File: Black Company Quest Cover.jpg (396.2 KB)
“The Krieger Corp is the life for me,
A gun, bed and funeral for free.
That’s my lot in the Black Company.”
It took the Earth 10 long years to die. Like every planet afflicted by the pervasive sentient plague that swept the galaxy at the turn of the 23rd century, aptly named The Rot, Earth’s demise was slow and agonising at first then violent and sudden by the end. The seas boiled and the air turned to ash in the wake of the continent-shattering orbital bombardments that cleansed her and a hundred other worlds.
20 years later, the dust of the Purification Wars has settled and the surviving xenos empires have finished carving up the remaining colonies of those less fortunate races between them, including those few left from Earth’s initial phase of expansion. Just rewards for the victorious alien’s part in saving the galaxy. The surviving human population, once many billions, now numbers in the mere millions. An entire race of refugees, vagrants and backwater outcasts begging, stealing and labouring as second-class citizens, servants or slaves under uncaring alien masters.
A lifetime of backbreaking work for stale recycled oxygen units and a handful of credits is the best fate most humans can hope for. Little wonder then that the violent but lucrative life of a mercenary holds such appeal. As the novelty of peace wears off and the rival alien nations rattle their sabres once more, human mercenaries are in high demand for their crude effectiveness and affordable prices.
And of all the human mercenary firms, there are none so infamous and so highly sought after as the services of the Black Company…
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Twitter: https://twitter.com/BlackCompany666
/qst/ Archive: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=2230AD
2230AD Annal Entries: https://pastebin.com/zBic3fPQ [Updated!]
Recorded Xenos Species: https://pastebin.com/vdG01RzG
The Last Human Colonies: https://pastebin.com/VA3nHbTm
Advanced Firefight Rules: https://pastebin.com/NATmyFSw
Showing all 74 replies.
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File: SGT 'Snake Eyes' Natalya 3.png (654.1 KB)
THE STORY THUS FAR
You are Sergeant ‘Snake Eyes’ Natalya of the Black Company, and you are a survivor. From the tender age of too-young-to-really-remember you have fought, clawed and killed your way to the top of a very nasty food chain on the hostile jungle moon of Clayton’s Cradle. Lucky enough to escape the dying gasps of Earth, but like many others unlucky enough to find themselves stranded on the moon that is the deadly jungle world called Clayton’s Cradle, your family lasted only a few scant months before leaving you all alone in the merciless Green.
Clayton’s Cradle gives no second chances to the unwary and no leeway to the hesitant. Be it deadly predators large or small, plantlife toxic or carnivorous, diseases wasting or virulent, its small population are each hardened through experience and boosted with vital genemods stretching the limit of what a biological human can achieve, or indeed what constitutes a biological human.
Joining the Black Company was a way off that deadly rock, a well paying one that at least saw Snake Eyes serving alongside fellow humans instead of being drafted into the alien armies of the Savis Legions and their Cradler Auxiliaries. Achieving the rank of Sergeant in the 77th Krieger Platoon wasn’t easy, it took some gusty moves and daring choices on your part to make it. That and supressing a crippling gambling addiction long enough to afford the basic gear.
Now you’ve wound up as the primary babysitter, feared leader and beloved chef (beloved, yes!) of one of the most lethally eclectic band of misfits the universe has ever seen. Ex-gang members,ex-human Republic army regulars/deserters, ex-Alien Fed enforcers, ex-bartender/part-time-model, ex-miners, ex-slaves, ex-pirates, current convicts, current killer-bots animated by highly illegal AI, current alien musical cabbages good with surgery tools. If you name it, then it’s probably in your squad, or at least in the wider platoon, and even-odds that whatever it is also has an outstanding warrant out for its arrest somewhere in the galaxy. And all of them, every man and woman and genderless being among them, each are dumb enough to gamble on getting shot out of a ship in high orbit into a hostile warzone and surviving long enough to collect their paycheque.
They’re your pack. Your new family in this fragged up world where violence is one of the few respectable professions left to a human. And right now, they’re not making it very easy for you to keep them alive.
[1/2 Recap]
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File: Royal Savis Empire_.png (518.9 KB)
[2/2 Recap]
Eight months. Eight long, blood-stained months of constant guerilla warfare in the equatorial jungles of Dis. The rag-tag band of escaped slaves, trained and equipped by the unusually effective ‘pirates’ from off-world, has by now transformed into a formidable force capable of giving the Savis Legion more than one bloody nose before its inevitable defeat.
And the defeat of the rebels is inevitable. The Savis loom over them with a powerful capital-class ship in orbit, two or even three titans thundering planetside, and enough Legionaries to conquer a Federation core world. A significant portion of the Royal Savis Empire has mobilized to suppress this rebellion, which was the plan all along, and a bunch of slaves working with hand-me-down firearms and a dream aren’t walking away from this. Which is exactly why the Black Company officer cadres are executing their exit plan.
There’s also one more, vastly more urgent problem. The Savis Empire has experts in Jungle warfare of their own, recruited from Snake Eyes very own homeworld of Clayton’s Cradle to flesh out the Legion’s growing human auxiliaries from the scant colonies picked off the rotting corpse of the form Earth Republics. They’ve already killed one member of the Vinehound squad, Trooper Husk, and it’s looking unlikely that they’ll stop there.
Matched with an equally deadly predator in familiar surrounds, Snake Eyes finds herself returning to her primal roots. Only one pack is walking firefight in the dark intact, and Sergeant ‘Snake Eyes’ Natalya does plan on carrying anymore of her comrades camcords to add to the Archive when this is all over, even if she gets herself killed protecting them in the process.
An outcome that is looking far more likely with every new bullet wound.
=================================================
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>>6420860
It should also read:
>Sergeant ‘Snake Eyes’ Natalya doesn't plan on carrying anymore of her comrades camcords to add to the Archive
Unless of course you're implying we want our squadmates dead.
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File: Belcossan Spring Unity.png (656.6 KB)
+++XENO QUOTE OF THE DAY+++
>SELECTED BELCOSSAN
“While the cultural significance of the music and works of art in this new generation of Belcossans is fascinating to the Quexi philosophers, my colleagues from Coryx are more interested in the very real biological effect that the massive losses in Belcossan population seem to have resulted in the remaining population.
It is unclear whether this ‘Thorn’ sub-population is indeed a separate breed, or an existing self-defence mechanism attempting to react to the shared trauma. The changes the physiology are observable, with darker coloured hues to their extremities, hardening of the surface areas, and, if the latest survery estimates on the steadily are accurate, likely infertile. Even a modest estimate of 15 to 25,000 of these ‘Thorn’ specimens present in the general population already shows a sizeable fraction of the already dwindling population.
The board formally moves for additional funding for the dissection of suitable expired subjects, and that it be reviewed by the sub-committee with a Class-Beta priority due to the risk of expiry in the proposed subject population at large.”
- Felic-Xenodemographics-Doctorate, lead researcher of the Coryx-Quexi Outreach Institute
28th Cycle February 2231AD (three months ago) – Calypso Waystation – Former Earth Republics Space[/b]
“Sergeant. Corporal. A pleasure doing business with you.” Cai Yichen’s grin was reflected in his gaudy gold-plated glasses. “As always.”
Thorn didn't have the greatest eye for human fashion, but in his estimation the gangleader’s white suit was only the second most offensive thing about his outfit, it took all kinds of arrogant to smoke cigars on a space station of all places. Not that Thorn-of-Ebony cared, not while keeping his eye on the submachine gun strapped across the chest of Cai’s henchman. Thorn-of-Ebony kept his tendril on the pistol, even after Cai’s man had stepped back from the cargo hauler holding their end of the trade.
“It’s all there.” Thorn’s tendril eased slightly at the sound of his partner’s grudging acknowledgement.
It didn’t escape him that Cortez hadn’t corrected the Cai’s remark on their ranks. It was just Cortez these days, and just Thorn. They hadn’t been ranking members of the Three Pines Planetary Reserve for a long while now. And if one was honest, they’d stopped being soldiers even before that, long before they had finally ditched their ragged uniforms.
“Glad to hear you so pleased with the merchandise. Anything we can do to help out the Republic Resurgent.” Another puff of smoke. “That is what your outfit is calling yourself these days, right?”
[1/3]
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File: A dying race.jpg (72.5 KB)
Cortez didn’t rise to the bait, and Thorn didn’t blame him. Cai’s grin was only slightly ruined by the knife scar trickling out from one side of his jaw, the proud markings of the Asiatic numbers in a triangle displayed openly on his chest. So what if this human gang member knew they were deserters? All the same, Thorn felt that sickly, corrosive sap pulse down to his very heartwood. The kind that left him in a cold rage that could last for days if he didn’t watch it.
That burning sap didn’t leak away, even as the back-and-forth mutterings concluded and the gang members departed for the main station hall.
“That Cai fucker give me the creeps.” Cortez spat. “But it’s not worth crossing them. They were well dug here on Calypso Station even before… well, you know.”
Thorn-of-Ebony was quiet, still struggling with the burning sap. More and more it was like this, but it was all he had to get through the cycle. Ever since he had started calling himself ‘he’. The deep sorrow of the slow twilight of his species welled up like a floodwater breaking over the embankment, as it did in the Saga of the Sundered Root. He tried, and failed, to capture a shred of his agony in one of the Great Belcossan Epic’s more obscure passages.
“Mrrrrmm Akht.
Brrrrmm Akht.”
“Thorn…” Cortez turned an eye, his good eye, at his old war comrade. He’d stopped telling his Belcossan partner that he didn’t understand a word of these old Belcy tunes… but honestly that wasn’t true. The rage, the frustration, the spite… He got the gist. Voidmother knows it was a familiar enough feeling.
“Come on. Let’s pack this up and get going.” Cortez looked at the cargo hauler forlornly. There’s wasn’t really a reason to rush, even with a crate of illegal firearms just sitting around this was one of the areas on Calypso that station enforcers didn’t patrol by agreement. Still, Cortez looked uneasy. “Stims for guns. Guns for creds. Creds for more stims. You wanna know why that Triad motherfucker pisses me off?”
Thorn remained silent, he knew there was little point reverting to a tune telling Cortez to shut up.
“It’s ‘cos I can’t tell the fucking difference between his kind and ours anymore.” Thorn nodded, a rather human expression he had picked up, even if he didn’t like all to many of their songs. It mattered little, given how worked up Cortez was at this point. “You’ve got slaves taking on the Savis empire with fucking pickaxes while our bosses play at smugglers. Even those voiddamn Black Company mercs have done more for our home than our people…”
In his phloem Thorn-of-Ebony knew that Three Pines was dying. That the “Republic Resurgent”s claims of plans to reclaim the planet as sovereign Earth Republics territory was not only doomed, but probably futile even if they did win. But at least the humans were doing something.
[2/3]
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[3/3]
Finding the human song that in the moment most closely resonated with the burning sap, bubbling and simmering in his core, Thorn placed a bristly tendril on Cortez’s shoulder.
“ The road is dark, the way is lost, my eyes they strain to see
I struggle forth to find a friend to light the way for me”
Cortez blinked at the forefront of Thorn’s blackened foliage. “You mean… yeah maybe … ditch this Resurgent dreamer shit and strike out? Scud, even a mercs life right now looks better working for just another gang these days.”
Thorn’s people had seemingly consigned themselves to a gradual, solemn everautumn into extinction… Some like his pod-sibling Thistle still tried, but even if Thistle saved everyone they could, they’d only be saving them to die another day on that dying world.
But somewhere… somewhere out there. Maybe there was a place where Thorn’s kind could live, even regrow, on a world where the sky was theirs and their roots could grow deep. And if not for his people, of whom many if not most had seemed to have given up, then maybe at least for his human friend if nothing else.
“Oh brothers can you hear my voice? Or am I all alone?
If there’s no fire to guide my way, then I will start my own”
Thorn didn’t believe it. But Thorn had decided long ago, when the burning sap started, that he would rather die fighting for something than wither away like his brethren. Until they found that something, fighting for mercs was the next best thing.
“Oh by God we’ll have our home again, by God we’ll have our home
By blood or sweat, we’ll get there yet, by God we’ll have our home”
======================================
Xeno Quote of the Day (select one for the next thread)For any newbies, this is also your verification vote. Link back in later votes if your ID changes, it does help me account for samefags.
>Asandi
>Auxl
>Belcossan
>Chorkrum
>Coryx
>Drax
>Faenwedhe
>Kroll
>Pect’Max
>Quexi
>Savis
>Yibrak
>Vesh
> League of Dis - Rebels
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Well I must apologise for the sheer number of typos in this opening, I struggled to crack this out before bed tonight.
I'll endevour to probably word check with my updates recommencin on the Wednesday/Sunday schedule, around approximately 10pm AEST on those days steadily going forward.
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>>6420873
>Pect’Max
Man Belcossan's don't deserve this shit, they should get H-Pass, y'know one dying species to another.
Anyway hope shits okay chief since you left off on sudden notice and all.
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File: Cradler Firefight 1.jpg (104.1 KB)
>SELECTED: KROLL
3rd Cycle June 2231AD (today) – Dis Equatorial Region – Imperial Savis Space
>DISADVANTAGE will remain in place for this firefight round
Through a combination of sheer dumb luck on the part of your squaddies and some cold hard stones from yourself on the tailend of the Cradler Auxiliaries position, your people have managed to turn the flank of the enemy even though they read your attack like it was scripted for them on a datapad.
But it has cost your Vinehounds dearly. Your Signaller ‘Night Night’ Deschamps is hit, you don’t know how bad but you hear her screams and multilingual curses over the shortwave as TPR Terri applies what sounds like some rather brutal first-aid with all of her typical bedside manner.
One of the alien rebel fighters is down as well, but who gives a flying scud? You’re stuck here, under heavy fire of what sounds like the bulk of the remaining Auxiliaries, watching your best friend bleed out in front of you.
“CRANE!!!” You scream into your trust Second’s face, tearing your ghosthelms away and clear away the blood bubbling from his mouth. Your feral flight-or-flight hunter psyche wrestles with a terrified-and-all-alone girl in the chasm of your rising panic as he slips into a deeper unconsciousness. “CRANE!! Fuck Fuck Fuck! Where the hell is my voiddamn MEDIC!!!”
You lost count of how many times you’ve called for help, how many times you’ve cried out your friend’s name to try and keep him awake. It could have been twice or thrice, it could have been a dozen or a score. And still you are alone, no answer from CPL Crane and no arrival of MDC Petal.
They are just a stone’s throw away from you in the dark jungle lit by flame and gunfire. But you can't blame the Belcossan, even though that might ordinarily come naturally to you. The Cradlers have established a firelane directly between you and the nearest friendly position, even without the ghosthelm you can see with your enhanced genemod eyes as TPR Bones and TPR Goldie literally pinning the squirming xeno medic down as the dumb cabbaged tries to leopard crawl out of the scant cover of the makeshift foxhole to you and Crane. It’s futile, and the frustration is enough to make Petal lose his usual human lyrical song choices for a dismayed alien-sounding chord. The cabbage has got heart, you’ll give it that, but the species never was a particularly warlike one and creatures that can literally set down roots don’t tend to be quick movers whether or not they came with sentience as part of the overall package.
++“O’Kas! Werkal and Night Night to the rear -now-, the rest of you move up! We need that gully cut off.”++ Alexander Hail’s voice snaps over the shortwave, pressing the advantage on the other flank less than a hundred metres away but what right may as well be on the other side of the planet. ++“Jake, Li, stay on that gully! Kerasch that Imp is dead, move on!”++
[1/4]
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File: Live Reaction Crane.png (169.8 KB)
Given another minute you could expect the sister squads of the 77th Krieger Platoon to reinforce you and push the enemy back, and perhaps even less time to coordinate with Hail and your own squaddies to pin the enemy position long enough give you a window to drag Crane across the firelane. But Crane doesn’t have that kind of time. You can feel him fading and the vitals on the squad HUD are already beginning to write him off.
Your slitted eyes narrow in the dark. A half-second passes as you take it all in. The flames of the burning wreckage of the Hunter-Killer drone behind you. The splinters kicked up from the Auxiliaries’ rounds impacting the trunk in front. The crumple of an explosion as someone, somewhere, sets off a grenade or something similar. The safe bet would be to wait it out. The smart bet. Stay alive, finish the fight… and grieve later. Crane would most likely slap the back of your head for considering anything else.
Another half-second crawls by as you remember all the times you regret not taking the safe bet, and what’s a stake with this roll of the dice. Crane’s attempt to suppress an eyeroll at your dumb joke about the updated duty roster. Crane’s solemn quips about your cooking during a serving of your Cradler special. Crane holding your hand steady after waking in a teary sweat from the latest nightmare. The safe bet? Like Hell.
[2/4]
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File: He who bleeds with me shall be my brother.png (261.7 KB)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gec7OUrj87M&list=RDGec7OUrj87M&start_r adio=1 Battle Brother
Your mouth is contorted in a voiceless snarl as you carry your best friend over your shoulder in a ranger roll, bounding across the thin hallway of massacred open jungle floor, refusing to look anywhere but forward in the time that seems to last both as long as a flash clarity and as short as an echo of madness.
Your left arm slackens suddenly, nearly dropping from Crane’s inner thigh and rolling him off your shoulder. Weird, you’ve never had any sort of trouble carrying even twice this kind of weight. Especially not over a short distance, but you mentally shrug off the sudden dead arm as you press on praying to the Voidmother, Saint Andy, the Captain and whatever other appropriate deity-level authority springs to mind in the seconds it takes to leap across the sights of the ravenous rifle muzzles pointed your way from uprange. You’ve never been a religious kind of gal, any kind of religion, but you’re halfway to considering taking vows as thanks for every bullet that miraculously misses until your well of miracles abruptly runs dry. Weird again, that you can swear you heard the whiz of that specific bullet before you felt it.
And you most certainly feel it. You feel it go in, and you feel it go out. A sizzling whack of hot-iron below the lowest right rib, a wet tear of flesh above the right hip. You feel like someone tied a cord around your waist and hooked it to a passing Wingshark fighter, yanking you forward that your stumble becomes a fall than was at least well timed enough to send you and Crane both sprawling on the right side of the cover that your fellow squaddies were huddled behind under the withering hail of enemy fire.
>Corporal ‘Crane’ Shizuka is Critical!
>Sergeant ‘Snake Eyes’ Natalya is Wounded!
>Suffer Serious Wound (Gunshot - Abdomen) -5DC to all personal rolls.
>Suffer Minor Wound (Gunshot – Bicep) -5DC to all personal rolls for the remainder of the firefight.
[3/4]
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File: Krieger to the Core.png (181.6 KB)
[4/4]
You don’t take it personal when your alien medic Petal ungently rips you off the unmoving body of Crane, it’s free tendrils clutching a questionably legal and undoubtedly lifesaving cocktail of stims, cutting tools and gauze.
“Is he breathing? For fuck’s sake please just tell me he’s breathing.”You crawl to the side as much as you can without sticking your head above the branch and let the Belcossan do their thing, “Ahh voidmother’s tits, damn it.”
Wincing in pain you clutch your abdomen with a deadened right arm and them wincing again as you spot the see-through hole square in the middle of your right bicep. By Clayton’s Cruel -Cunt- that hurts.
While Petal works in a frantic blur of tendrils and alternating human limericks, the other two squaddies in this poor excuse of a foxhole stare at you in amazement.
“Just how in the heck aren’t you swiss-frikkin-cheese, boss?” You can tell Goldie is grinning at you under that ghosthelm of his, and you bet his hairdo doesn’t have one hair out of place either.
You lift your bleeding arm up long enough to show your squaddies the middle finger still attached at the end just as your shortwave chirps.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” Bones at least sounds more concerned, if a little bossy in how he voices it. “Sit down your ass down sarge, Goldie get your field kit!”
++“Vinehound Vinehound, this is Centurion. Banshee is forming up.”++ LT ‘Boy’ Blue’s calm voice is jarring in the world of noise and pain you currently find yourself in.++“Vinehound is to press current aggressive posture and prevent hostile exfil, acknowledge.”++
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> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
> “Vinehound here… Wilco. Vinehound-Alpha to Vinehound-Lambda, Alpha is advancing on a two bearing. Press on with second section, on my mark.” You won’t lie. Sometimes you fucking hate this job. But it is what it is, and every second you don't press the advantage is a second the enemy risks slipping away. You only need one hand to fire a pistol anyway. [Firebrand]
>”Vinehound to Centurion. Negative on tac grounds. Have taken casualties, including Vinehound-Beta. Banshee reinforcement required before complying and deny hostile exfil.” You nearly got Crane killed pushing too far when you thought you had the Cradlers on the run before. You won’t be sucked in like that again. [Xenophobe]
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>>6420873
>Chorkrum
I’ll throw an ID post up - bit late I know.
Will vote, but feel free to discount. Glad our boy made it though!
>>6422560
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
Press the advantage, worry about our body later
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>>6422560
>“Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
>>6422096
Me
>>
>>6422560
>“Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
We didn't carry Crane through hell just to send the rest of the squad out there to die. We're going back in.
>>6421156
Mine.
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>>6422560
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
Death still on the table, we haven't even gotten to the big bot yet.
verification >>6420895
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>>6422560
>>6421486
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
We have to get back out there.
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>>6422560
Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil
>>6421390
My sing in
Time pop them stims
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>>6422560
>> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
We gotta finish this fight!
>>6420971
Me!
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>>6422560
>> “Vinehound here… Wilco. Vinehound-Alpha to Vinehound-Lambda, Alpha is advancing on a two bearing. Press on with second section, on my mark.” You won’t lie. Sometimes you fucking hate this job. But it is what it is, and every second you don't press the advantage is a second the enemy risks slipping away. You only need one hand to fire a pistol anyway. [Firebrand]
>>6421228
me
>>
>>6422560
> “Vinehound here… Wilco. Vinehound-Alpha to Vinehound-Lambda, Alpha is advancing on a two bearing. Press on with second section, on my mark.” You won’t lie. Sometimes you fucking hate this job. But it is what it is, and every second you don't press the advantage is a second the enemy risks slipping away. You only need one hand to fire a pistol anyway. [Firebrand]
We win or we die. That's the play, don't let the advantage slip away after all this
>>6421952
Me
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>>6422560
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
>>6421031
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>>6422560
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
me
>>6420922
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>>6422560
> “Vinehound here… Wilco. Vinehound-Alpha to Vinehound-Lambda, Alpha is advancing on a two bearing. Press on with second section, on my mark.” You won’t lie. Sometimes you fucking hate this job. But it is what it is, and every second you don't press the advantage is a second the enemy risks slipping away. You only need one hand to fire a pistol anyway. [Firebrand]
Got to do what you got to do.
>>6420878
this is me
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>>6422560
>> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
>>6420950
C'est moi
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>>6422560
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
>>6421310
>>
>>6422560
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
HOO-RAH, that's how it's done, motherfraggers.
>>6421121
Me
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>>6422560
>Crane is critical
Forgotten you pussy!oh man am I glad you did it though
> “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
>>6420891
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File: Combat Stim.jpg (41.6 KB)
> SELECTED: “Vinehound here. Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.” Your hand is pressed against the wound on your side, and boy does it feel like a doozy. You’re going to let your squaddies give you the old Krieger Nurse Kiss, meaning more combat drugs than actual bandages, before getting back into the fight. [Daredevil]
>HALVED Wounded penalty (3 Rounds) rounds.
>+2 AV Re-Rolls (3 Rounds)
“Vinehound here.” You grit your teeth as you dial into the shortwave. “Give me one -fucking- minute. Sir.”
The LT isn’t big on profanity on the comms, but Company regs allow for some leeway for those in the middle of the scud using colourful language in the stress of combat. You know your way around the regs enough so that you don’t expect to be chewed out afterwards. Hopefully.
To be honest the LT’s professional standards aren’t exactly right at the top of your going concerns this very moment. But even if he looks like a fresh-faced officer cadet the man has a keen eye for the pulse of the tactical heartbeat, he’s right on the money when it comes to the importance of pressing your Cradler Auxiliary pursuers now before they can slip away run to their Imp masters for backup.
So you tell Goldie not to hold back on the cocktail of ‘slaught stims while snarling at an unbothered Bones applying copious amounts of gauze to the holes in your leaky boat of a body. Your squaddies are knuckle-dragging Kriegers just like you, not doctors, and you find yourself almost yearning for the tender ministrations of your actual squad medic, alien or not. The pain as Bones tightens the band over your wounded arm is overwhelming enough that you black out for a second, drifting into a deep blanket of wooziness that is ripped away the second the ‘slaught stims hits your system.
“Holy -shit-!” You yelp, your narrow irises expanding and your entire body jolting as the drugs kick in and your heart starts jackhammering against your chest. Nasty scud, but very effective. Right now you feel like you could benchpress a starfighter. “Woo… all aboard the grav-train, baby!”
“Enjoy it while it lasts, sarge!” Bones presses you down by the shoulder, for a moment you were about to punch him for the trouble but then you remembered the half-dozen Cradlers still pouring fire into your piddly foxhole here. “You got five minutes tops before the crash comes, then you better hope someone is around to carry your brawny ass out of the scud.”
“Do not use recreationally. Side effects may include nausea, delirium, psychopathy, mutation, D.E.S. and sudden suicidal tendencies.” You glance over at Goldie squinting at the very small fineprint on the side of the now-empty stim injector that comes with every Krieger field kit. He chucks it over his shoulder, where it lands beside the other empty stim from Bones’ kit. “...I don’t remember any of that being mentioned in Basic.”
[⅓]
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“Probably because you were trying to get a leg over that drill instructor.” Bones grunts as he slaps another wad of gauze into your free hand, the one with the arm that’s got a hole clean through it. “Here. Your stomach’s still looking pretty rough. Apply that when the first layer bleeds through.”
Goldie tilts his head thoughtfully. “What do you mean the-... Oh! That’s right, the redhead! Damn that babydoll was one fine…”
Ignoring the two squadies holding their position you glance over at your medic. “How’s our Corporal looking, Petal?”
“To keep on holdin' on, holdin' on
Holdin' on, holdin' on”
The movement of the Belcossan’s leafy tendrils seems less frantic now. More deliberate and careful, which you hope is a good sign
“No, no, yes, I do (yes, I do)
I'm a hip shaking mama, I love you (I know)”
“Okaay, not sure I got that last part but he’s still with us?" You let out a breathe you hadn't realised you were holding in. "Good. That’s real good. Keep him breathing, soldier.”
Crane's not out of the jungle yet, but he's is hanging in there. Your xenos medic in a firefight may be as useful as girl-parts in a pissing contest, but you gotta admit they’re damn good at putting people back together. Crane has a real chance to make it, which is infinitely better than where you were less than a minute ago.
“Damn, down to the last frag here.” Goldie sighs like he missed out on an audition for some bigscreen vid. “The fuck is D.E.S. anyway?”
“Dead Earth Syndrome.” Bones mutters, delivering a spray of return fire over the lip of the foxhole before ducking back down. “Back in the early days, a lot of vets from the Fall would get it. All holed up in their bunks depressed and whatnot. …Some of them, a lot of them, took their own way out.”
“No shit?” Goldie reflects as he passes Bones another mag. “Wait. Can I get DES?”
“Where you from again?”
“Perspira, baby. Born and bred.”
“And, just remind me, is sunny Perspira now a dead, blasted, wasteland?”
“...I mean I ain’t checked since I got here but… no?”
[⅔]
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File: TPR 'Bones' Armstrong.png (198.6 KB)
[3/3]
“Aw hell! Rusted piece of…” Bones always says he was raised right, usually when complainang about some of the less sanitary squaddies exhibit one gross habit or another. But it also apparently means that Bones doesn’t really swear even when he’s clearing a jamming gun in a firefight, which in your book is exactly the time to keep cussing. Or like when a fellow squaddie is winding him up. “Then no Goldie! If you are -not- from Earth and your homeworld is -not- dead then it stands to read that you -cannot- get Dead Earth Syndrome!”
“...You sure? I remember when I was a kid Ma used to put on the Earth vids about nature and scud and there was this guy with the voice-”
“Dead. Earth. Syndrome. It’s two out of the three words of D.E.S.!”
“HEY!” You snap at the two squaddies in a mix of drug induced rage and reasonable frustration at the wonky shortwave. “Will the two of you please put your domestic on hold 10-fucking-seconds?! And keep the make-up sex on the quiet side while I’m on the shortwave…”
“Centurion Centurion. Vinehound in position.”
++“Vinehound commence full frontal assault.”++
“Centurion, update on Banshee status?” You hesitate before saying more. The last push saw the Cradler Auxiliaries rattled, but your people got pretty mauled too. “...Sir, they’re pretty well dug in and they know we’re coming.”
“Acknowledged. Banshee is taking the long way round. We can’t afford to let any of these hostels disengage. Vinehound to hold these bastards in place until they make their move.” The Lieutenant's tone brooks no argument. “Order stands, full frontal assault, up the guts.”
So you’re the bait. That’s fucking cold. You think of a hundred things to say, and maybe you could even say them and say it was the ‘slaught talking at your Court martial. But instead all you say is-
“Wilco. Vinehound out.” You click your shortwave, pause. Then click it again. “Up the fucking guts…Vinehound-Lamba, Vinehound-Lambda. This is Vinehound-Alpha…”
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FIREFIGHT VOTES
(1) Select Squad Tactic - N/A - Shock Assault AUTO-SELECTEDLT orders + Cradler Auto-Counter (2/2)
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(2) Select Strategem N/A - You spent this combat round saving Crane.
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(3) Select Squaddie Orders (TWO MAX). (refer to advance firefight rules for specifics)
>CPL Crane ‘Watch My Back’ - N/A
>CPL Crane ‘Time for Plan B’ - N/A
>GNR Nines ‘Covering Fire’ (3/3)If not used, rolls for Nines on the casualty table are ignored.
>MDC Petal ‘Medic!’ (∞)
>SPR Convict ‘Bring it Down’ (1/2)
>SIG Night Night ‘Where the hell is our ride?’ - N/A
>Rebel Jake Martin ‘Watch Their Back’ [1/1]
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