Clusterfrag

[ Bravo Team ]

Doc points at the ceiling, "Let's get top-side, now!" He urges, making for the ladder leading up to the side street. The two spider drones skitter after him along the wall, not deigning to get their gecko-tipped feet wet.

At the top of the ladder, he slams his shoulder into the manhole cover, tipping it up and over onto its back. He takes a deep breath of sweet Portland air before exiting the septic catacombs. He rushes over to a nearby dumpster with a clear view of the intersection, fighting a brief wave of nausea as he watches his own actions through Haywire's eyes.

The final dry bag comes open as he undoes the latches. With the detonator in his left hand, he slings the Arbalest over his right shoulder, feeling every part the mad bomber from a late-night trid.

< Showtime >

[ Alpha Team ]

Max approaches the gate, casting a cursory glance to Val to insure that the decker is ready. Holding Marlowe Mk II aloft in his right arm, he slams his left down on the gate's control panel and pivots to take cover behind the archway. The massive scissor doors lurch aside, permitting the first few rays of dawn to penetrate the near darkness of the transfer corridor. The tell-tale slapping echo of automatic weapons fire is now audible. The elf detects the faintest hints of cordite, petrol, and smoke--notes of which are nearly scrubbed clean by his suit's filters.

[ Alpha Team ]

Max inches forward, keeping low and quiet and slipping through the door in search of cover to get a better visual of the situation unfolding beyond.

[ Alpha Team ]

The road out of the transfer station is a pulverized mess of asphalt and debris. The architecture is a grid of concrete buildings wedged in between the sector wall and the outer wall. Scattered fires alight the skyline--results of the various skirmishes that rage across the sector. At the heart of the sector, rising up like a beacon is Le Fleur hotel. The grandiose structure is a sharp contrast to the dull shelters clustered around it. Resembling something of a futuristic Eiffel tower, the glass and steel building is the single largest visible. The hotel is approximately a kilometer away.

[ Bravo Team ]

Haywire's gaze follows the vehicles as they make their way towards the intersection. The combat mage slinks across the perimeter of the roof to maintain a solid visual. All three tanks slow in preparation to make a turn in the intersection.

< Get ready. >

The flanks of the vehicles glitter in the glare of the early morning sunshine. The long shadows projected by the sector walls begin to fall away. From his vantage peeking out at street-level, Doc can feel the approaching vehicles in his fillings. He mentally triple-checks his work, praying that the explosives will be adequate to take out the great part of the convoy.

< Now! >

[ Bravo Team ]

Adams stares down the street. The moment feels perfect. He's not going to get the tanks into a better grouping than they are now.

There's no time for words; he presses the detonator.

[ Alpha Team ]

Max takes in the wreckage of the city and the size of the high rise in the near-distance. Squinting his eyes, he turns to Val and asks,

"Can you get us a map of the city? It would be helpful to get an idea of the lay of the land. And any chance of pulling up any kind of schematic of the hotel? Even just a general floor plan for guests would be helpful."

[ Bravo Team ]

The sound of the explosion is not so much heard as felt. Doc grimaces as the kinetic energy reverberates around in his sternum. The intersection seems to become liquid for a brief moment, as metric tons of asphalt surge into the man-made sinkhole in the center. The three tanks riding in tight formation swerve apart to avoid the undertow, but it's too late. Each succumbs to the radical forces of physics and topples like a child's toy into the smoking abyss. An unfathomable amount of smoke and dust issues forth, blotting out the sky and glowing nuclear orange against the rising sun.

[ Bravo Team ]

Adams allows himself a moment of schadenfreude as he pictures the tank crews scanning the buildings and skies above them for threats, only to be betrayed by the ground beneath their treads.

< Three down! > he comms triumphantly. < C'mon, let's mop up the stragglers! >

He dashes from his cover behind the dumpster, making for the street corner of the now ruined intersection.

[Alpha Team]

Continuing to monitor astral space, Tyros surveys the scene and feels that for the first time he is witness to true urban warfare. Stuccato gunfire crackles sporadically in the distance, punctuated by the deep bass notes of sizeable explosions, their flashes of light a distraction always out of the corner of the troll's eye. Smoke rolls over the city like fog and carries with it a pungent sulfur stench.

Tyros can't help but be reminded of the historical vids he used to watch growing up which showed battered cities of the Middle East in the 20th and early 21st century, Beruit most vividly, torn asunder by prolonged urban war. Fights the went building by building and block by block as civilians tried to stay out of harms way and inevitably failed.

"The klick to the hotel looks to be a very long one boys, best we hustle. Ive got point. Watch for snipers." The invisible Mage sets off in front of the team, scanning the way forward astrally and praying they don't run into an ambush.

[ Alpha Team ]

Tyros sweeps his vision across the abused landscape, once again observing the world as a golden wire-frame. Great swathes, like the brushstrokes of titans, hang frozen in the air; they're signatures--remnants--of the manipulations of earthly magics. From the complexity and number of them, the troll determines that the fighting passed through where they are currently standing. He squints through his visor, but any sniper or artillery positions are located too far from his line of sight to be discernible.

Meanwhile, standing adjacent to the team's resident mage, Max Overstreet scrutinizes the grid of pixels that has manifested in the corner of his combat visor. The map overlay is a simple one, plucked from the Tir's public nets (or what's left of them) by Firestarter's enterprising decker. Still, Overstreet can make out the various streets and avenues and even in some cases, building names. The elf kicks a large scrap of shredded 18-wheeler tire aside and leaps off of the decimated overpass, landing nimbly on the soil below.

[ Bravo Team ]

Doc's celebration is short lived, as the grinding of tank treads becomes audible. A street lamp is felled and topples out of the smoke cloud, glass shattering at his and Sinjin's feet.

< Frag! Scorpion--directly ahead of you! >

[ Bravo Team ]

Adams' heart leaps into his throat. The main event already finished, it was now just a couple of fleshy ants on the ground pitted against giant metal behemoths. His pulse pounds heavily as he ducks behind a public utilities box, and brings the Arbalest to bear.

Come on, show yourself, you chrome monster.

He sees a glint of early morning light reflected off of a moving panel through the imaging scope of the shoulder mounted weapon.

Got you.

Despite his pounding pulse, his hands are unusually steady, and his aim unnaturally stable as he pulls the trigger.

(( I'd like to use a point of edge on this roll for four extra dice. ))

[ Bravo Team ]

The Scorpion's assault barrel looms through the roiling clouds of smoke, bearing straight down on Sinjin and Val.

[ Doc = 44 ]
[ Sinjin = 39 ]
[ SK Scorpion = 36 ]

Doc waits until the rectangular targeting reticule in the MAW's imaging scope is centered over the front of the Scorpion. Confident that he'll win a direct hit, he mashes the firing button.
{{ 13P DAMAGE! }}

A burst of depleted accelerant whiffs out of the opposite end of the launcher, the anti-vehicle warhead on the front traveling almost too fast to see. The Scorpion is enveloped in flames and the kinetic energy sends a few of the massive armor slabs bouncing away.

[ Alpha Team ]

Max breathes deeply and settles his eyes on the road before him, indicating to the team the route they should take. Not knowing where Tyros stands on his taken point, Max moves ahead down the road. The elf slips into the entryway to a blown out storefront, backs against the wall, and peers around the corner for any enemy traps or presence. Seeing none, he clutches Marlowe Mk. II and darts out again from cover and presses forward toward the hotel.

[Bravo Team]

Gripped in the exhilaration that fills men of all ages, as through a code of genetic obligation, who are witness to the grand fury and righteous power of a good explosion, Sinjin almost forgets to look as Doc arms the Arbalest and lets fly his precision guided greeting card. The rictus of Adam's malicious glee is illuminated by the disembarking rocket, the pair of them berserked in the explosive symphony like zealots of catastrophe. The tank shudders and disappears behind the wall of fire that erupts as Doc's missile strikes home. Rubble, earth, and burning wads of everything rain down like biblical plagues in the aftermath of their madness. The tank groans hellishly as its decimated carapace comes to, a massive cannon rotating to train on the 'runners position. Warped and shattered plates of heavy metal fall away, exposing mechanical innards. Steam rises from a crumpled radiator screen that, miraculously, still functions. Rushing forward and screaming maniacally through the landscape of Armageddon, Sinjin delivers a powerful fireman's kick to the aluminum heart of the iron goliath.

[ Bravo Team ]

Doc pumps his fist, and lets out a triumphant laugh. The side of the tank almost seems to cave inward before twisting outward from the force of the blast. Before the shockwave even has a chance to reach the end of the street, Doc spots a black blur streaking toward the tank like an Ork-sized missile.

Were it anyone else, he would be concerned for their well being, rushing toward an armored mechanical killing machine with little but skin and cloth to protect them. But it isn't someone else. Instead Doc laughs again.

Those poor bastards.

[ Bravo Team ]
{{ 4P DAMAGE! }}

Sinjin's peripheral vision is a mass of gray blurs and angry capillaries as he pounds down the street towards the metallic aggressor. His heart flutters like an angry hummingbird and his veins are liquid fire. This is what he lives for. As he reaches the vehicle, he places one foot on the front treads and vaults upward. The rotation of his body is as graceful as a ballet dancer, the movement tempered by countless hours of intensive training. Engorged, vein-ridden muscles stand out on his quadriceps as he brings his leg around. The tip of the Phalanx combat boot--propelled by unimaginable powers--cavitates the last layer of vehicle armor and bifurcates the bubbling radiator. A salvo of steam erupts around the adept as he withdraws his foot and calmly walks back toward Doc, his silhouette shrouded in a tormented cloud of destruction.

(( Yeah, that just happened. ))

[ Alpha Team ]

The three members of the Alpha team stop mid-advance at the sound of approaching personnel. Val and Max duck into an alleyway and seek refuge behind a stack of empty crates. The glow of dawn seems to irradiate the decimated street, reflecting most brightly in oily pools of tepid water that collect in the larger holes where mortars have struck. A group of four Legion troops strides past the alley, causing Max to withdraw quickly.

The Legion men have a Tir guardsman in tow. The elf's hands are bound behind his back. His visor has been shattered, and there are a number of lacerations and contusions on his defiant face. The limp with which he walks indicates that he was severely beaten.

"This guy is a liability. I say we geek him now."

"Agreed."

A strangled cry escapes the Tir guardsman as his calves are kicked from behind, forcing him into a kneel.

[ Alpha Team ]

All minority groups develop a certain sense of camaraderie about themselves. The thing that blacks, gays, elves, and trolls all have in common is that throughout the course of their histories they have tended to stick together. The solidarity and strength that one finds in like-bodied individuals are invaluable when battling against the ever-raging surge of intolerance, and they are nigh impossible to ignore. The naked truth of it is that a gay man is more likely to come to the aid of another gay man, just as a troll is more likely to come to the aid of another troll.

Seeing the captive elf being dragged and prodded along by the Legion soldiers immediately fills Max with a sense of rage that is unique to the situation-- one that can only be elicited by the sight of a fellow elf being mistreated. He instantaneously thinks back on all the times he's been called a dandelion-eater, and how he was bullied as a child by neighborhood kids. The consideration that this Tir soldier is technically an ally is a very distant secondary consideration for Max.

Overstreet seethes in his battle armor. His muscles tense and his face contorts into a mask of slow-burning hatred. He moves without thinking, and quietly stands from his crouch as the Legion squadron has passed. As he begins to step out from cover, he feels a hand grasp at his right forearm. He turns to see Val, an intense stare boring into the elf's eyes. Max gets a greater grip on his emotions, and crouches back down.

Keeping his weapon ready, Max comms out,

<Tyros-- can you find out what the elf knows? We can't risk breaking cover unless we need to.>

As he finishes the comm transmission, Max looks back out toward the elf being moved forcefully down the road, his face ticking with pain and inner-conflict. After a moment, he averts his gaze and looks away, the shame on his face plain.

[ Alpha Team ]

Tyros, hovering invisible a few inches off the ground mere meters from the Legion squad and their prisoner curls his mouth into a grimace. The troll is anything but blood shy, but the eminent execution of the elf is gut churning. His fingers tighten around his draw sword as he calculates the odds. Too many Legion to kill quickly enough that they couldn't sound the alarm.

Frag! This is the ugly face of war.

Raising his hand (centering), Tyros delves quickly into the elf's mind to find out what he knows about the Tir's troop positions, Legion advances and the Prince's location, defenses and best way to him(mind probe, f3).

Wish I had some mercy for you, chummer...

[ Alpha Team ]

An XM30 assault rifle buries itself in the back of the guardsman's neck guard. The owner of the gun--a Legion rifleman--looks down at his quarry.

"Any last words?"

The elf spits a concoction of blood and saliva on to the Legion soldier's kneecap.

"Yeah, tell your mother I'll see her in hell."

[ Alpha Team ]
Tyros delves into the captive soldier's mind. The mage concentrates for a few moments, eyes shut tight. They snap open at the sound of a rifle report, his mind dizzily rubber-banded to reality. Echoes of the shot ring out for a few city blocks, but reverberate nowhere louder than in Max's ears.

(( PMing results. ))

[ Bravo Team ]

Adams can't stop the laughter that started just before the destruction of the treaded fortress. The fit trails off into a chuckle as he stares at Sinjin's approaching form incredulously.

"My god, man. That was... amazing. If I had a simrig, I would have recorded that, and watched it every day for the rest of my life."

He wipes the tears and grime from his eyes, as one of the arachnae drones looks up at him almost curiously, trying to determine if he was giving some kind of order.

"Ahhh, heh. We should probably look for that Scorpion that was chasing us earlier. We seem to be one short on the headcount of pulverized war machines."

[ Alpha Team ]

Max's eyes go wide as the shot rings out, followed by the muffled crumple of the body to the ground. If only he'd been able to help the Tir elf! Max's free hand wads into a tight fist, and he grimaces in the direction of the soldiers, but remains otherwise hidden.

[ Alpha Team ]

Tyros grimaces as he watches the poor elf crumple to the street, his body falling limply as if it were a marrionette with its strings cut.

<"I know where the prince is hiding. He fortified one of the floors of the hotel but won't last long. Let's move.">

[ Bravo Team ]

Doc steps carefully around the perimeter of the blast area, eyes scanning the smoking abscess for any signs of life. The three light tanks lay in various states of disrepair, overturned or flipped sideways and smashed together. From the street-level vantage, Doc is impressed that his and Sinjin's wily plan was actually brought to fruition. He can't hide a slight smile as he passes over a patch of molten asphalt.

Haywire descends the building she was perched atop stealthily and rejoins the pair. She shakes her head, jerking with silent mirth.

"Did he just kick a tank?"

[ Alpha Team ]

The members of alpha team warily approach the city block containing The Fleur hotel. Max slinks behind the skeleton of a burnt out GMC bulldog, signalling Val to stick close. They can only hope that Tyros is sticking close as the troll is both levitating and invisible. A patchwork of mortar strikes zig-zags across the intersection but doesn't seem to pierce the veil of the Fleur. In fact, the multistory glass building seems largely untouched--a surreal oasis in the wasteland that this sector has become.

A pair of Tir guardsman lay (presumably lifeless) in the street, between the runners and the hotel's atrium-esque lobby.

[ Alpha Team ]

Val shakes his head at the sight of the bodies, trying once again to clear the image (and the slightly irrational guilt) of watching the Tir soldier's execution at the hands of the Legion troops. He forces the scene from his mind and calls forth a voluntary numbness cultivated by the life of a mercenary. He surveys the Felur's spire and its surroundings with a calculating eye, checking for alternative entrances and absorbing personnel positions. He calls up a fetch Agent and sends it out into the public net in search of information on the building's interior.

[ Alpha Team ]

Max studies the apparently dead Tir soldiers for a few moments, the guilt of not having saved the elf still hanging heavily on him. Turning to look at his visible compatriot, he can tell that Val is working in the unseen digital world, and hunkers down with weapon drawn to wait. From the smell in the air, Max can tell that the troll is nearby, but could only guess where.

[ Bravo Team ]

Adams casts a grin at the strangely quiet Adapt, and looks at Haywire.

"Yes. Yes he did."

[Bravo Team]

"Be good and Ill show you what I do with my hands," says Sinjin, mouth splitting into a wide, contagious grin. Haywire harrumphs and shakes her head, hiding her smile behind a gruff Navy scowl. Combat tension bleeds from the trio as they recollect themselves, exchanging small barbs for jibes in the fashion of soldiers from time immemorial.

Despite the overwhelming success of their ambush, Sinjin knows the remaining armor won't be half so easy to deal with. Their advantage of surprise had been keenly spent, but they now found themselves without munitions and little more than teeth and nails to contest the remaining Legion tanks. He keeps a wary eye toward the disabled vehicle, knowing at any moment a very alive and very angry crew may come scrambling out of it like so many agitated wasps.

"We ought to get away from here. They won't fall for this again...We need to locate the remaining armor and get on to our next objective."

Checking his watch, he adds "Wonder how Alpha's getting on..."

[ Bravo Team ]

The plucky threesome pick their way through a cluttered breezeway and emerge at the terminus of a large avenue. A graveyard of abandoned cars--some with doors ajar--litter the immediate view. A few unlucky civilians mark this spot as their final resting place, crumpled unceremoniously in awkward positions. Smoldering cavities in the concrete framework of the adjacent buildings tells a story of artillery fire. Morning sun fills the dark crevices, laying bare the atrocities of war.

Movement catches the team's eye as the final Scorpion emerges from the haze and maneuvers towards them.