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the things that you might like don't grow inside of me
Opportunity wasn't always what you thought it to be. It wasn't always glorious, and it wasn't always particularly interesting.
Weavel found himself constantly reminded of that fact within the last several weeks.
When he'd fled Zebes in the aftermath of Ridley's second failure to take and hold the planet the Qymor wasn't entirely sure what to expect of life moving forward. Well, no. That wasn't entirely true. He'd expected it to be short. Likely ended by Ridley himself if not any number of bounty hunters, Confederation Navy or Sangheili pursuing survivors of the ill fated campaign. Back then it had been an accomplishment merely living to see another day, especially as he'd instructed those under his command not to raid colonies and shipping lanes for supplies. It had already been a bold move to flee coreward towards Federation space and in the opposite direction expected, and the last thing they had needed was to draw unwanted attention when that ploy had worked so unexpectedly well. More to the point, it wasn't like Weavel didn't have a plan at the time.
He just would not have expected it to lead him to where he was currently standing.
The dimly lit room, running on a mixture of emergency power and hastily adapted generators until the post's main reactors could be repaired or replaced, was ill suited to Kromus physiology. Everything was too short, designed for beings half their size, and as Weavel watched several other Kromus having to effectively hunch over just to access the terminal inputs he found himself glad that his job was one of supervision and management - it allowed him to stay on his feet most of the day. While the listening post had been taken years ago during his kind's reemergence into the galaxy proper it had been effectively ignored as it simply didn't fit into Ridley's plans at the time. But Weavel's current employers were another story entirely. While the station was far too beyond the Federation's borders to be of any use gathering intelligence on their movements and activities, the same could not be said of the various other Kromus factions operating in the unexplored space to the galactic north, and that was information his new masters were keenly interested in.
On that note... hearing movement behind him, Weavel would turn his head to look over his shoulder as brighter but still dim lighting flooded the room, the sound of constant water drip and tropical rain interrupted by the heavy thud of Jiralhanae footsteps. Clad in dark crimson armor, the beast was even larger than Weavel himself was, and that in and of itself was saying quite a bit considering where he stood in relation to the rest of his kind. Despite that size difference, however, the pseudo-ursine creature would offer a respectful dip of his head before Weavel turned his gaze back towards the Kromus technicians in the room.
"Lieutenant." The rough, gravelly voice sounded from behind him, although no further words were spoken - an obvious invitation for Weavel himself to continue the conversation.
"You have something to report?" Weavel replied, still not looking away from the technicians ahead of him.
"They're here. We've detected a small slipspace transition, a vessel roughly the size of a small gunship before it was lost to our sensors."
Taking in a breath and exhaling, Weavel stood still and silent for a moment as he processed the information. They hadn't been expected to arrive anytime immediately following the attack on the Border world and the assassination of its local governor, but the information they had stolen and outbound vector had made it clear where their next destination was. And as there wasn't anything on this tropical world aside from the listening post... orders from above had been quick and to the point. Weavel was to eliminate them when they arrived, although survivors were to be taken prisoner if possible. Not orders that he would have been accustomed to receive under previous management, but... well, if Weavel were to be honest it was a challenge he was looking forward to. Something that would push him to consider new ideas and learn new skills rather than simpleminded conquest and slaughter.
"We have also detected a second slipspace transition from a vessel of similar size, although it was also lost soon after transition. Profile suggests similar but different make, and it seemed to be following the first vessel judging by their course."
That caught Weavel's attention in a way the earlier report hadn't, the Qymor glancing over his shoulder again with a more curious glint to his green eyes. He'd been told to expect a single strike team, not two. Were they operating as a single entity? Or, as suggested by the report, was it something... different? Gazing at the Brute for a long moment as he considered his options and the unexpected curveball, Weavel would finally speak again.
"... inform 'Natan of the development. Our job is merely to support him as requested and defend the facility if needed." The Qymor said, finally turning his attention back to the technicians again as the Jiralhanae nodded and turned to leave, no doubt to seek out the Sangheili operative. Weavel hadn't been keen on sharing their limited resources with a temporary garrison at first, but the strike team sent to deal with the eventual intruders was only a small annoyance compared to what had delivered them. The Kromus frankly thought that the amount of force that had been deployed to the tropical world was nothing short of overkill, but evidently the intruders had angered someone enough that a statement had been in order.
A gloved hand pressed against the translucent view panel of the storage chamber. She was just inches from the famous suits, separated only by that same panel of transparent aluminum her hand rested against.
This was what she had been training for years to accomplish. The privilege to use the same tools that the ÆSIRs had used in the last war. To be like them; saving humanity, saving the galaxy. The very stories she had learned about.
Except they were different even from the ÆSIRs. They would be stronger, faster...physically superior in all ways. But she had respect for the experiences those ÆSIRs had endured, many being the same trauma and losses every one of her fellows had suffered so young. They all had that in common with the soldiers they had been brought up to replace.
They were all survivors.
"Seeing them isn't the same as actually wearing them."
She knew he'd been there, waiting in silence and watching her. Not much escaped Edea's Spartan augmented senses.
"It's what every one of us kids trained for." She sighed as she turned her head back a bit, eyes peering at the taller male who wore his own reinforced tech suit. "We knew back then what the offer meant, and what achieving all that would demand."
A nod as the taller of them checked the thin wristcomp mounted in the right sleeve of his tech suit. "Just remember, we're going in with the regular troops and these 'Federation Marines' that Daiban is trying to get going. As far as any of them are to know, we're a new generation ÆSIR group. New processes, fresh out of advanced training."
The young woman didn't respond. She had been briefed heavily on their mission and how they were to respond if asked who they were. The continued ÆSIR research since the war ended was an open secret, so the idea that a new "class" was already prepared to go would not raise many questions since the Federation Chairman had revoked many of the restrictions his predecessor had placed on Sol and other member systems with a sizable self defense armed force.
"Sure you're ready for this, Eedee?"
Her brow creased, memories coming back of the explosions, the fallout from bombardments, and the screams of her parents even as she hid and survived what they could not. The Kromus and those like them had taken everything from her as a child.
"As ready as ever, Markus. Just get me in that suit, and load me a Macro to watch my back."
Neither one missed the hiss as the door to the hold would cycle open.
Post by Alasdair MacUspaig on May 3, 2020 23:41:59 GMT
Not since the Siege of Krom had Alasdair seen a combat deployment, yet despite that long period of relative inaction, the ÆSIR was more than ready to get back into the fight. Though he'd not minded training new generations of soldiers, it hadn't been why he'd enlisted in the Confederation military. The redhead was reviewing the initial briefing he'd been given as she entered the hold where the rest of the team he would be working with, new ÆSIRs, apparently, were waiting, then lowered the datapad to look over the new additions. According to the briefing he'd been given, they were fresh from training, and hadn't even been to a regular unit. That raised an eyebrow from the veteran soldier more than a little, and as he took stock of the others gathered, he found himself growing more than a little curious of his comrades.
"Bloody hell, recruitin' straight out o' primary school now, eh?" he grunted as he entered the hold and began moving with a grace that seemed utterly at odds with his sheer mass towards the suits. "S'ppose I should nae be too surprised, wi how many we're tae need wi th' war back on proper. I'm Sergeant Major MacUspaig. Looks like I'm only one auld enough tae buy drinks, fer that matter," he chuckled, offering a warm enough smile. "I've been assigned tae this unit as an..advisor, if ye're nae already aware," the ÆSIR continued as he looked over the cluster of men and women. At least, he was fairly certain they were. They really did look remarkably young, he thought. "Nae certain that I'll be wi ye lot on a permanent basis just yet, but that's fer th' brass tae sort out. So, before Commander Rakesh comes down tae brief us on th' details of our objective, why donnae ye lot tell me who each of ye are?"
Steel-gray eyes shifted from Markus to the new arrival, and then, as Sergeant MacUspaig introduced himself, her gaze went back to Markus. The name was certainly familiar, but she couldn't place where she knew it from. Still, he was an ÆSIR. The older sergeant was as close to them as any other human was going to get. And he likely had over a decade of wartime experience.
"I'm Chief Petty Officer Bram." The oldest of the fireteam would be the first to speak. His use of his lost family's name, to Edea, was slightly jarring. But it was necessary, she realized after a few seconds. Anything less would raise suspicions, and they had been repeatedly instructed by Captain Orman that the program could not become public knowledge in any form. "We were told that we'd have a first generation ÆSIR joining us before meeting up with these Federation marines. Anyone who hit feet on Krom is welcome with us."
She felt the sergeant's eyes on her, causing Edea to shift. She was certain that the fact they were all clearly quite young for what they were doing would raise questions. Every one of them in ARC-Nine was of some level of petty officer rank grade, except for Faala, who had joined just a few months prior to this assignment.
"This is our team medic Serge, Riflemen Xander and Alma, Demolitions Faala, and Designated Marksman Edea." Markus saved them the trouble of introducing themselves. Maybe a little less awkward then, especially as she was not exactly a people's person, and to Edea, it felt like this Sergeant MacUspaig was intruding in their domain.
But that wasn't her position to decide. And he was one of the few still living ÆSIRs. As such, he commanded the respect for his experience and what he had endured. And as he said, he was an "advisor", not taking command. Not that she thought Markus would have his position undermined as it was, since he was quite well favored by the upper brass. But she still didn't like outsiders, no matter who they were.
"Truthfully, we've had power suit training and simulations, but this is going to be the first time we're using any ÆSIR suits. Can't imagine though it's going to be that odd for you, even after almost two decades since the war ended."
Damnit, Markus. He was still pretending to act like the sergeant was anything like them. That was typical, and probably why he was the favored of them for command spot.
Post by Alasdair MacUspaig on May 5, 2020 23:13:13 GMT
Alasdair listened attentively, turning his hazel eyes on each team member as they were mentioned in turn. His brow arched infinitesimally as he noted the body language in the dark-haired female he'd been told was named Edea. Not surprising, he supposed. Even unaugmented Special Operations teams were a tight knit group, and ÆSIRs were tighter still, siblings in all but blood. Yet as he looked over the soldiers he would be working alongside, something niggled at the back of his mind. Markus had introduced himself as a Chief, yet he barely looked a day over 25, even with his hardened appearance. Then he recalled that they'd not actually used ÆSIR suits. Were they actually fresh from training? How could any of them had made those ranks, then? He puzzled at the riddle for an entirety of perhaps five seconds, then remembered his briefing by Orman, and promptly concluded that if details were warranted, he'd get them when they were needed.
"Never used ÆSIR suits, eh? DAW been dickin' ye lot 'round wi SPI armor or sommat, then? Truth be told, it's pretty damned intuitive. If ye've had th' simulation trainin', wi yer Macros, ye'll do fine. Have tae ask, though, this isnae yer first deployment, is it? Nae disrespect, Chief, but ye lot are a bit young, and officially, we've nae been at war fer near tae two decades. Jist wantin' tae know if ye have some proper real world experience, aye?"
"This isn't quite our first drop, no." Not a lie, though as far as Markus was aware, Sergeant MacUspaig wasn't on the up and know of what they really did. "We were recruited for the new ÆSIR program pretty much out of training, but, we've had practical drop experience, and a few ground fights under our belts. Mostly we've been in advanced training, and DAW has had most of the ÆSIR class armaments under lock and key on Reach until now."
"We've had some modified semi-powered combat suits we've used, but, this is our first drop with the same things you Gen-Ones used." That was Serge. A lanky built and tall dark haired young man with a pair of scars across his cheeks and his forehead. His face was lean, making his age hard to determine beyond his early 20s, though the naval chevrons on his techsuit marked him as a petty officer first class. "We spent last month getting some hands-on with the MR-1 and the X-71 Pulse Rifle."
Edea decided to stay out of the conversation unless she was specifically called on to join. She wasn't one for mingling with outsiders, and though Sergeant MacUspaig was one of the first ÆSIRs, there was still that divide between them. Not even just how much they were different in their augmentations, but their experiences and losses. She didn't understand how Markus could play the role he did, but that was likely why he was Chief Petty Officer, and the fireteam NCO, while she was third class and the designated marksman. She did not work well on a social level with others that weren't one of them.
"We're supposed to have Macros assigned us enroute, seems they were pulling a group out of cold storage while we were rerouted to meet with you."
Not that she needed a Macro to keep her perceptions ahead of a non-aug. Edea returned her attention to the contained suits, noticing the one that was marked by a holographic number: A119. Hers, it would seem. Strange, there was an identity plate still attached to the chest of the red and silver powered suit. Had they been in that much of a hurry that they had not cleared off old ID markers?
Her hand tapped at the containment console, a low hiss as the chamber opened and extended out the suspended ÆSIR combat suit to allow her a better look at the name on the ID. After a few moments, her eyes widened as she realized who had been the previous user of this suit.
"Chief, did they tell you what unit these suits were from?"
Markus paused, looking toward the young woman and noticing the suspended suit. "No, just that they're all mark two armors. Is there a fireteam number still?"
With a finger touching the name plate, Edea would turn the powered armor aside within its suspension field so that the letters could be clearly seen: "ARAN".
Post by Alasdair MacUspaig on May 10, 2020 1:35:28 GMT
Though Alasdair still held a number of questions about the circumstances of ARC-Nine's formation, he found the answers given satisfactory enough to simply file those questions to the back of his mind to be reexamined only if further information demanded it. When one worked with DAW, one learned not to ask questions that weren't relevant to your assignments. Instead, he focused on what was effectively an informal personnel briefing to allow the older ÆSIR to gain a proper understanding for the men and women he'd be working with.
"How'd ye like th'- eh?" Alasdair paused as Edea called the CPO's attention, and in so doing, Alasdair's own, prompting the redhead to make his way over to the suspension field holding the armor the young woman was standing by. The ÆSIR fell silent as he caught sight of the name, almost as if seeing a ghost, and he struggled with how to even react properly. Despite being a career soldier, every man had their limits to how long they could hold their military bearing. Instead, he took in several long breaths. It couldn't be a coincidence, now, he thought. "Someone's got a bloody fucked up sense of humor," he grunted after a full minute of not saying anything. "'S my old unit. 1st Platoon, Alpha Company, 117th Special Forces Group. Called us th' Spartans, ye know?" Alasdair added. "Hope ye lot can do th' name proper. Big boots tae fill, aye?" He paused, looking around at each soldier around him, then wiped his face hastily. "Dannae mind me. Jist a bit of a shock. Jist gannin tae take a mom', focus back on this mission," he added as he made his way back to one of the empty chairs by the conference table and sat, though he watched the armors silently once seated the entire time.
It took a few moments for it to sink in what the master sergeant was talking about, and once that had passed, it was Alma, the blonde taller female of the group, that spoke up.
"That's Captain Aran's suit?" she asked as she took a closer look at the powered armor and its ID tag. "That's where I heard your name. You were Captain Aran's NCO after the Spartans were put together in the middle years of the war."
"We were assigned the Spartans' combat armors." Markus gave a smirk for a moment, his eyes looking over the other five armors in the storage chamber. It was almost reverent in his motions, lightly touching the crimson colored plates, then running his hand over the ID tag at the chest. "Very big shoes indeed, sergeant. Not sure it was meant as a joke, maybe more poetically appropriate."
"They seriously assigned Eedee to use the Hammer's suit."
It took Xander's comment for Markus to notice the holographic tag that hovered over the crimson plate of the suit's chest; A119. Edea's ID code, something that hopefully would not beg explanation to their "advisory" ÆSIR. "A suit is a suit, Xander. Has no bearing on the abilities or position of whomever is wearing it. This thing didn't make Captain Aran into the hero we learned about, he made himself a legend."
After a few moments, he withdrew his hand from the armor's plates and patted the dark haired young marksman on the shoulder. His eyes gave her an approving look as he moved on to resume his discussion with the master sergeant, and his lips pulled back into a faint smile. "But you'll do the captain proud, Eedee. Remember what Sergeant Perez said in training. Nothing that makes you special came out of the bottle, it just took what's already there and brought it out."
Post by Alasdair MacUspaig on May 10, 2020 5:36:35 GMT
"Aye, he and I knew each other fer most of our careers," the older man answered as he turned his hazel stare towards Alma. "Mind, he got out after th' war. Wanted tae start a family and all that," he added before falling silent once more, contenting himself with observing the other soldiers. Or rather, up until Markus added his statement. The ÆSIR fixed his gaze on the younger man intently, now considering all he knew of them all once more. Suspicion grew, though not of questioning trust. ÆSIRs had always been recruited from existing special forces, and with the war kicking back up, he doubted recruitment was an issue. Even so, they were so young that he might have easily mistaken them for freshly trained from basic training. The special forces training alone took nearly a year, closer to two for the medic, who seemed as young as the rest, and ÆSIR training wasn't the most brief of experiences, either. It should have taken several years just to account for their training. He considered his briefing upon recall to combat duty, and then the physical statures of his new comrades. It wouldn't be the first time DAW had sprung a surprise, and he doubted it would be the last.
"Poetic, ye say?" Alasdair finally said as Markus came to the table to resume their previous discussion. "I'm thinkin' ye might be right. Givin' a bit of a think on yer team. Good lot, even if ye've yet tae be properly tested wi armor fittin'. Sure I'll be able tae keep up, though?" he questioned quietly. He said nothing more elaborating on his meaning. He was certain he didn't need to. "I'll wager ye and yer team are itchin' tae try yer new kits. Was gannin tae ask how ye liked th' MR-1, actually."
"ÆSIR Magnum handles pretty well." Markus gave a quick glance to the rest of ARC-Nine before returning his eyes to the elder ÆSIR. "Haven't cranked it up all the way since SPCAs aren't the best for a weapon meant for real powered armor, but they're smoother than the old M6s, and the extra ammo per clip is a plus."
A flicker from one of the wall mounted screens as the ship's comms came alive to display the ship's comms officer. "Transition to realspace in fifteen minutes. This is a fifteen minute warning to slipspace transition back to realspace, all hands prepare for transit."
Markus raised a brow, looked over his unit, and then walked over to the armor tagged holographically with his ID code. "Alright, let's suit up in these things, and not let their last owners down."
"I'm pretty sure Captain Aran will crawl back from the dead and kick our asses if we disappoint, sir."
Serge, as witted as ever even in the circumstances of their first public mission. He tapped at the console pad at his assigned suit, raising a brow as the suit would release and open from the back, plates lifting and splitting to allow it to be entered. "Well that's fancy. Self sealing along the back where the undersuit would normally be."
"The polymer they used for the underarmor layers is reinforced titanium kevlar with micro compression sealant based on the Androm tech they reverse engineered back in the Machine War." Alma was the one who spoke up as she keyed in for her own assigned armor suit. "Myomer bundles link together while the outer material layers use specific codified nanites to create an environment sealed closure along the back opening and at the neck seal once helmets lock down."
The tall blonde young woman waited for the suit to open up, slipping in from behind now. Once her arms had slipped in and her front was snug against the innersuit, the armor shifted and closed around her, underlayer sealing as she had described, followed by the heavy plates of nanolaminate titanium, clicks emanating as the sections locked back into place. The suspension field that held the suit in the air disengaged, allowing Alma free movement as she tested her mobility and the flex of her joints.
"Little stiff, or does it feel like twenty years collecting dust hasn't broken it?"
"Like a second set of muscles that are loose and ready to go," the blonde remarked with a grin. She grabbed the matching helmet from the rack, slipping it down over her head and hearing the hiss of pressure seals as the underlayer neck seal integrated with that of the helmet. Systems booted up, operating protocols appearing in the visor even while Alma turned her head around to make sure of her visual range.
And then the new voice would make itself known via her helmet's internal comms
"Good morning, Petty Officer Solvang. Biometric adjustments are being processed to make sure your maximum capability is reached. I am your assigned Macro Intelligence, designation Arlen."
"Macros are already loaded into our buckets and ready," the young woman stated as she turned her head toward Markus, then gave a thumbs up in the direction of their senior 'advisor'. "We should be ready to go, Sergeant. Try not to let the old joints get in your way."
Post by Alasdair MacUspaig on Jan 8, 2021 1:26:59 GMT
Alasdair started to answer, enjoying the idle chatter, when the announcement came over the intercom. In response, the ÆSIR fell silent and pulled his helmet into place, smiling faintly as he heard the old familiar hiss of the seals activating. He'd worn SPI armor while training recruits in combatives, but it just wasn't the same thing. Markus wasn't wrong about the differences between the two types of armor.
"Ah, you finally decided to put your helmet on. I was beginning to wonder if you meant to go into battle without. You're certainly mad enough to try it," the familiar dry tone of his AI partner, Loki, remarked.
"Aye, but then who'd I have tae entertain me on th' drop down?" Alasdair questioned as his hazel gaze quickly swept across the HUD, checking systems with practiced ease.
"I suppose you'd keep yourself amused with the challenge of enduring a vacuum without a pressurized air supply. All systems are green," the Macro announced, even as the human met the same conclusion.
Satisfied with the initial checks, Alasdair rolled his shoulders lazily, then started towards the armory to retrieve his weapons. "I'm nae so auld as all that, Petty Officer," the older soldier replied with an amused chuckle. "I'll wager ye're all a bit faster, but I've a few years mair afore retirement's in th' cards fer me. Might e'en teach ye young whelps a thing or twa, if ye've nae learnt all our auld tricks in school."
The rest of ARC-Nine followed through in attiring themselves in the augmentive power suits, each taking the matched helmet and closing it over their heads to create the enviro-seal and begin booting their armors' respective operating systems and assigned Macro AIs.
Edea was the last to step into her assigned armor, still wary of who had last worn the suit and been a figure of incredible reputation even to her. It did not escape her notice, however, as she grabbed the matching helmet, that a massive patch work repair had been done on the front panels, where the titanium plating had been hastily replaced and the gashed metal was far too obvious.
A moment as she carefully slipped the helmet on, and after the hiss of seals locking together, the wide t-shaped visor came alive. This, she could tell, was not the visor that the repaired helmet had originally carried.
"Biometrics processing for mark two armor adjustment and refit." The voice was comforting, soft, yet steady. Like an older sister or a mother. "A pleasure to be of use to you, Petty Officer DeSand. My name is Sola, formerly assigned to Field Captain Jonathan Aran until my recovery from K-2L after his death. I have been briefed and loaded with all required information on your profile and parameters for being your Macro Companion."
"They even gave me his old Macro too?"
Markus tilted his head, and even with the silvery reflective T-visor, it was clear he was raising his brow in surprise. "You seriously got Aran's AI too?" he asked, getting the confirming nod from the young woman as her suit adjusted and pulled its underframe to better fit to her. "Don't know who did the requisition assignments, but...they did give you some big boots to wear."
"All hands, this is the bridge. Prepare for transit shock to realspace in ten seconds, nine, eight..."
the things that you might like don't grow inside of me
FV-693 was, frankly, something of a rarity among worlds - that was to say, naturally habitable, maintaining a thick nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere, stable hydrosphere and even carbon based life. A gem world, and as the two ships bearing the GFS designation from the more coreward territories reverted from the ethereal realm of slipspace and back to the cold, star studded vacuum of that bound by Newtonian physics the curvature of the jade green world would dominate their fields of view. Covered in dense plant life and jungle save for the sparse ice capping each pole and the marble white and gray of cloud cover, only swirls of blue - shallow inland seas and enormous lakes - would serve to interrupt the emerald landscape. Save for the equator, a place where the cloud cover had turned dark and foreboding as the world's own spin and the heat of its sun served to charge the hydrosphere with heat, generating near constant storms... one of which had slipped north by chance, a curling dark finger of gray reaching up to brush at the edge of at the coordinates of the very listening post the Galactic Federation had been sent to reclaim.
Of additional note, however, was the fact that they were far from alone - and while that had been planned for to some extent, it was doubtful that it could account for exactly what lay before them.
From the very moment the two Federation ships reentered realspace their sensors would come alive with multiple contacts in system, the communication channels alive with both encrypted transmissions and not - the latter of which were largely distress beacons of both known and unknown make. Of the immediately identifiable was the one ship registered within the Galactic Federation itself - a former Aries class transport rechristened the Wrathful Elegy, registered with the Hunter guilds and attached to the Eskradion government. Distress signal blaring across open channels, the craft would be skimming the world's upper atmosphere and pursued by numerous additional contacts, dubiously identifiable as Kromus fightercraft albeit with numerous modifications that would nearly confuse the Federation sensors as they attempted to force the old transport to ground. While the relationship between those ships left little room for interpretation, the other disturbance in system left plenty open for debate.
Only a kilometer or two behind the fighters pursuing the transport would be yet another contact that would read as an old Covenant CAR class frigate, a light patrol craft only 250 meters long. The vessel's sleek purple carapace had been replaced and reinforced with more worn silver armor, a mix of human Titanium-A plating and Covenant era nanolaminate. Several dozen kilometers "north" towards FV-693's pole would be another two vessels of similar make, reading as a CRS light cruiser and SDV heavy corvette at 300 and 1,000 meters long each with similar armor and hull modifications, firing on a cruiser of unknown make. Contrary to what the weapons' fire might have suggested the fight itself was long over, the larger ship - once an easy three kilometers long at best guess - was no longer identifiable as it had been more than just bisected, the ruined hull that had been torn apart into multiple pieces further bombarded for no other purpose than to seemingly vaporize what was left. of greater concern, however, would be the one final contact, the one of most import and likely responsible for the majority of the damage done during the conflict - a 229 meter vessel of Kromus make, a cylindrical central hull bracketed by three forward facing spindles, silver armor adorned by splashes of red paint. Clearly responsible for most of the damage done the vessel showed signs of the battle still, shields reading as disabled and several portions of the armor and hull sheared off and damaged. Having turned away from the massacre in the upper atmosphere it was now bombarding a seemingly empty section of space with its plasma and point defense cannons, energy output adjusted for speed and fire rate rather than raw power output.
Moments later, however, the dynamic would change - almost immediately taking notice of the new arrivals, the light cruiser and heavy corvette would halt their bombardment, breaking positions to leave the shattered hulk to the planet's gravity and with new courses laid to intercept the Federation ships still dozens of kilometers away... not, however, without firing shots in advance from their plasma cannons, red blasts aimed to cut across what would be their path in warning.
Klaxons would sound while projected red lettering notified all decks of the combat situation that had been encountered. Fighter crews and pilots hurried at the announcement of a magnum launch; all fighters in the void. The scenario played the same on the other Federation ship, a hastily refit heavy police cruiser that carried a comparably powerful energy projector for a peacekeeper vessel, but measurable to lighter coil MAC cannons of the older 2500s era of terran construction.
There was a momentary flicker of a blue bubble around each of the ships as they broke their paired formation, four dozen fighter craft launching from the Hephaestus while a dozen small interceptor craft launched from the converted police cruiser. The heavy particle cannons mounted on the Hephaestus would turn into place, firing solutions calculating within microseconds while point defense arrays angled into position.
And then, the rumble as the single spinal mass driver cannon of the Confederation fleet ship would fire a fifty ton shell at a fraction of the speed of light, directed at the larger of the opposing ships, with ConFleet and Federation fighter craft racing to do their own jobs as well.
Post by Alasdair MacUspaig on Jan 13, 2021 0:46:11 GMT
Alasdair broke into a run as the rumble of the MAC trembled with focused fury beneath the deckplates, sprinting towards the drop pods they were to deploy from once the Hephaestus came into range of the planet below. While not in range yet, he still needed to make sure their dropship's armory was properly equipped, and then run pre-launch checks. He didn't bother to check to see if ARC-Nine was following, knowing that if they were even as good as baseline ODSTs, they'd be heading in the same direction. In truth, he suspected them to be even more capable than he was, Cat2 be damned. How much more capable, he didn't know, but he suspected strongly he would soon find out. Assuming the ship reached launch range, he concluded grimly as the ÆSIR rushed into the nearest lift to transport him down to the flight deck. Although, he doubted any were as skilled as he was in navigating in the middle of absolute chaos, given his particularly enhanced sense of direction. As the lift traveled down, Alasdair bounced in place, brimming with energy at the prospect of finally fighting something that wasn't merely another recruit being trained, and nowhere to go until the lift opened again. The moment it did, he bolted out, his heavy frame a remarkably graceful example of human body motion as he made his way to the Goshawk they were to take to the surface.
"Right, so real quick, who's flyin'?" the ÆSIR asked over the comms as he bounded up the boarding ramp, covering the distance in two steps, upon which he finally slowed to something akin to baseline human running. "I can if ye like, but again, nae my ca."