If the boss is giving us time to prepare, let's use it. Make two pairs of '12 dd' for me and Beirus. There probably are better materials to make armor from, but I don't want to risk having the Dark Lord strike me down again for not using Necrotic magic. Probably will add some stuff into this action once the datasheet is up.
Also, I'm torn between option #1 and #4A. I'll roll some dice...
Dice say I'm going to pick #4A.
[COMP: 5] Spell, 12 dd
[COMP: 10/6] Spell, 12 dd
One set of dark steel arm armour clangs onto the floor the other makes some colourful sparks and nothing else.
You have quite the affinity for that element.
We will arrange for caches of it for you to load your weapons with.
((Tradecraft Gained: Necrotic Cache))"Hmm...I think I have a plan coming together. A poor one, but it's better than no plan. We'll have to figure out a way to get past that blast door, but after that we might have a sliver of a chance. If we can get to the generator and disable it, it might weaken or disrupt the security. We should probably use the enhancement drugs as soon as we enter. If we're lucky, they'll make us fast enough to get to the generator before we get eaten. I'm not sure how armored the generator is, but we could probably use the grenades or cluster bomb to blow it up. Or at least use them to disrupt the security if they're like the spotters, since the Alcyone shots managed to disrupt the spotters. And if all else fails, we can use those transformation syringes and go down fighting. We'll need to keep an eye on the security like Jus wanted, if only to have a better chance at staying alive, and we'll need to stay mobile. Run along the walls, on the ceiling, whatever keeps you moving and harder to hit. I assume we're as good as dead if the security touches us, so it's kind of like a highly lethal game of tag football. Sound good to you, Ladlemonger?"
Working on a plan. On the off chance the anomaly can actually hear us, transmit the plan to Jus mentally and have him relay it to the Ladlemonger. If I can't do that, then tell my plan to the Ladlemonger verbally. Still not sure how to get past those blast doors. Accept gear from Ladlemonger.
Mental transmission isn't a thing, if it were, you'd probably be getting spam and a/s/l requests from other agents. No information on who gets the one arm armor so it just sits on the floor waiting for someone to put it on.
We've got another ability for you.
Won't do much to save your hide here unfortunately, but I'm sure you'll find uses for it later.
((Tradecraft Gained: Support Override))James Heign:
"Not a problem. It's what heroes do. Anyways. I'm fairly sure there's something here I need to fix. So... you have any idea where nearby any large broken mechanical thingamajigs might be located?"
While this question is being answered, James activates Memento Mori, trying a function of it different than normal: looking at the paths of the axe users, trying to figure out if cutting into the creature is likely to get them killed.
The paths slowly redden as they move deeper into the facility, but there's no heightened risk near the creature. Obviously whatever power was causing it to act like a touchy magic claymore has gone away. Which is good, the less magic claymores the better.
You've slaughtered your way here, through the tenacious, through the ruinous.
You've cheated your doom, and struck terror in those who are feared.
Good. Good.
We have a new trick for you.
It is only fitting that a hero may strike in a flash, and vanish in a pinch, no?
((Tradecraft Gained: Cetaphile's Waltz))22 dd. Let's suit up, helmet and techno vambraces. Soon I'll be a techno paladin.
Next to north! Stay out of sight.
[COMP: 10/4] Spell, 22 dd
You conjure a pair of arm braces made of a fine grey cloth with strategically placed hard plastic like plates. They go on easily like
fabric sleeves rather than like inflexible armor, you see several connectors at the ends that obviously would link up with a chest plate.
You approach the warehouse walking along the desolate streets occasionally marked by rubble, the factory to the north turns out to be a large distillery owned by Lonestar Brew, a beer company that is one of the many subsidiaries of Startech, one of the members of the Vestige Consortium. It appears to have been locked up but the lights are still on inside, perhaps there is somebody home?
"Also you've been surprisingly useful so now I can dedicate more energy to doing things for you without the others getting shirty with me... anyway now I can tell you their strengths and weaknesses more in-depth than the "this is the brain/heart/vulnerable-reproductive-organ, hit here." thing I've been doing previously."((Tradecraft Gained: Bio Scan II))2!
[TRAN: 6/4] Resist.
You stagger left and where you were but a moment ago, the scarlet hews.
Your name, is Therebus Ennis. Therebus Ennis, Frame Pilot. Therebus Ennis, peer to corpses. For that, is what surrounds you.
Close in they said. Hit them, hit them fast, hit hard, before they scatter. That's what they said as you made your charge. Slay the dragons, blast the area. Well they're dead now. All of them. The dragons and everyone else.
Smoke. They were made from smoke. The dragons that is. Turns out smoke doesn't make for good dragons. Oh sure they looked all big and scary, but that's it. Know what's really scary? The shit hiding behind them. The shit that tore their way through just to get at you lot. The curtains are open now, but they were closed for a reason. The genie's out of the bottle, out of bottles, and as turns out, an angry drunk. An angry drunk with a boner for murder, and hung like a horse, the
whole damn horse, hooves and all.
You were having a nice day. That nice girl from senior administration building seven agreed to a date tomorrow at the mess tents. Nobody tried to junk your machine while you where on the john and you're pretty sure no one would dare try either. There was a nice easy battle earlier as Dead Hand threw some golems at you as a half-hearted attack which you defeated with equal effort.
And now?
Around you, frames lie broken and scattered.
Some were torn asunder, rent apart by sword and scythe. Others had simply been blasted apart from spellfire. The larger ones? The titans of war? They move no longer. Their armor may have endured, but their pilots did not. Before you, is the cause - a field of flesh, forged of black metal, great fangs and stingers rise like spires from corrugated conduits, grooves feeding into things resembling the mouths of lampreys. It shifts and bristles, the skin of something monstrous, something too large to fathom, something
wrong, oh so wrong.
Wronger than it ought to be, and it already ought to be pretty damn wrong. Transcendence, that's what saved you. What it is, you don't know. But it's why you're still alive, or so SCHRODINGBUG tells you, and so far, you've yet to find reason to doubt her.
Anyway that's the least of your concerns right now. One of the more pressing ones, is currently pressing towards you. Jet black and emaciated, with ravenous maws gaping open beneath gaps in its ribbed chitin, it tightly grasps the now-unsheathed katana. You know, now that you put it that way, it doesn't sound too bad. But no, it's pretty bad. You've seen its brethren, they've hacked through frames with those blades.
Hmm... Could pull the trigger now. That's a nice thought. Just pull and trigger and turn it to salt. Hell, if you hold it and sweep, you could start clearing out that damn Giger-esque field as well. Let it all become salt, the fuck do you care? If only it were that simple.
There's another squad of them, spread out - they're learning. These are a different flavor so to speak, the bastard children of clockwork soldiers and woodchippers, blackened gears bearing claws for teeth. The oversized turnkeys in their backs are brass, the only shred of color they have. Some wield autoscythes, polearms with shifting arcane blades. Dangerous if they get close. But they won't. Not if you're doing your job right. No, it's the others, the ones with the smartcannons, with the beams and sprays and mortar shells.
It's the legs, the damn legs. PUPPET legs. They were never designed to hold your frame, only reason you're still up are the thrusters, but those? Those require energy to work, and if you're holding down the trigger, you'll be out of it soon enough. No energy means no movement, not unless you crawl, but the arms do not obey you, they're chained up anyway. And you want to move, because if you don't, they'll tear you apart, just like the rest. Could spin around, could sweep at them, they'll get a chance to dodge though, not ideal, and then, even then, there's more.
Above you. Out of range, a black winged beast, circling like a vulture. It can hit you from there. Not your frame, you, the pilot, the one inside the cockpit. You've seen its work, lightning arcing out of thin air. You gotta keep moving, not unless you wanna get fried.
Retreat? Must you retreat?
Maybe, maybe. Reinforcements should be coming, allies from below. The heroic. The quixotic. The brave. The foolish. They shall arrive shortly. You could regroup, help get some allies out as well, wait for the other guys to show up. Or the artillery. That too. Not a good look, blasting your own camp from orbit, but, what choice do they have?
Maybe. Or maybe... you could stay, dance between the blades and bullets, and clear this blight. Can you? You don't know. Hallucinatory spacemagic wasn't covered in basic training, funny that. Still, you're either fighting your way out, or fighting right here... who knows? Maybe they'll give you a medal for it. Well, not you, your casket. Close enough at least. You could even attend the funeral when you get back, just say that you got out, that somehow, you survived all that, it's not like there'll be anything left for them to identify. Then you could, aww hell, get a book deal out of it or something? Fuck. What are
are you to do?
You stop time, and think.
You are sitting in your chair, it's comfortable, but not too comfortable, with various pockmarks and scratches adorning it. A kill tally is etched in the left side, they stopped bothering at 37. Opposite it, someone scratched a single reference:
Genesis 19:26.
Your tactical map, located on the bottom left-hand of the screen is semi-transparnet. It shows your position, the positions of the frames that were destroyed, and the positions of the frames that were effectively destroyed - the ones that just didn't know it yet. The highlighted zone is the target area, now roughly corresponding to the field of magic fuckery. More icons lurk around the sides, arrows pointing at them - nearby units, pilots and soldiers fortunate enough to have not followed the charge. The rest of the screen extends across the entire width of the cockpit front and some ways up and down as well. Between you and it, but low enough not to obstruct your view, are your controls, marked with a few odd stains. One of them from the last pilot.
Apparently, they clawed out their own throat.
Soon. You need to decide soon, before time resumes. Guess you really can't think forever, not even in a world without time.
"Good things to know. Terrifying, but good to know."
Order -01 to fall in behind me, and resume delivering the mystery box. Take the carcasses of the last two pez guys with us; if they're full of pre-Fall tech, I want it. While we travel, try out Work, Damnit! on my reactive armor system to see how good it is at maintenance work, and finally work up the courage to try some magic. "Well, MALEBRANCHE, you gave me magic that you can't even use, so it must be pretty good stuff." Use the magics: "a9" "11"
After loading up the corpses you continue on slowly trudging through the abandoned streets you occasionally see movement in the buildings as the only signs that the colony has anyone still living here, otherwise the main features are just rubble of varying color and size. You meet up with your comrade soon enough and carefully pick up the black monolith he has discovered, seems that people used to really have a thing for those. Suddenly a bleep goes off and a scarlet icon blinks into the corner of your vision. An urgent army-wide message. Seeing as there aren't any pressing issue right now, you open it.
The Surface is under attack. Return to Floor 5 instead.You see your comrade talking on the radio, they continue for a while before cursing under their breath. They address you with a nod, their countenance grim.
"It's Dead Hand. 'parently they made a push earlier, guess they were just softening us up for the main event."You head up the central elevator shaft to the surface the fastest way back with cargo in general and given the fact that someone is trying to blow the shit out of your camp, which contains all your stuff. You move quickly, letting the soldier scramble up -01's leg until he sits semi-comfortably on the AF's transport compartment while you drag the two dead monsters back, leaving the autoframe to carry the monolith.
As the two of begin moving back to base, you call on MALEBRANCHE to fix your frame.
done
The damage indicators aren't going away, not by themselves at any rate, but your armor seems to be refilling back to maximum capacity, even though the channels should be too damaged for that anymore.
[COMP: 4/2] Spell, a9
[COMP: 9/1/] Spell, 11
The first spell conjures a large number of springs, gears, and other clockwork parts arranged into various incomplete mechanisms, each sized for a frame. They clatter to the floor. The second creates a similarly large work of weird abstract art made of colored glass that shatters after it meets the pavement.
Your comrade makes no comment. It's odd yes, but lots of things are odd, and plenty of people have such things, no need to start accusing anyone of witchcraft it seems.
Eventually you arrive back at the outskirts of Floor 5, the conflict above failing to sully the mood too much. Frames rest in portable storage bays, or just crouch down wherever there's enough space, soldiers meandering around them and in and out of various buildings, buildings that are noticeably missing their doors. Some of them are pushing carts and trolleys of loot. You see frames gesturing broadly adding a bit of flair to their pilot's sales pitches. A few glances come your way, but nothing comes out of them though as -01 delivers your comrade and their haul onto a waiting truck before returning to its own bay for someone else to hire.
"Thanks! I really owe you one for that. Say, do you need a weapon? I could probably arrange for a rifle or something, it's not much, but it's better than a MUSKETEER or being empty-handed. Unless you wanna attach those things to your frame...?"Your engineer, Laura radios in.
"I see you've made a fine profit today, anything I can do you right now?"
Author
Topic: Perplexicon - Down the Foxhole - Raining Mecha (Read 177339 times)