for an EVAder. He cut the right cables and with the help of the two Jaguar the trio forced the door open, finally jumping out of the pod and into the Raveneye Station.
Da qui in poi, resoconti RP delle due partite giocate davvero in Fase Uno
-t. Me stesso
“Look, what I’m saying is that the air here smell strange, that’s all” said the Alguacile.
“yeah, no shit, the oxygen filters are probably new and on their first cycle. And, actually, there’s probably no shit in the air.” answered the the EVAder, while checking the metric on his multitool.
“Smells strange. no character. no *taste*” the Alguacile continued, “on Corregidor you can tell where you are by smell. Here’s impossible”.
“Well, maybe it’s impossible because we haven’t left this godforsaken section in three days” interceded a TAG Pilot, leaning on the leg of her battered GECKO.
“Who knows,” she continued “maybe somewhere the smell is different. Probably in the habitation modules it smells like meat buns, or, like, high class weed, like on bakunin”.
“don’t you have anything more interesting to do? or maybe more productive?” said a WILDcat, sporting officer insignias, from behind a crate used as a makeshift desk where he was cleaning a spitfire, “You should know better than to waste time, right?”
“Oh, chill out, man” said the first Alguacile “it’s just some bantz. We’ve done our rounds and there’s not to do, no?”
The WILDcat seemed to be contemplating the words of the Alguacile and was about to answer, when both their personal comms blared an alert sound.
“Ah, shit” said the Alguacile.
“what’s going on?” asked the EVAder, perking up from his tools, “trouble?”
“…trouble indeed, boys”, said the WILDcat, adding “and girls, of course” after he felt the penetrating gaze of the GECKO Pilot.
“Looks like we have uninvited guests in one of the outer hangars. Someone’s trying to breach the perimeter and their eta is… ah fuck, their ETA is grab your fucking weapon and let’s go RIGHT NOW”
Without a moment to spare, the four Nomads quickly left behind whatever they were working for, grabbing their weapons and, in the case of a WILDcat, a fresh spitfire from a crate.
“You, you, and you! With me!” shouted the Alguacile to a couple more soldiers. “You!” he said, pointing at the WILDcat, “muster up some close combat support, monkeys love to get close and personal. I’ll meet you at the door in three minutes.”
He raised his voice while simultaneously opening his personal comms to the communal group for off duty personnel.
“This is Lieutenant Santiago” he shouted, “we have monkeys inbound! Whoever wants a piece of the action, we’re going to meet them NOW! this is not a drill so lay down whatever it is you’re smoking, drinking, or fucking and meet up by the door to Dock 12 – we leave in three minutes!”
“shit, shit, SHIT” Santiago muttered under his breath. Thing have being going… poorly, to say the least. The day started bad, with an alert for a monkey incursion, but it turned way worse when an urgent request for help came from a Corregidor VIP.
He rapidly split his already scarce platoon in two. Firepower had to go against the Morat; he’d make do with whatever else he managed to scramble.
“ok baby, let’s go!” he said, mounting on the back of a Tsyklon “giddy up!”
“you realize this is not a robot, but a semiautonomous vehicle piloted remotely by a person, right?” said a voice coming from a speaker within the Sputnik’s body.
“yeah yeah, just go as fast as you can, ok?” said Lieutenant Santiago, grabbing on the chassis of the REM.
“If I go as fast as I can you’ll became a smear on the floor in under five seconds. I’ll go as fast as you can instead” said the REM Pilot.
—
The sound of gunshots revealed that they were rapidly approaching their destination. Santiago managed to find a Moran busy with some Zond maintenance, so he conscripted them. The Tsyklon pilot said something he too late heard as “hold on” while running at breakneck speed toward a small structure within what it seemed to be a cargo hold.
Santiago managed to jump off the REM and tumble to cover just in time to avoid becoming a puddle of blood, fat and regrets.
He looked around to see where the gunshots were coming from and saw the unmistakable, terrifying silhouette of Corregidor’s finest, el Senor Massacre.
“oh, fucking great” he said under his breath. He sit up, still behind cover, and shouted over the noise of the gun.
“Massacre! what’s the situation! what are you shooting at?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“Ah, ese,” massacre said “I saw a shadow moving, see, in a way shadows aren’t supposed to move. I know of such things, see, having seen a number of shadows in my life.”
“It’s useless, he’s sure he saw something and we’re stuck here until he’s satisfied” said a warm, female voice somewhere behind the Lieutenant. He turned around to see another notorious figure: Jazmín Caticovas, known by the wider Nomad nation as “Jazz”.
“oh, fucking, amazing” he moaned “there’s two of you now? one VIP wasn’t enough?”
“Oh go choke on a shotgun, little sheriff boy” snapped Jazz, “we didn’t need any help. Any second now Massacre will get tired of shooting at shadows and—”
“Contact.”
The voice that came from the comm was that of the Moran Santiago picked up en-route to the battle; as Moran often do, this one went ahead of the team scouting the battlefield. It was a single word, but Santiago, Jazz, Massacre and two jaguars pals of his fell immediately behind cover. It wasn’t a word you uttered lightly.
“Situation?” asked Santiago.
A number of gunshot echoed in the now silent hold.
“One Alien. Not monkey. Caliban? Shasvastii for sure. Engaging now”
“Oh that’s great, shasvastii – of course it’s fucking shavastii. Why wouldn’t it be shasvastii” he thought. He gave a couple of orders, positioning the REMs he brought with him in the rear, Massacre on his right and Jazz, her personal remote and the Moran on the left. The Tsyklon was on higher ground, having climbed a small box-office building and was scanning the area with his feuerbach.
“wait” thought Santiago “didn’t the Moran went ahead? who the fuck is that?”
Santiago checked his comms and opened a private channel.
“This is Lieutenant Santiago to Massacre” – he whispered – “Massacre, check the identity of the unit on our left. Acknowledge.”
“What? What?” said Massacre “I am trying to find out if someone is making a fool out of me here, ese! That’s a Moran, clear as day-cycle!”.
Massacre kept creeping forward, searching for something no one could see.
“Shit,” thought Santiago, “that guy always does what he wants, doesn’t he?” he switched channel to the Zond Pilot.
“Transductor, I need you to check the status for the moran on my left flank. Fast, please.” he said.
“Acknowledged. Sure, let’s waste my time checking on a—”
The reply of the Pilot was cut short by the sound of an explosion. Santiago saw a flash and a spray of debris hit the Transductor, which seemed unaffected by it except for a few scratches.
“Was that a mine? what the hell was a mine doing here?” came the frantic voice of the Pilot from the comms. “That was most definitely not supposed to—”
“yeas, thank you, pilot” said Santiago, cutting him off “you still have your order, yes? move, goddamnit!”
The pilot silently moved the Zond behind the Moran.
“Sir,” the pilot said “I think there might be something wrong – heat signatures are compatible with human profiles but… I think my optics got fucked by the mine because— oh shit, shit!”
Santiago was about to ask what was happening, when he heard the unmistakable “foomp” of a panzerfaust coming form above him.
”Contact, engaging” said the Tsyklon Pilot, “there’s some kind of shasvastii on that roof over there”
A ping on the situation map showed exactly where “there” was. Massacre shouted, “see? I told you there was something over there. I’m going to kill it!”
“Massacre, no! wait for—” the lieutenant was cut off by the zond pilot, who shouted in the comms channel.
“Contact! It’s a Speculo, shit!” he cried out.
“puta madre” spat out Jazmina, moving away from the assassin “what the hell is going on”
A garbled response was the last thing that came from the zond, its head cleanly cut off by the shasvastii monofilament weapon.
“Sir, the Caliban is on the—” came the voice of the Moran, but it was abruptly cut off. A glance on the Squad Status Screen showed the Moran as deceased. Santiago, however, didn’t have time to mourn: Jazmina was opening fire on the speculo, ineffectively, and immediately he heard Massacre shouting over comms.
“Vamanos, hijodeputas, we hunt shadows!”, the merc yelled. The situation map showed him and the jaguars advancing, but he didn’t need that; he could see the plums of the smoke grenades covering their advance, and he could hear the loud noises of his rifle shooting seemingly in the air.
“Oy tenente! We killed an alien, yes? I was right! Also did you know there’s weapons boxes here?” came the voice of Massacre.
Santiago was still looking at Jazmina; from where she was, she could fire on the Speculo, but he couldn’t see it yet. Just a bit more, though…
His train of thought was cut short. He sensed movement behind him, and turned around just in time to se a small four legged monster jumping at him.
“Thaiga” he had time to think “of course it’s a fucking Thaiga…”
The last thing Santiago saw was the creature mouth, closing on his face, and then nothing.
—
“oy, what are you doing? you crazy?” asked Massacre to one of his Jaguars. The guy just lobbed a couple of grenades, fresh from the supply box, over the roof of the central structure of the module.
“nothing, boss, I thought I saw a shadow” he answered.
“shadow? I shot the shadow, we’re done here. Lieutenant, we’re done, I said!”
No answer came from the comms.
“Ah, pendejo” massacre said “they probably went back to base. Ok chicos, let’s do another patrol round and then it’s beers and fried chicken back to base!”
An enthusiastic cheer erupted from the jaguars.
“Ayy chicos, I told you this was the right way, see?” said Massacre, motioning to the small detachment of Alguacile in front of him, in the distance.
His two Jaguar bodyguards exchanged a look. They’ve been trudging through maintenance tunnels for a while now, their leader refusing to check the station maps because of, as he put, his “staggeringly precise sense of direction”.
“This is Lieutenant Torres”, a voice came from Massacre’s comm, “please identify yourself, and be advised we have guns trained on you”
“Oh, wow that’s quite the welcome!” answered Massacre, “it is none than I! Senor Massacre, the best, most famous, most prolific and loved mercenary who ever hailed from Corregidor!”
“Yeah, sure” answered the Lieutenant “just stay put for a sec, will you?”
After a couple minutes of idling, where the two jaguar started rolling cigarettes, the voice of the lieutenant came back.
“Ok Senor Massacre and escort, you’re clear to approach. Sorry about the hassle but there’s shasvastii activity in the area and that usually means speculos. Apparently, a team lost a number of people to one – Jazmina Covacs seems to also be MIA”, he said.
“Ah, those speculos are bastard, that’s what they are” answered Massacre, while approaching the Alguacile team with his jaguars in tow.
“So, what’s going on here?” he asked.
“We’re not sure. Central command expects a Morat attack on the area any minute now, but so far, nothing. I hope, they come, though; that’s why we have her” said the lieutenant, nodding toward a GECKO Pilot lounging against the leg of her TAG, intent in checking something on her datapad.
“We also have a Moran keeping watch in an advance position. We’re just waiting for some monkey to show up and get killed, really” added an EVAder absentmindedly. He was trying to remove dirt from the visor of his helmet, his expression focused.
“I see, I see” said Massacre “it’s your regular ambush job. Very nice! where do you want me?”
“Right flank, to reinforce the GECKO position” said the lieutenant “and let’s hope this is over soon. I’ve been awake for the last eighteen hours, on duty for the last fourteen and I am not an happy camper right now.”
________________________________________
Torres was even unhappier two hours later. He was hidden under cover with his team, while the rest of the squad kept to their position. You can’t very well hide a TAG, so the Gecko was simply running dark, kept in standby, in the hope that it looked abandoned or left in storage.
He was musing if it would be worth to ask for relief, when the voice of the Moran came through comms, as a whisper.
“Contact. ContactS, actually” he said “there’s several, uh, creatures wrangled by a female monkey. And, boss, I think they brought a TAG of their own…” he trailed off.
Torres took great care to peek carefully over the box that was offering him and his team cover. He didn’t know how, but somehow the Morat managed to bring in a TAG – not a small thing like a GECKO, but an actual, factual, regular-ass sized TAG. And it was moving silently.
“Leave it to the combined fucking army to make a bad situation worse” he spat, “now there’s a fucking TAG. And why the hell is it covered in fur? shit, I miss when we used to just shoot at PanO. Crosses are weird but that thing it’s way weirder” he said.
“No worries, bossman” said the EVAder, “I got an idea. You said there’s supplies and weapons in those crates?”
________________________________________
The EVAder guided the team in a slow crawl toward one of the supply crates. The Morat TAG was scanning the area – they were probably a forward team, clearing the way for a bigger combat force. Not if Torres and his men had anything to say about it.
“ok, let me see what we have here” said the EVAder, rummaging in the crate.
“My oh my” he said after a while, “do my eyes deceive me? well I guess that’s what this was made for, right boss?” he showed the rest of the team a sort of shimmering, distorting fabric.
“What is that? wait is it—” started Torres, but the EVA cut him off.
“Hell yes, boss, it’s an old ODD shroud. With a bit of luck this will make me almost invisible to that monster, and my spitfire will bring it down”
“I still think we should bring our TAG in, but I’m willing to try your way. Try and be careful, ok?”
“No worries, boss,” said the EVAder, donning the shroud, “I’m a professional”
Without adding a word, he started creeping along the wall separating them from the TAG. Once he reached the end of the wall, he took two deep breaths and nodded toward the rest of the team. He turned the corner and opened fire on the Morat TAG.
Two things happened almost at the same time; a torrent of fire, the flame white-hot, ran over the EVAder, leaving just charred remains on its trail; then the sound of bullets hitting true was followed by an explosion, then the noise of metal creaking and falling.
“Lieutenant,” came the voice of the Moran scout “I’m sorry to report that the TAG was clearly waiting for our brother to emerge but didn’t expect the firepower he brought. Enemy TAG down.”
“Well, the time for subterfuge is over, chicos. GECKO squadron, advance! Massacre and jaguars, secure the midfield!”
The nomads soldiers executed their orders as received, but their advantage was short lived.
“Suryat!” shouted the Moran, “Suryat on the roof of the office!” the ping appeared on the team’s situation map. The lieutenant managed to peek once more out of cover, in time to see the massive alien ape training his huge weapon toward the GECKO.
“GECKO Squadron, watch out!” he shouted, but his voice was silenced by the sound of the alien gun shooting. What he didn’t hear was the soft, almost inaudible “foomp” of a panzerfaust rocket shooting from the Gecko’s offhand weapon. He could see it, though, traveling to the air with grace, as if in slow motion, avoiding the monkey’s fire, and hitting it square in the chest, exploding and leaving nothing left of the big ape.
“So yeah, that’s how the GECKOs usually do stuff, boss” came the voice of the pilot “I think we’re out of the woods now yes? wait, something’s dropping smoke grenades here. Turning on high visibility beams… oh what the fuck are th—”.
A metallic screech came from the comms. The next sound that came was the vorried voice of the Moran; “Boss, uuh, the GECKO sort of fell down? I hear some terrible noises but I can’t see anything.” he said. “There’s something in the smoke.”
On cue, a spray of shrapnel came out of the smoke cloud, hitting Massacre and his two Jaguars.
“puta madre, massacre is down!” came the voice of the first jaguar “who the fuck do they think they are? hijodeputas!” he shouted, unloading his shotgun in the now dissipating smoke cloud.
“Uh, boss, the Jaguars are, uhm, doing their jaguar things” the Moran said, while screams and imprecations came from the comms.
“The smoke is clearing though, and… what the fuck is that? standby!”
The Lieutenant and his team kept scanning their area, while waiting for an update from the Moran. Torres was frustrated by his inability to act, but to move aimlessly on the battlefield was to invite certain death. He waited, checking his real time situation map for updates.
“I’m not sure what these beasts brought with them, but whatever those things were, they’re dead now” the voice of the Moran came back over comms. “But one of them slipped through me, coming over on your side. Pincer maneuver?”
“Acknowledged,” said the Lieutenant, “look alive, people!”
Torres and his team were ready when the female Morat turned over the corner of the container she was using for cover; she, unfortunately, was not. A rain of bullets awaited her, and it was the last thing she saw.
“Any more contacts?” asked Torres over comms “Anyone?”
“The coast is clear, boss” came back the voice of the Moran “looks like we managed to repel their assault”.
“Good” said Torres “let’s pick up whatever’s left of the gecko and Massacre and let’s get back to base. I need a shower, something to eat and to sleep for three days straight”
