StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Author's note: For those of you that have read my previous stuff be warned that I always try something new in my stories. This time it's perspective. Feedback from my test audience ranges from "Awesome" to "AUGH!! My eyes!" so you are warned.

Chapter 1

You wonder how the hell the Marauder got so close before being detected, but decide it doesn’t matter. You were ready this time.

You know you are outgunned, but the earlier abortive encounter has proven decisivly that you are the better mechwarrior and you believe tactics and gunnery may carry the day. You make a point to not allow yourself to believe otherwise as to prevent wetting yourself.

Your ammo count is at 100%, your armor is in tip top shape. That wobbly shoulder has been fixed and should allow your laser to shoot straight.

”This is Blue 5 to unknown Marauder. On the authority of the AFFS you are ordered to power down your mech and surrender.” You give the challenge as a routine. You already know he won’t comply, you are just keeping to the books to keep your wits.

You cannot allow yourself to think about the fact that the Marauder is tougher than any target you have engaged before or it will make you uncertain, hesitant. And in this fight that equals dead as sure as a heavy autocannon burst to the head.

You can’t allow yourself to ponder that you were near the bottom of the part of class that passed back at the mechwarrior academy, you have to focus on the fact that you have achieved a lot since then.

You trigger jumpjets. The dual PPC blasts vaporize a couple of trees that stood next to where you stood instants before. You return fire with the autocannon.
You mistake for an instant the thumping sound as it throws shells downrange in rapid succession for the beating of your own heart, then everything else melts away.

You hit the ground running. Putting some woods between you and him to throw off his aim until you are closer. Despite your screaming survival instincts you know that you need to go into a knife fight to win.

The Marauder is maneuvering, trying to set up a clear fire lane at you. You lay down fire with the laser as ruby lances of energy strike out against the imposing shape of the Marauder. You even score a few hits.

Unfortunately so does it. Your readouts blur for an brief instant as you take a direct hit to the leg. Despite being the entire mech away the PPC effects are felt even up here. Readouts say that a large chunk of armor was lost, but it’s still holding. Nearly immediately afterwards you take a hit to the torso, this time from the large laser as the azure lance strikes your torso. He has the bead on you and without consciously thinking about it you alter course to throw it off. You succeed as the next few shots slash past you taking out some more innocent scenery.

You reflect for the briefest of instances that you aren’t exactly a beacon for environmental preservation given how much damage your fights usually do.
There! That is the moment you were waiting for. He’s aiming much too far ahead. You immediately trigger jumpjets sideways. Directly towards the marauder! Spinning in midair you are firing everything you got even before you are aground. Heat levels rise dangerously. You aren’t looking at the readouts, but you can feel it from the heat in the cockpit.

But it has effect. The Marauder staggers backwards. The lasers gouge deep cuts into the armor and navy blue and green paint, but it is the autocannon that does the real damage. Blowing huge chunks out of the torso you recognize that the material being blown out has changed from armor to internal workings. That has to have done some damage!

However you underestimated how fast he’d be able to react and either in panic or in calculated fashion he’s hitting you with everything he got.
You aren’t quite sure which hit does it. It goes much to fast, but you suddenly find yourself hurtling towards the ground. You barely have time to react to brace your fall enough not to injure yourself.

Something is blinking red. That is never good, but you don’t have time to check it out. You need to get back on your feet yesterday.
It’s tougher than it should be. Left leg feels as if it’s on slippery ice, and you suddenly realize that several foot actuators are badly damaged.

However you successfully stand it up. You are shocked to see the marauder staggering off, moving slowly clearly suffering from overheat. You realize that your fire must have badly damaged the engine shielding and being an energy based mech it is barely combat effective.

Unfortunately so are you. The readouts you didn’t have time to check are worse than you thought. Left leg is barely hanging together. Right arm has taken hits. You’d be surprised if the autocannon could fire without exploding. And the torso armor isn’t looking good either.

You aren’t sure which of you are worst off. But it is the other one retreating. You’ve won the field today. It is a small victory, but you’ll take it.

*********************************************************************

They say you only get one chance. That is false. They may move the goalposts and say you only get one really big chance. That is perhaps true. If you average it out between every citizen in the inner sphere. Hanse Davion for instance certainly got more big chances than Frankie Brown working behind the counter at the corner store, but between them it might average out.

Occasionally however you get your big chance. And the only way to really get something out of it is to blow it to open up better opportunities later on.

Freakishly common however is the idea that you have to do something that isn’t very sensible to get the chance in the first place. When you get a drastically reduced paycheck due to a bad local recession what is the sensible thing to do is to stay at home, be frugal, and take work on the side to stay alive.
You should not together with your mates from work go to a pub to try to drown your sorrows in booze.

Yet that might allow you to meet people who you’d never meet otherwise who’d open doors you couldn’t imagine. Who’d open doors you’d never consider possible. Yes the odds are low, but they are higher than zero and thus they do happen from time to time.

This is one of those stories.

************************************************************************

“Have you seen the size eight actuator wrench?”

The sudden call makes you jerk up and smash your head in the cramped space.

You pull out of the industrialmech innards putting your hand to the forming bruise and jump down the short ladder.

“No I haven’t seen that wrench, I haven’t used that wrench in a week. I’m not even sure if we even have that wrench anymore. Any other questions or should I go back to braining myself inside the mech?” You say with more venom than justified, you realize that after saying it. But you are having a bad day. Well more accurately a bad year. Anthony is being annoying as hell right now and you see no reason to apologize.

“There’s not enough brains in your head for that word to apply.” On another day you’d both have a laugh, but tensions are high, this was certainly not a friendly jibe.

“Guys! Guys! Ease off already!” Fredrick interjects rushing over from his workbench where he was trying to convince a couple of the major computer parts that they weren’t really broken, just lightly ruffled.

You both turn towards the smaller man.

“I know times are tough, but we’re all in the same boat here.”

“Hey this is none of your business.” Anthony states. You nod to agree.

“Can’t we just… Look if you have to blame somebody blame the Snakes and crappies. You know, the people we’re at war with and who wrecked the suns industry?”

In all honesty this isn’t all that logical, but you do find it easy to focus your anger on them instead of your friends next to you.

“Sorry.” You mutter .

“Yeah, same.” Anthony replies.

“Let’s hit the pub after we get our pay today. Enjoy ourselves a bit.” Fredrick suggests.

“Try to hold your liquor this time Freddy. I got a wrench to find” Anthony punches Fredrick lightly then walks away.

“So are we finishing this one today?” Fredrick asks.

“I certainly hope so, but this mech is a horrific patchwork job of jury rigging and wrong parts that’d fit better in a horror holovid.” You state. Imagining in your head a holovid called the night of the living dead mech. Returned from the grave to inflict horrible punishment on the people that abused it so.

“I’d sue the people responsible for gross equipment abuse, but that’s us.” Fredrick retorts

You grunt in affirmation as you climb up the ladder looking at the sad shape of a repeatedly badly repaired industrialmech. The access to the insides of the leg is far too cramped for comfort. Normally you’d be able to remove some panels for better access, but due to all the jury-rigging doing that could do major damage to the patchwork repairs.

If the shop could just wring up some more spares it’d not be a problem, but there’s a major shortage across the board. So you have to do what you can with what you have. You are kind of proud of the sheer level of creativity you and the rest of the techs have had to use. But also ashamed as there are some things that no mech should have to endure and you’ve been crossing that line so often you should get dual citizenship.

You turn on your headlight. It’s not standard issue, but it’s a necessity for this job. As you lean into the dark, narrow claustrophobia inducing space of the mechanical leg. You can barely move, but you make do, you always do.

It reeks of lubricant and coolant, yet despite smelling as if a coolant tank had ruptured it’s uncomfortably hot.

Occasionally, when you get to solve a complex problem with the resources on hand you love your job; this is not one of those times. It’s difficult, dirty and uncomfortable work, but at least you have helped repair this particular mech so many times that you know it inside out.

****************************************************************

Hours later you are changing out of soaked overalls (You’d rather not think about what it’s soaked in). You’ve attempted to take a shower but the water is freezing. You are already in a bad mood when you follow your mates towards the reception to get your paycheck

However even before you can receive yours it’s clear that your anger won’t be that big a thing.

Because everybody else are yelling and it’s with a sinking feeling of dread that you pick up the one marked William Mitchell and read it.
Anthony sums up your feelings about your paycheck nicely.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?!”

“Look. I’m sorry. We’re barely earning enough to keep up with other expenses.” Ned pushes up his glasses. He’s normally rather timid so the fact that he’s standing his ground is a tipoff that he’s as wound up as the rest of the people here

“Don’t give me that business is slow crap. We’ve repaired eight mechs this month.”

“No. You have jury rigged eight mechs. The owners refuse to pay full price when they know it’ll break again any moment. We had to slash prices to keep up. Most businesses are switching to simpler vehicles.”

“Look. Let’s just go hit the town like we planned and worry about this tomorrow when we all have cooler heads okay?” Fredrick again.

“Don’t you start. Enough is enough!”

“I’ve already suggested we enlist. The military can always use skilled techs.” Your suggestion isn’t an empty one. You’ve been giving this serious though the last two months. There can’t be that many differences between a battlemech and an industrialmech can there?

Okay you know there are a lot of differences but given the sort of work you’ve managed to do over the last few months you feel certain you can learn.

“Sending everything and everyone worthwhile to the military is what landed the Suns in that trouble in the first place.” Fredrick counters. He’s always been a bit of an idealist. You suspect he plans to enter politics shortly.

“Well what do you suggest we do? Starve slowly as we run out of work and money?!” You reply back.

Fredrick opens his mouth to retort, then closes it and takes a deep breath.

“We can talk about that later. Let’s just get out of here until we can cool our heads.”

You don’t want to. You really don’t want to, but you can’t live just by what you want. You get yourself under control.

“You’re right.” What you want to do beat Ned to within an inch of his life. You know this is irrational as Ned isn’t at fault here. He’s just an accountant in a bad position and you are certain he wouldn’t dare give you this sort of paycheck without taking similar cuts himself. Ned isn’t a bad sort really. You suspect he is a closet megalomaniac, but it seems to you everybody with power in the inner sphere shares that so you can’t hold that against him.

You join up with Anthony and Fredrick outside.

“This sucks. I don’t think I can afford to take a night on the town.” Anthony remarks.

Fredrick looks unsure as well. This was his idea, but now that he knows just how little money your motley gang has he isn’t so sure anymore.

Neither are you. You had to clear out your savings account to make ends meet. What you just got paid is all the money you have. And it is not enough to get through the month.

You know this. Yet you’ve already made up your mind. You can’t take this shit without a stiff drink. Make that several stiff drinks.

“We’re going to the pub. This is no time to be sober.” You declare and set off at brisk march towards your usual pub.

Your two friends follow after a bit of delay.

The pub itself is only half filled. It’s a weekday and the recession is hitting everybody hard. A twinge of doubt as you know it’ll make a hard month even harder, but you oppress it brutally.

Sitting down at the counter you order a beer. You aren’t too specific on brand as long as it gets you good and drunk.

Your mates take up seats next to you as your drink arrives. Both on the right as there was already somebody on the left.

Now that you got a beer in your hand you finally care enough about your surroundings to take a look at the guy. Sandy blonde, pale skin, wearing some of the weirdest clothes you’ve seen. They look kind of like a uniform, but no uniform you had ever seen before. And given that you used to be a military nut in your teens you should have recognized it.

In fact it looks like bits of pieces from all over the place. The Jacket looks like a periphery nation. The pants could be right out of the Lyran Commonwealth, the t-shirt underneath the open jacket looks FedSun.

This guy may be a fighter but he’s not proper military. The real question is what is any sort of fighting type doing here?
He notices your scrutiny.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a merc before?” Well at least that is what you think he says. Given how he slurs it so you are more filling in the bits and pieces yourself. His breath smells like a week old brewery. He’s well and truly drunk. And it’s only 6 pm.

“Not really no. This isn’t exactly a hotbed of conflict.” You retort just before you start chugging back your drink. You aren’t really sure you believe him. He is a wannabe mercenary sure, but the real deal?

“What’d he say?” Anthony asks having been too far away.

“He claims to be a merc.”

“Schlaim… Claim to be ish right. Can’t be a merc when you are a dead man walking.”

It sounds like he has an even worse day than you. And only now do you take in his posture and expression. Slumped down, staring into his drink with an almost dead expression on his face. Defeated is the only way to put it.

“What do you mean?” You ask curiosity biting at your heels and begging you to find out more. Perhaps he is the real deal after all?
“Not drunk enough to recount it yet. Bartender! More drinks! Give some to everyone! Might as well make my funeral wake a good one!” He puts up the sort of
cheer you find on people who think it has hit rock bottom so at least it can’t get any worse. May as well enjoy what you have.

A new tankard of beer is put down in front of you and you’ve barely gone halfway on the first.

He may be a madman or a phony, but he'll help you take it easy on your own wallet, which has been crying out for relief from your horrible abuse of it.
You’ve found another drinking buddy for the night.

****************************************************************************

The evening drags on into night. You, Anthony, Fredrick, a few others you have no idea who are and the wannabe merc are engaged in a drinking song, you cannot remember the words, the tune, or the fact that you are a horrible singer, but you try to make up for it with enthusiasm. And if you weren’t drunk you’d reflect that with four people singing an already bad drinking song like that it has to be against the Ares convention somehow.

You haven’t paid a penny since the first drink, but you are drunker than you can ever remember having been. Granted right now you have trouble remembering which hand is the right hand so that isn’t exactly a reliable piece of information.
Suddenly, your new friend grabs you by the shoulder.

“Never get involved in mechs kid. It never turns out well. Mechs are the reason I’m going to die. There’s nowhere left to run.” What shocks you isn’t as much the word as the fact that they aren’t slurred. His mood has done a 180.

“Huh?” You get out.

“I took a mech from a defeated enemy, now I’m paying for it as he had money, a lot of money and he wants revenge. My teammates have already paid the price.”

He pauses for a moment.

“Bartender! More drink!” He calls out not giving you time to dwell on his words.
More drinks pass. You have lost all count of time, but there’s a nagging feeling you should perhaps get out of bed soon to get ready for work, it can’t be that late can it?

“I wish I could just be left in peace. I’ve had enough action. That mech has become a millstone around my neck. Hey that rhymed.”

“I wouldn’t mind a mech.” You say, probably sounds a lot more slurred to the world than it does to you.”

“You’d regret it. I assure you that.” Then inexplicably he brightens.

“Maybe they’ll leave me alone if I don’t have a mech. Do you still want it kid?”

“Uh. Sure.” You aren’t really quite sure what he means. Nobody would just give away a mech right? You can use the spare parts though. Due to your drunken state you don’t realize until much later that referring to just a mech without prefix means something totally different to a mercenary than it does to an industrialmech repairman.

“Here... Come with me kid and we’ll handle it...”

**************************************************************

You wake up with a headache that feels like a 100 ton mech doing a rythmic tap-dance on your head. You open your eyes slowly. You close them again, and you open them again. Then you cast one glance at the clock on the wall.

Oh hell.

OH HELL!

You leap out of bed throw on some clothes. No time for shower or breakfast. At this rate you are lucky if you get to work before the lunch break.
Hopefully you won’t even be fired.

Practically leaping down the stairs you hit the street. Thankfully you do live within walking distance of the shop. Unfortunately all this sudden exertion is not
good for your headache. It feels like they are doing demolitions work in your head when you finally get there.

However as you enter the door you find Ned.

“William. I thought you had already heard when you didn’t show up.”

“Heard what?”

“We’re being shut down. Too many bad debts. I had hoped that by giving everyone some but not the full what we owe it’d placate them long enough to get us back on our legs, but that didn’t happen.”

“Ah.” That’s all you can say. It seems Ned has with his accounting been walking a far worse tightrope than you ever imagined.

“For what it’s worth I’m sorry. I did what I could.”

“Yeah you did. Only the universe isn’t very keen on us little people.” You walk away from him feeling lost for lack of better word. You have no idea what to do. In the general mill around of the shop you find Anthony and Fredrick.

“Well look who finally showed up. Given how much you drank yesterday I was half expecting to find you in coma at the hospital for alcohol poisoning.” Anthony is keeping a forced cheer.

“Couldn’t. Hospital bill would be too stiff.”

“Where’d you go anyway? You disappeared with that guy who bought us all the drinks.”

You think back, but the images you remember don’t make any sense.

“I’m not quite sure. He wanted to give me a mech, but I can’t remember any detail of it.” You reach into the pocket. There’s a scribbled note with an address, a storage facility number and what seems like a password. It is wrapped around a key. You scrutinize it, but it looks like a regular door key.

“Well it’s not like we have anything better to do. Why don’t we go take a look?” Fredrick comments.

***************************************************************

The address turns out to be the space port. You have to show ID to be let in but they accept yours. You are getting a suspicion just what you are going to find but that seems unbelievable.

The storage facility is next to the area reserved for military use. The key opens a small door next to the main door which looks large enough to walk a battlemech through.

You haven’t dared to think that word before now.

But despite on some level expecting it your jaw still drops when you come face to foot with your new piece of property.

It’s bigger than an industrialmech. That is the first thing you note. Over ten meters tall, and fatter looking due to the armor. It looks sort of like a giant toy soldier with weird gas mask like face and a helmet like cowl on top.

It has no hands, no tools, all industrialmechs have something to grip with, even if it’s just a hoist or the combine parts that take the crop in.

What it has are two gun barrels, one in each arm, one which has an obvious casings port. You can’t see them from this angle but you know it has jumpjets.

“Whoa.” Fredrick is overcome

“That’s... Okay that is worth millions. Sell that one and you can live like a king for the rest of your days.” You are techboys. You tend to think in terms of repair and value, not use. Anthony’s statement reflects that.

“You are going to sell it right?” Fredrick however has always been better at understanding people. He has guessed what goes through your head.
Of course you recognize it. What Federated Suns boy that hasn’t lived under a rock wouldn’t?

This is an Enforcer, a 50 ton medium battlemech that is by many considered the signatory Federated Suns mech.

You make another decision part of you feels certain is the wrong decision, but it’s worked out well so far.

“No. I don’t think I will.”

End prologue.

It's the 'You' all over the place that really kills me, as in "AUGH!! My eyes!"

Hell, I didn't even notice the fic being written in the second person over on SB. I blame Jbern.

*mwhahahahhahahaahhaha*
An Enforcer can be a pretty good mech, although my mediums tended towards P-Hawks and Shad-Hawks. Still... I'd have lit up the Maruader's retreating backside with a final "F-YOU" shot, had I been piloting.

That your protagonist has a 50tonner gives me hope for this fic. I'm really tired of people putting their heroes in 80+ tonners or Timber Wolfs. I have a soft spot for anything under 40 tonnes, and the 55t Bushwacker. Past that, and I loose intrest in the mechs as being without character (in my opinion).

As for the 2nd Person writing, I don't mind.

I've got a fondness for medium mechs, but I came into the game after the unseens were long gone. I've used the Marauder a couple of times in megamek and that's honestly it. No Phoenix Hawk for me.

For me the Enforcer is THE Medium of choice that I always include in my forces if I have the option. It has a tendency to get shot up but that is only because everyone I play with considers it as effective as I do.

And to answer an unasked question no he won't ever trade up during this story.

It'd ruin the point. I want a story on a whole different scale than what I've usually found on BT. Scale dialled way back. Trade epicness for detail. And the character's ride is his partner of sorts. Like how those family mechs stay in the family for centuries occasionally.

The perspective was an experiment that if I pull it off right I hope will improve immersion without having to make it a reader insertion situation (With a blank slate character usually, something I hope to avoid).

So far responses have been edging surprisingly far towards the extremes. Makes me wonder if there's some fundamental divide in how people think to whether they see it like that or not. I mean it's worked for me in the past hence why I bothered to try it.

Overall more testing is required before I can say if this is workable or not.

Had this ready to go yesterday as I was struggling with title. Next part won't be as soon due to an annoying cold.

Chapter 2

“You are joking right?” Fredrick asks disbelieving.

“Oh you’ll go merc? Like the Wolf Dragoons” Anthony interjects eagerly. He was always a wolf dragoon fanboy. You remember the saucy Natasha Kerensky posters he shared you with in grade school. Shame your mother, may she rest in peace, burned them. You suspect she had a pyromaniac streak.

“No. I got a proper mech, but I can’t use it. I need training. I don’t have any money. So there’s only one way to get it. Besides I’m a patriot.”

“Oh no...” Fredrick mutters. You ignore him.

**********************************************************

”Hi. Where do I sign up if I want to become a mechwarrior?” You know this comes off as ignorant overeager schoolboy, that is the entire point. Your mates are behind you and you imagine they are fighting back laughter

The enlisting officer looks at you with a broad smile intended to look kind and fatherly, but to you looks more like that of a shark.

“Look kid. You don’t just sign up to drive mechs. There is a whole battery of tests for it, and we don’t have the facilities to do that here and if you want to take those tests you have to pay for them yourself. Why don’t you take infantry instead?”

You know about that. You know of people who save their entire life for the trip and test necessary, then come back defeated and broke. That was what broke your childhood dream of being a mechwarrior (All kids have those. No exceptions). Now that you have the means to make that happen they are back in force. Visions of glory and victory dance behind your eyes. In your increasingly wild and implausible fantasies you slaughter Snake mechs by the hundreds and singlehandedly win the succession wars. Oh and score with Natasha Kerensky, that became a mandatory addition to the daydreams as soon as you started looking at girls.

“Well I’d rather drive mechs. What if I use my own mech? Would that make it easier to become a mechwarrior?” You are loving this, you know you shouldn’t, but even so you do.

Exasperation shows on his face. He reigns it in. His job is to lure the kids in to the less glamorous jobs, logistics and infantry chief among them.

“There is a major difference between an industrial mech and a battlemech. Both in performance and in controls.” You know of plenty a stupid kid who has tried to pass an industrial mech for a battlemech.

“What about an Enforcer 50 ton medium Battlemech with full ammunition load?” You say with a shit eating grin that is so big it feels like it threatens to tear your face in half.

His mouth drops open, then closes, then opens again like a fish.

“You are serious.” He says finally.

“Yep. I got it outside on a borrowed flatbed truck if you want to inspect it. It’s the real deal.”

“Okay how the hell did you get a battlemech.”

“I’d tell you, but I’m not sure I believe it myself. Let’s just say it involves a dude at the bar and a whole lot of drinking.”

He dropped the mask. In his place was a man of keen intelligence who had been placed in a job that had gradually dulled his intellect, but it was still there.

“All right. Let’s be square here. You have acquired a mech somehow, legal or illegal means is irrelevant. Okay fine. The Suns can always need an extra mech, but when you try to sign up with a mech it’s different. All too often somebody who really isn’t suited for warfare ends up getting onto the front lines and dying against foes who know what they are doing, costing us both the stupid kid, which isn’t too big a loss, and all too often the mech which is a big loss. That is usually a young noble scion who was not in the line of the succession wherever he was from. And they have a major leg up on you as they have been around mechs for most their life. You take this path and you will most likely end up dead in a battlefield you’ve never heard of. You should sell the mech to the state. You’ll get a good price.”

“My friends already suggested that, but my mind is made up. I want to become a mechwarrior.”

“It will be supremely difficult. And you will be tied to Armed forces of the Federated Suns service for an extended period afterwards should you succeed if you can’t pay your tuition out of own pocket.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that.” You say with the sureness of those who really aren’t aware of that.

“Well. I can’t stop you then. Welcome to the AFFS.” He holds out his hand to shake. You take it.

“Technically you aren’t enlisting as much as applying to the academy but it’s essentially pre-approved when you have a mech. Fill out the paperwork then get back here. Are you two there here for moral support or for an actual reason?”

“We’d like to sign up for technical section. We’re experienced industrialmech repair crew.” Fredrick states. They had mulled over it and realized

“Let me guess. You’d prefer to be assigned to the same station he is?” He gestures to you.

“Yeah. We’re a team. We’d prefer to keep working together.”

He seems to be musing over it. “Technically we aren’t supposed to send in groups that enlist to the same place, but given that it’s logistics the reasons why not doesn’t apply. I may get overridden on this, but I’ll send my recommendation for that. At least that way we may end up getting three new techs. And we need every one we can muster to keep the battlemechs going.”

You feel insulted that he seems to have no faith in your ability to succeed. You know you can.

******************************************************************

Third year at the academy is the worst strain you’ve ever been under. The workload is immense, your support is limited. This is an environment you were never prepared to really handle. Higher education was near impossible to get back home, and as times got lean you started working part time in the repair shop while still in school to learn the trade starting full time the moment you finished school.

Thankfully Flitvelt academy is known as a people’s academy for a reason. It’s more accessible for the people not from worlds with first rate education. But even so the workload is heavy enough that you might consider getting a dropship to lift it.

You are passing. Barely, you was rather surprised when you found out that owning a mech gave a slight grade boost. Not much, but enough to take you up into passing territory. You just hope you don’t run into metaphorical border guards.

You put down the books. You can’t take more theoretical stuff tonight.

You pick out some dirty bluish overalls and put them on. Even academy students need to learn the dirty side of mechs. Whistling quietly you walk down to the mech hangar. One perk of owning your own mech is that for a lot of the practical exercises you get to use it instead. You still haven’t named your mech, but you figure that can be handled in due time.

A pair of familiar faces are already working on it.

“Hey Willy. Come to join us lowly techs in the grease?” Anthony asks in jest. Fredrick is muttering something inaudible while looking into the toolbox for some specific elusive tool. It is probably the size eight actuator wrench. That one tends to obey different rules of time and space than other tools.

“I couldn’t stand the books for one more moment. I had to go do some real work.” You retort moving over to the ladder up to the exposed innards

“We already finished your mech.” Anthony calls out.

“Oh. Er... You are sure you didn’t miss anything?” You ask hopefully.

“We always pay extra attention to your mech so yeah I’m sure.”

“Oh. Oh well. Nevermind.”

“You can help out with that Chameleon if you’d like to though.” Anthony says.

“Yeah I’d appreciate it. It doesn’t hurt to get some more training in mech maintenance.”

That is only halfway a lie. You can repair your enforcer in your sleep now, but a battlemech is a far cry from an industrial mech. You really aren’t qualified to work on other types of battlemech. You’ve been tinkering with hardware as long as you can remember, and mechwarrior or not, that is not a habit you intend to break.

You spend several hours with your friends figuring out how to convince a suicidal heatsink that there is so much to live for. Mostly by poking it until it realizes you won’t let it die in peace.

Life is manageable.

**************************************************************************

“Red lance move out!” Your lance leader calls out over the radio. Archer something is his name, you don’t really like the guy, but you can work with him. You check your ammo counter yet again. You still have full ammunition just like you did twenty seconds ago.

“Red 3 take point.” Aren’t you red 3? You check your own status board. Yes indeed.

“Affirmative Red 1, moving now.” For this exercise the one of the two chameleons on your team have disabled jumpjets. The locust pretending to be a Commando doesn’t have jumpjets either. The one with jumpjets pretends to be a Dervish, making you the only jumper kitted for close action.

Your finger hovers over the launch sensor probe button, but pulls back. You launch them when you get orders. Not before.

As if on cue the airborne drone is launched from Archer’s mech and scoots upwards beyond effective weapons range.

Your sensor screen updates with four contacts.

“Red 4 give me a closer look. Red 2 move to high ground. Red 3 follow Red 4 and back him up.”

You join the chorus of affirmatives as you take your position. It is a fairly traditional deployment, but something nags you: Why can’t you pick up any aerial drones from their side?

“Scout element! Fall back now!” You trigger jumpjets instinctively. It saves you from the Cyclops that rams through the woods barreling straight at you, well at least your readouts claim that it is a Cyclops. The Commando opens up with dummy missiles barely scratching it. The return fire covers the commando in blue as the simulacrum heavy autocannon hits with what can only be called a shit-ton of paint

“Red 4 is destroyed. Withdraw from the battlefield.” The voice of the referee calls out.

Red 4 swears and is suddenly cut off as he’s removed from the net. Johnson never took well to failure, though honestly you couldn’t see any way to survive that one.

You have bigger problems. Albeit you aren’t taking it as serious as you probably should. You might be scared shitless if that really was a 90 ton battlemech bearing down on you, but it’s hard to take a mockup entirely seriously when it looks so puny.

The LRM 15 dummy ammo misses you barely as you land on a ledge above Blue Leader backing away. You don’t know who Blue leader is, but you get the feeling you should try to find out later. Your lance has gone from parity to outnumbered in seconds.

“Red 3 to Red Leader. This target is too heavy for me to handle. I need some backup here.”

“Hang on Red 3. Help is on the way.”

About fifteen missiles, give or take, cover the Cyclops in a cloud of paint pigments as low power marker PPC bolts impact on it. Red 1’s Battlemaster has taken the field.

One of the senior instructors owns it. He’s decreed that top scoring students get to borrow it for excercises.

It is certainly an imposing sight and you are really glad it’s on your side.

Marker lasers make an impressive sight dueling with the heavy duty autocannon even if the autocannon is far from the real deal.

You stare transfixed for a moment.

“Red 2 to any Red unit. I’m being harassed by a Centurion. Need backup now.” Michael is the only one in the lance you are on first name basis with. He is an okay guy despite being the son of some baron somewhere. In your experience the ones at the bottom of one ladder of society tend to be extra disdainful of the ones on the ladder below. Michael, or Mike as he prefers to be called is an exception who thinks that if you got something to contribute you should.

You reason that Archer can take care of himself. He has a battlemaster after all. And it’s more important to preserve your more vulnerable mech assets. Plus you think Mike will need the help more. Archer has that Battlemaster right now for a reason.

“Red 3 responding. I’m on my way.” You spin your mech around and leave it to the real titans of the field to slug it out.

The Dervish Wannabe is evading as best it can as the Centurion slowly hammers it down with sustained missile and autocannon fire.

The Centurion is an actual centurion. The other design no federated suns boy would never mistake. You fire off a shot from your main laser which misses and if it had been fully charged would have blasted a tree to splinters. The Centurion pilot is good, better than you it has to be said. He spins around almost before the laser fires and lays down a barrage from his autocannon that impact on your torso delivering a fair amount of paint. You trigger jumpjets to get out of his line of fire. Your mate in the simulated dervish goes back to laying down simulated fire against a distant target you can’t see from here. And frankly you don’t have time to care.

You do reflect that this guy’s piloting is impressive and you’ll have to offer him a consolation drink later after you beat him.

The Centurion pilot is backing away to get optimum missile range and then lets loose. You take more hits in the process and your return fire goes wild.

You close the range banking on him being lighter armed close in.

You used to think Centurions were slow and ungainly. No more as this guy pushes his beyond what you can push your Enforcer to without jumpjets. His movements are quick and precise throwing off your aim more often than not, while scoring hits in return.

You don’t know how much more you can take, but you aren’t out of the game yet. You decide to get closer. You use an approach usually intended for when you intend to try melee attacks. The Centurion seems to hesitate. He knows melee attacks are against the rules as well as you do and he wonders if you plan to cheat.

You don’t. It was simply a convenient way of getting right up in his face. The fire marks him quite thoroughly but he still stands according to your sensors not that badly damaged. As he turns moves to counterattack you use jumpjets to move aside.

You keep exchanging fire like this gradually depleting simulated armor and ammunition but neither acquiring the upper hand.

It’s a grim slugging match but you feel certain you’ll last just longer than him as you jump over him attempting to gain an edge while he spins on one foot to counter you. You are both blazing away with simulated weapons with your mechs now almost switched colors completely due to the amount of paint autocannon rounds thrown at one another. You smile grimly certain that you’ll win this one.

Then it happens.

Sensors read a massive impact from behind. Center torso section flashes red, all weapons go offline. What? No!

“Red 3. You are destroyed. Withdraw from the battlefield.”

Somehow you managed to miss a Cyclops (Well Chameleon pretending to be a cyclops) sneaking up on you and got hit with a full heavy autocannon barrage to your rear blowing through it and destroying your mech.

This battle is over. You’ve lost. You died during the final practical exam. Thankfully you have already passed the theoretical exam, though it was a close run thing.

You and the rest of the trainees participating in this exam are put on uncomfortable chairs waiting for your grade. You suspect they are uncomfortable because they are punishment for giving the instructors some actual work to do.

Archer is angry, and occasionally throws glances at you. You’ve figured out that he wants to blame you for his defeat as you weren’t there to cover him, but he knows that you had a valid reason in backing up another teammate so he can’t blame you. He decides to just in general be annoyed.

Johnson is jittery. Understandable given that his showing was the worst. Died to the first shot fired in the engagement. Still he’s solid theoretically and he’s done well enough in earlier exercises to pass, probably.

Mike is satisfied. He died, but he was the only one in your lance to score a kill. Turns out he successfully finished off your opponent after you softened him up. He’s made a point of thanking you for that.

You aren’t very confident yourself. No kills, you died because a 90 ton assault mech managed to sneak right up on you. That isn’t very impressive, and not so much academic score to fall back on as the rest of your lance. This could very well be the end of your mechwarrior dreams.

You shuffle as you go through the door towards the instructors when it’s your turn to get your grade.

“Ah Cadet Mitchell. Have a seat please.” Another uncomfortable chair, you wonder what sadist makes these.

There are three instructors with serious expressions and notepads. They fire off questions and expect answers so fast that it becomes a blur where you cannot keep track of who asks what through it. You are so nervous that you have stopped noticing it, but even so you cannot remember who is who from moment to moment. You are really glad they never ask you to repeat their names.

“Early battle you were ordered to cover a scout. Do you see any way you could have performed that job better.”

“I could have gone to higher ground. With my longer weapons range I could have better covered the commando. With a bit of luck I might even have spotted the Cyclops.” Archer had asked why the hell you didn’t do that.

“Perhaps, but it’d expose you to return fire that is heavier than what you can dish out. And it’s not your job to spot for the scout. Overall that part of the battle was a wash no matter what you did. Your mech simply isn’t fast enough to support a commando and your lance leader made a serious mistake ordering it. We cannot fault you for not protesting it in the middle of the battle. You fulfilled your orders to the best of your ability even if they were the wrong orders. Next question, after your lance leader engaged why didn’t you support him?”

“Because I thought he had it under control. I felt Red 2 needed the help more.”

“Despite the fact that there was a mech unaccounted for?”

“Yes despite that. From my point of view there were two mechs accounted for and I though a battlemaster could handle a surprise long enough for me to finish up there.”

“But you were wrong.”

“Yes sir. I underestimated the Centurion, but that could have become a problem supporting Red leader as well.”

“It could. We’ll accept your judgment in this case.”

This actually doesn’t sound that bad. You start to get a spark of hope.

“What about the Centurion you engaged. What could you have done better?”

“I really don’t see anything. I was outgunned farther out and only that close in did I have a firepower edge and my greater maneuverability would work best there.”

“I see. What if I told you that you were only a few moments away from dying anyway when you fell? The damage inflicted during it was wholly in his favor.”

“Oh.”

“What you should have done in that case was hang back trying to keep it occupied without taking too much damage until Red 2 could have supported you. Together you could have taken it down through weigh of firepower. Instead you entered into a straight up slugging match where even if you won you’d have taken severe damage. What do you have to say to that?” The atmosphere is unmistakable. If you answer wrong here you are out.

The fear of failure focuses your mind and you realize that the only way out of this is with humility. If you sound like a glory hound who will waste your mech for a shot at victory they’ll throw you out of the academy most likely.

“Honestly I didn’t think I could evade him. He was too good a gunner so he’d rapidly wear me down. And if I moved out of his engagement zone he’d engage Red 2 again. For me the only viable option looked like getting him out of action fast and that was the only way I saw then and there or in an extended fight my defeat was assured.”

They ease back.

“While I think that assessment is wrong the battlefield is a chaotic place and an immediate decision now is better than a perfect decision too late. If you ever encounter such a situation in the future remember to look for ways to exploit terrain to gain an edge. That might make all the difference.”

Did that in the future mean what you think it does?

“Please stand.” You do. As do they.

“Overall you show a reasonable level of skill and competence. There are a lot of areas where you are dangerously weak but you are within passing levels. There will be a formal graduation later this week, but for now I can only say Congratulations Mechwarrior.” All three salutes you.

You return it feeling numb with shock.

Within you elation, disappointment, anger, joy, and more all fight for dominance, but pride wins out.

You are now Subaltern William Mitchell of the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns.

Now the real adventure begins.

*End chapter 2*

YES! WE PASSED!!!

But I don't think Archer did, which might bite us in the ass later on

Rogue 11! You're alive!

I don't suppose you can repost that X-com/pirate fic you did? I can't seem to find it anymore.

I'll see what I can do. I've switched PC since then but I'm pretty sure I backed it up on an USB pen somewhere. Will see about finding it. The short story or the longer unfinished story it inspired?

Also unfortunately part three of this story won't be up anytime soon. I have the worst case of flu I've had in my entire life (I have slight suspicion that it's swine flu) and until my constant headache and inability to focus dies off I'm not exactly good at writing (Or studying for that matter which has slightly higher priority).

I too am battling what appears to be the flu. I won't ask you to hurry and write since you feel at last as bad as I do right now, but I do want to see more of this fic in the future!