Some old fan made backstory from when I played MWO y'all might like

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Some old fan made backstory from when I played MWO y'all might like Empty Some old fan made backstory from when I played MWO y'all might like

Post by HawKitsune on Fri Apr 27, 2018 3:16 am

Some background lore for me when I played MWO that someone that I played with made for me. I refound it and with the BattleTech release I thought i'd post it here. Don't know if this is the best spot for it but ow well.

Author : Malzel
Background Lore of James “HawkBlade” Messor

I hear the computer begin the hot-drop countdown sequence overhead. The bay doors below my hanging 'mech begin to open, daylight spilling into my cubicle.

"10. 9. 8. 7."

This will be my third action, a planet called "The Edge". It didn't look like much on the way in, but I suppose that's what pirates look for in a world; more developed worlds tend to be better defended.

"6. 5. 4."

I check my Raven's systems again. They're still nominal. It feels like everything slows down just before combat, and I have too much time to think. I should be thinking about my training, or my mission briefing. Instead, I think about what it would be like to be fighting Kuritans like my father in the Ronin War, not ill-equipped Periphery bandits.

"3. 2."

It's why I enlisted in the first place. My father fought in the 1st Tyr regiment, and was posted to Rasalhague as a ranking officer after he was wounded and the Tyr disbanded. My mother had served with the infantry while I was raised by relatives. All I wanted to do was follow in their footsteps and protect the Republic. I guess it's a good thing, because it's what they expected from me, anyway.

"1. Drop commencing."

I feel the release of my drop frame and the weightlessness of free-fall before the frame's thrusters kick in, guiding me to the LZ. To my left, I see my lancemate taking the same plunge. As we descend, I am given a panoramic view of this world, and I cannot deny its majesty. Snowcapped peaks rise on the horizon below pure white clouds, giving way to open plains I can see off to my left. Even the rolling hills that I am now plummeting toward at terrifying speed are blanketed by pristine pine forests, largely untouched by men.

It's not so different from the other Republic worlds I've been assigned to, settled by honest people just trying to make a life. I realize there must be dozens, perhaps hundreds of worlds just like this through the Inner Sphere, and it suddenly strikes me how saddening it is that we inflict such suffering and destruction on ourselves through our wars.

I feel the hard impact of my drop frame, and the soft 'thump' of the explosive bolts freeing my 'mech from it. I check my battlegrid, and our UAVs are already supplying me with the locations of pirates trying to flee the nearby settlement with their plunder. Mercifully, there is no more time to think.

The streaks of white phosphorous autocannon rounds and streams of green laser fire tear through the forest outside my cockpit. My lancemates, piloting their recently refitted Dragon-5Ns, seem to be enjoying the upgrades.

"Scratch one! Are you keeping up with me, 2-5? I'm thinking drinks are on you this time."

"Shut it, 2-6. If you shot half as well as you bullshit, we'd be home already."

"Cut the chatter, children. Alpha 2-1, are you in position? What do you see out there, Messor?"

"Yes, Sir," I reply, "You've got a trio of Scorpion tanks up ahead, two of them laser refits, I think. They're trying to break for the dropship with some infantry."

"Roger that, we don't want that. Alpha 2-5, 2-6, keep up the pressure. 2-1, circle around them and cut off their escape."

I acknowledge and push my Raven into motion. It's a 4X model, Capellan surplus, I imagine. I mentioned to my father I liked the design, once, and somehow one was waiting for me when I granduated academy. I never ask for his favors, the pull of his rank, but I do like the design. The treeline splinters and burns off to my right as my lancemates continue their running exchange. The wood thins as I near the settlement, and I pass several smoking civilian vehicles on a dirt road leading toward the town.

As I crest a hill, I stumble directly into what was once a homestead. The house is starting to burn, and pulling supplies from the storage shed to my left is a squad of motorized infantry. They're startled, I don't think they heard me coming over the noise of the battle, and they're clearly not equipped to handle a battlemech. I feel a little sorry for them, and I wonder if I should offer them a chance to surrender.

Then I spot the pair of bodies by the burning home. My sympathy evaporates. I thumb the trigger for my twin chainguns, and they make clear my only offer.

"2-6, they've got something bigger moving up."

"I see it, 2-5, shifting fire."

I look up from my grisly work to see a hail of phosphorous rounds tear through the trees toward my lancemates, a rate of fire far beyond anything I'd want coming my way.

"Shit, Partisan! Find some cover, kids! 2-1, where are you? We're pinned by a Partisan tank and its friends. I need you to flank it and get it off of us."

"Wilco, Sir!" I reply.

I continue my circle, and as I round the base of another foothill, I can see them in a clearing up ahead. Three scorpion tanks, plus infantry, but somehow I'd missed the massive Partisan. It's a refit, as well, the five AC/2s throwing a withering barrage at my countrymen. I rake it with laser fire as I run by, keeping my distance and trying to draw its attention. The Scorpions respond, but the Partisan maintains its focus. I loose a salvo of SRMs, too far to really be effective, just trying to get it to turn away from my friends. It doesn't.

"2-1, where the hell are you?"

"I'm on it! It's not shifting fire!"

I have to act. My Raven would have been shredded twice by that kind of firepower, the Dragons have to be in rough shape. The Scorpions are landing glancing blows, and even the infantry is firing lasers at me as I circle. I swing my Raven around and point it directly at the Partisan, pushing the throttle to maximum. I have to time it perfectly. Raking the Scorpions with lasers as I close, I tense and fire my jumpjets, launching me through the air.

For a moment, I feel the same weightlessness of the combat drop. Time slows again, and I have far too long to realize all the ways this could go wrong. I could land too soon, and trip over the tank, putting me prone in front of it. I could land too late and end up in its line of fire. Even if I aimed well, I could lose a leg, surrounded by Scorpions. I could have just committed suicide.

The impact rips me from my thoughts. The Partisan's turret buckles beneath my weight, crushing the autocannon barrels to the shell of the tank. Pivoting left, I loose my SRM 6-pack into one of the Scorpions, and one of them hits its autocannon magazine. The blossoming fireball rips it open as I jam my torso right and trigger my lasers. The focused beams fuse another tank's tread into slag, but that doesn't stop its firing. I'm raked with lasers, I can feel the temperature in the cockpit rise, and klaxons begin to blare, indicating my right leg is losing integrity. Firing my jumpjets again, I make for the treeline at full throttle, weaving to avoid more damage.

"Partisan is damaged, move now!" I call to my lancemates, "Two Scorpions still in action!"

"Roger wilco, moving in."

Ducking into the wood, I stop at the base of a hill to catch my breath. I've never done anything like that before.

"Good work, 2-1, we're mopping up now."

"We're not done here yet, children. UAVs reporting movement inbound from the dropship."

I check the grid, and though the UAVs can only catch glimpses of them, I see two contacts moving our way. They're just on the other side of my hill.

"2-1, get out of there, seismic is showing high tonnage."

I look up to the crest of the hill to see the large cannon of a Hunchback coming into view. I jam my throttle forward. My right leg steps forward as I hear the thuderous shot. The massive round rips the leg clear off below the hip actuator. I hit the ground hard, struggling to regain control. I manage to roll onto my back, looking up, and immediately wish I hadn't. The Hunchback is over me, looking down. Suddenly, I feel like the infantry I stumbled across.

The second shot rips into my mech just to the left of my cockpit. The cabin wall is ripped asunder, and searing pain spikes through my throttle arm as I'm hammered by the concussive force and shrapnel shreds the flesh through my pilot suit. I choke through the smoke, trying to get free of my restraints. I'm losing blood. I can't breathe. Through the panic, the confusion, and the pain, I find a small amount of relief as I succumb to the peace of unconsciousness

I awake in a medical bay. I'm confined there for weeks, giving accounts of the battle, recieving apologies, told that there was no intel on pirate mechs at the site. My lancemates come to visit, wishing me well, congratulating me on my first combat injury. My arm was shattered in two places, and the burns combined with the shrapnel and surgery have left have left my left arm scarred all the way to the elbow. Eventually, I am greeted by a man in an officer's uniform.

"Korpral James Messor?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply.

He introduces himself as Löjtnant Wendell Brunner, the psychiatric officer for the First Rasalhague Dragonregimente. He informs me I've been slated for transfer from my current unit, and he's here to ensure I'm fit for service before he turns my files over to Överste Tostesson, the unit's commander. I recognize the name, my father met him in the Ronin War while serving with the 1st Tyr. I immediately have suspicions that I'm being transferred so someone my father trusts can "look after" me.

We talk for a while about the mission, my history, how I'm recovering. I make clear I'm looking forward to returning to service, and he gives a satisfied nod.

"I think this is all in order, then," he says after finishing some notes, "You're scheduled for release in a week's time, at which point you should report to HQ on Trondheim, Misby Flats. Is there anything else I can answer for you?"

"Yes, Sir," I say, "Is there any chance my machine survived the battle?"

He gives me an odd look.

"Korporal, from the reports I've seen, I'm surprised they pulled you from that wreck in one piece. I'd feel lucky for that."

"Understood, Sir. That's a shame, though. I like the design of the Raven, and I don't think the KungsArme has many."

The Löjtnant taps his pen on his clipboard for a moment.

"We had an unusual recruit arrive last week. Didn't give us his real name, and turned over a dropship full of Capellan hardware. I seem to recall a pair of Ravens on board."

He stands and shakes my undamaged hand.

"No promises, Korpral, but I'll see what we can do. Welcome to the 1st RDR."
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