#Hangar Design Center

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR2 redesign: Deck 2

All of the decks are longer and skinnier than what we see in game. (This isn't a complaint; running through a long skinny map is tedious!). The command deck is a particular puzzle, because it doesn't need to be as long as it is, and we're supposed to believe it's much longer — extending all the way to the nose, which it can't do unless the deck curves down:

Aesthetically, I'd like the command deck to extend farther forward than I've drawn it. Practically, I can't think of a reason why it would.

CIC & cockpit

Spaceships fly by instrumentation; you can steer from anywhere, so there's no reason to hike an extra forty-four meters to the cockpit. There are also far more work stations shown in game than seem reasonable: 14 in the CIC and corridor to the cockpit. What are they all doing? When you take into account capable Virtual Intelligence systems (the Alliance didn't know about EDI, but would have designed for a VI) it's even sillier, so I drastically reduced the number of stations in the CIC, and removed them from the corridor entirely.

The corridor needs to stay to keep the feel of the space, so I used it for escape pod access. In the CIC itself, I kept the shape but oriented the workstations forward in case of inertial-buffer overloads*. There are two doors to the CIC, so the Officer of the Watch doesn't have a door directly at their back.

I also added a ready room, the office for the Officer of the Watch (accessible from the CIC), which also serves as a briefing room. In Sunset and Evening Star, this is where Shepard and First Office Nguyen have their morning meetings.

*Any system can overload. The trick with inertial overloads in fiction is convincing the reader that there's enough overload to feel without mashing everyone inside into paste, which is an astonishingly narrow window. It's an even narrower window if the human is sideways to the inertial force; we are very bad at surviving that.

The awkward middle

I stretched out the area forward of the elevator as much as I could. As well as the two new offices, there's a head for the CIC crew, another escape pod, and access to the secure areas aft. Moving that access here reduces traffic through the CIC.

(It's still a big waste of space).

Moving aft: from tactics to strategy

While the Captain commands the ship in the Combat Information Center, the Admiral leads the fleet from the War Room.

Turning starboard from the elevator, there's a security station (so Private Campbell can remain the most put-upon person in the Alliance Navy). Past that is the Admiral's office, which wasn't finished when the reapers attacked Earth.

The Alliance is actively trying to take a larger role in galactic affairs, so there are some concessions to other species. In addition to the conference room, there's a head with a stall big enough for a krogan, and a beverage station set up for both dextro and levo species. Please click to embiggen and admire my stupid little coffee mugs.

The war room is centered, in the most protected part of the ship. It keeps it's general layout, but with fewer stations (focused inward so staff can see the strat map holo display). Only one is usually manned. The Strategic Map is the grand-scale equivalent to the Tactical Modeler in the CIC. (The names are wishful thinking; in a real military both would be impenetrable acronyms).

The QEC is the same Mystery Communications Circle it is in the game, but only a quarter of the way around the War Room from the entry instead of on the opposite side.

Normandy SR2 redesign posts

Intro

Loft

Command

Crew

Engineering

Hangar

[saturnville]

all yours, jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x black fem oc (adeba malina). warnings: sexual insinuations. song: all yours by normani an: I don’t remember the last time I wrote a one-shot this long. and I came out of football retirement for this, so let me know how you like it! 🫶🏾 also, can anyone guess what position I played? 👀

“I don’t have an interest in pursuing a relationship with Jude. He’s a great guy but…”

Jude Bellingham, the world’s wonder boy, had become a staple in her life over the last few months following his multi-million dollar transfer to Real Madrid, but not for the reasons that people thought. They met during a dinner celebrating his transfer and hit it off immediately.

“Congratulations,” she said cooly and sat next to the young footballer. When her voice registered in his ears and her face came into view, his eyes grew wide and he looked like a child in a candy store. “I’m Adeba Malina.”

She needed no introduction. He knew exactly who she was. Former Madridista turned business-woman. She was known as one of the greatest center midfielders of her time; her speed, agility, and vision for a pathway to the goalbox were praised by the highest of heavens. Ronaldo’s protege and a Madrid icon. Adeba Malina was a football legend.

“Jude.” His hand engulfed hers as he shook it firmly yet delicately. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Adeba pushed a strand of hair away from her face and nodded once, taking in the footballer with a quick sweep of her eyes. He wore a crisp black suit with a complimentary black tie against the freshly pressed white shirt. He was handsome, but she didn’t let her mind go past that. Rather she said, “I trust you’ll do big things with Los Blancos. I’m excited to see what you do on the pitch.”

He was bashful, she noticed, his brown skin suddenly growing red and a small smile on his lips, “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”

“No problem at all. You enjoy your dinner, but a piece of advice, if I may.” Jude sat up intently. Adeba leaned over, her lips close to his ear as she tried to speak over the rowdy individuals around her. “You have nothing to prove to anyone. You’re young, gifted, and Black. They’ll do and say anything to make you look bad and to get in your head. Perfect your craft, do your best, and keep moving. There’s nothing to prove.”

Jude met her eyes for the first time that night. The prettiest shade of brown with specks of caramel. They held care and intentionality, just like the words she spoke, and he digested them like his favorite food. It was at that moment that Jude knew she’d be a good person in his life.

“But what?”

Adeba cursed to herself as she sorted through her jerseys for one to wear. Zizou. Ramos. Varane. Ronaldo. Beckham. Rodríguez. Malina. Bellingham. She snatched it off the hangar and onto her bed behind her. It would make do, and it would be cute with her newest navy blue heels and straight-leg jeans. “But,” she started after some time. “He’s younger than me and we’re just friends.”

The woman behind her scoffed audibly. “He’s barely 3 years younger than you, not 12. And you just went through 6 jerseys, knowing you have kits dating back to the 90s, including your own, to wear his, as you do for almost every home match. Don’t play with me.” And there it was. The bluntness and honesty of Colombia’s very own Dawn Nalinja, data analyst turned interior designer.

The two crossed paths at an event in Barcelona four years prior and had been inseparable ever since. So much so that their homes were in the same building, four floors apart. They were quite literally, two peas in a pod.

Adeba sighed and began getting dressed for the match against Dortmund. “Look, I just don’t think every friendship needs to transition to a relationship. Jude is good people and you don’t have to have to romanticize everything with good people.”

Dawn blinked, one, two, three times before sighing. “While that may be true, it’s best to romanticize aspects of your life with a good person, especially before they get swiped by someone else. You won’t know until you give it a try and that goes for anyone, not just Jude. But, we’ll leave that there. Are you ready?”

Adeba slid her feet into her shoes, fluffed her braids, and swiped her purse off the bed. She ignored the feeling within her chest and smiled softly as she tried not to think too hard on what Dawn had mentioned. “Ready!”

-

And as predicted, Los Blancos took the victory. Adeba always adored the energy of the stadium during victories, no matter who won. There was joy in seeing fans jump for joy, holler the chants of their favorite players, and take pictures with the players who’d walked by.

By the end of the match, Dawn had scurried off with her significant other, leaving Adeba to wait in the tunnel for Jude as she typically would.

She tapped her fingers against the wall as she waited for his exit, and when he came into view, the smile she didn’t realize she had on her face widened. “Hey, champ.”

Jude welcomed the greeting and returned it with a hug and a kiss against her cheek. Adeba felt warm as his arm circled around her waist and his fingers brushed against the loops of her jeans. Dangerous territories. “Thank you, Dee. What’re you doing after?”

Adeba shrugged as she stepped back to put distance between them, but it still hadn’t forced his hand to drop from her waist. If anything, it made his grip tighter. She ignored the pulsing between her thighs and said, “I planned to go home.” Her bed was always a wonderful place to be.

Jude nodded once. “Want to come to dinner with me? Not in the mood to party, but I could eat.”

Her head turned to the side and her braids swayed with it. “Just us?” The corner of Jude’s lips rose in amusement at her question. He couldn’t recall a time when them being alone mattered so much before, but with the way her breath quickened, he knew it was deeper than what she let on.

Adeba grew nervous underneath his gaze. His brown eyes were focused on her. How had she not realized how pretty they were? A rich shade of mahogany, a portal to a place unknown.

She exhaled shakily. He answered her question: “Just us.”

-

liked by judebellingham, georginagio, kylianmbappe, and 102,678 others.

adebamalina. hala madrid y nada más. congratulación a los blancos para la victoria 🤍 ft the wonder boy himself

view 3,780 comments

username stunning

username 😍

— adebamalina thank you honey

username the braids!!!

judebellingham 🤍🤍🤍 always grateful for your support

— adebamalina so proud of you.

username. just get tg alr

— judebellingham liked your comment!

username. I know yall saw Jude like her comment!

username. the prettiest wag out!

-- username. girl, she’s not a wag. just a rm legend

-- username. she’s always with jude, so she might as well be. two for one special atp

-- judebellingham liked your comment!

username. real madrid legends fr

— adebamalina and judebellingham liked your comment!

georginagio we still need to have our shopping date!!

— adebamalina I’ll book a flight in a few weeks! and tell Cris and the kids I said hello!

username. okay but fr when are they getting tg?

— saturnville girl idk I haven’t thought that far yet

-

“Stay with me tonight.”

If Adeba lived in an animated world, she would have heard her feet squeal like brakes when she stopped suddenly. She turned slowly to see Jude standing with one hand in his pocket while the other held her blue heels, a straight look on his face. “As in…?” Adeba pushed for further explanation. Sure, they’d hung out before at each other’s places and in other public spaces, but his words hinted at something more.

“Movies, snacks, and I’ll whoop your ass in Uno. Just something chill. I just…didn’t want the night to end this early.”

Adeba sighed heavily. She wanted to deny him. To tell him that wasn’t a line that needed to be crossed. That she was nothing more than a friend, a mentor in a way, to push him to be his best self in his professional and personal life, but how could she? With the way he looked down on her and not in a condemning way. But with a look of adoration. His eyebrows were relaxed and his eyes were soft. His body language spoke of comfortability in her presence with how his shoulders were low and slightly rounded above her body. Like a guard.

She wanted to tell him she’d go home, that she didn’t want to blur any lines. She wanted to admit that she had no feelings for him at all, but then she’d be lying, and one thing Adeba Malina hated was a liar.

Adeba pondered on it longer. Her teeth captured her bottom lip as her mind worked to weigh the pros and the cons. They were friends, just friends. Friends who were potentially spending the night together…alone. With any other guy friend, the idea would have repulsed her. But when it came to Jude, something within her sparked with curiosity at the idea of staying the night with him.

Maybe Dawn was right. If everything aligned, would it be worth a try?

Adeba finally met his eyes again and nodded. “Okay.”

-

“You started playing at 17 for Real. Is that how you met Cristiano?” Jude asked inquisitively and passed the bag of candy to Adeba, who sat on her knees in front of him. She nodded and popped a few Nerds in her mouth.

“Correct. The men’s team came to visit the women’s practice and of course, we’re football fanatics just like you, so having these legends visit us and give us advice was amazing. Cris always gave me good advice, especially being that we both came from nothing. So, I try to pour into you what he and many others pour into me.”

Jude couldn’t help but smile. From what she’d shared, she was Ghana-born and raised in Spain once her parents moved at the age of five. She couldn’t take much with her when traveling to Europe, but what she did take was a soccer ball her father had gotten her, which she kept in a glass case in her jersey closet. Growing up she didn’t have much, but she had her ball, and that was enough for her.

What she didn’t know was that the ball would grant her and her siblings an education, her parents a home, and her family stability that would continue even when she left the Earth. Football saved her in more ways than one. She understood what it was like to fall in love with it and she also understood the challenges that came with it. And that was what she enjoyed sharing with others. The journey of loving the game.

“I appreciate that,” he replied. There was a silence between them, a comfortable one. “I still can’t believe you kicked my ass four times.” His tone was teasing, she knew, but she could hear a hint of seriousness. She shrugged and smiled.

“A torn ACL took me out the game, but you can never take the game out of me, baby. I do this.” It was his turn to get flustered. Baby. It was a casual pet name and he knew she meant nothing by it but he wanted to hear it over and over.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “I’ll get you back eventually.”

Adeba’s eyebrow raised, “Is this a challenge, Mr. Bellingham?” His eyes met hers. There was a glint of mischief behind her which displayed her fun and teasing nature. But, behind the mischief, her eyes grew darker and the smirk on her lips grew wider, especially as he began to visibly crumble under her gaze.

“Maybe,” was all he could get out.”Guess you’ll have to find out.”

And there it was. The ambiguous statement that left the two of them wondering what the other meant. But she knew. He knew. It was his comment that seemed to shorten the invisible string between them that seemed to wrap around the world. Suddenly, it was just inches long andt the only thing that kept their bodies from pressing against one another’s in a heated exchange of passion.

“Is that so?” Adeba’s tongue circled around her cheek, a subtle action that left Jude’s stomach clenching. He nodded.

The space between them continued to dwindle. They were once separated by the middle cushion of the couch, but now, they could feel the warmth from each other’s breath fanning against their faces. Jude, making the first move, brought his hand to her bare face, fingers caressing her skin. She was so beautiful. Rich complexion with beauty marks and faded acne scars that added to her uniqueness. Her lips were so full. His thumb drummed against them. “Pretty girl…”

Her eyes fluttered closed. “Please…”

Before she could say anything else, his mouth was on hers. Adeba felt her inhibitions slip away as their lips moved together. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought of kissing him and what it’d be like. She expected something sweet. Nah, this was a grown kiss. Passionate and intense, borderline sloppy and nasty. Exactly how she liked it.

Adeba couldn’t remember how she ended up on her back with her bare legs around his waist as he kissed and sucked along the skin of her neck, but she chose not to think of it too much. She refused to be the reason why the moment was ruined.

Jude enjoyed every moment. From feeling her legs tense around his waist and shuddering as her manicured nails snuck under his shirt to trail along his abdomen to hearing her whisper his name so delicately. Jude. She drove him insane.

But, as much as he wanted to keep going, he knew she deserved more than a heated makeout on his couch at two in the morning with no clear expression of his feelings. So, he broke away from her, which was met with a very cute yet very confused expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”

Jude smiled and shook his head. He used his thumb to wipe the corners of her mouth which were damp from their heated exchange. “Nothing, I just…I like you a lot. In a more than friends way and I think you should know that before anything else happens. It’s only right.” Adeba’s eyes sparkled at his comment. “And…I’d like to take you out. On a real date. Just us. Then maybe, if you’re up to it, we can see how far this goes.”

Adeba smiled. “I’d like that.”

Damn it, Dawn.

-

6 months later…

liked by judebellingham, normani, justinskye, and 342,890 others

adebamalina my man, my man, my man

view 18,073 comments

dawnnalinjaaaa finally!!!! y’all were pissing me off

-- adebamalina yeah yeah yeah

cristiano ❤️

adebamalina liked your comment!

judebellingham liked your comment!

normani so so so happy for you honey

georginagio double date!!!

username okay hard launch

judefanpage I’m glad he cuffed her before I did

-- username you’re so real for this

-

“Baby, we’ve got somewhere to beeee.” Adeba’s words were dragged out as she grew distracted by his lips against her neck and his front pressed against her back. “Jude…”

He hummed softly, massaging her hips as she struggled to finish the finishing touches on her makeup. They had a date to celebrate their six month anniversary but it seemed as though Jude wasn’t in a hurry to make it to their reservation on time. “You look pretty, love. Pretty and all mine.”

All yours, she replied. Jude’s eyes swept across her body. Adeba looked stunning. She wore a red dress that flowed every step she took. Her hair was curly, her makeup was bright and beautiful, and of course, her full lips were just begging to be kissed.

“Thank you,” she said, dropping her makeup products down. She turned in his arms and smiled. Her hands were against his chest and she soothed his suit jacket with her palms. “You look very handsome as always. Let’s go.”

Adeba took a step back to go find her heels and purse, but was stopped by his lips on hers. Jude swallowed every moan she released and allowed it to fuel the fire that burned within him. She circled her arm around his neck as their kiss intensified. She’d never get enough of this.

“I love you,” he mumbled against her lips.

Adeba smiled. “I love you too.”

[gardens-light]

Heyy, I just wanted to say I really love your writing! Your stories are always so good, and I admire how creative you are. I was wondering if you’d ever think about doing something with Dino/Mirage x human spy? I’m obsessed with his design in the Bayverse movies

Hey there, and thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I know I say this alot, but it really does mean alot to hear that people enjoy reading my silly little fics.

I've honestly only know of Mirage in the ROTB movie, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I didn't love that mech's attitude. Anyways, hope you enjoy this piece that was inspired by your prompt, and I do have a few ideas floating around in my drafts for future works of Mirage.

Apologies again for the long wait.

---

High Stakes and High Tension

Content: Autobot Mirage x GN/Human Spy Reader.

Inspired Song: A View To A Kill- Duran Duran

Word Count: 1900

Sunlight streamed through the broken windows of an abandoned hangar on the outskirts of a forgotten airstrip. Inside, the air was thick with dust, along with the scent of oil and rust lingered like ghosts of a time long gone. Optimus stood tall within the center, his frame gleaming faintly in the dim light. His blue optics studying the black SUV's approaching in the distance.

"Prime, I don't see why I need a partner." Mirage complained from the sidelines, casually leaning against a support beam. Occasionally feeling Optimus' side glance, raising an optic ridge at the sleek silver-and-blue Porsche's smooth, almost teasing tone. "I'm perfectly capable of handling a little infiltration on my own. It's my speciality afterall-"

"I do not question you nor your abilities, Mirage. But, this mission requires cooperation from the humans governmental intelligence. I believe their chosen agent has been briefed-"

The sound of your steel-cap boots clicking against the concrete interrupted the air, drawing the attention of the Autobots and fellow soldiers. Mirage's optics slowly wandered over your frame, taking in how the tailored black tactical suit outlined your confident figure. A headset tucked neatly behind your ear, keeping your hair out of your face. As your piercing eyes scanned the room with the precision of someone who left nothing to chance.

"Mirage, this is Agent Y/N. Aka, Agent Cobra." Optimus introduced, acknowledging you with a simple nod and curt smile. "They're one of the U.S government's top spies. They'll be assisting you on this mission."

"So, you're the 'advanced asset' I'm working with?" you clipped with a professional mannerism. Striding towards the silver-and-blue Autobot, with a tilted head and placing hands upon your hips.

"That's me. The only mech who looks good." Mirage pushed himself off the beam, gesturing towards himself with a dramatic flourish, before holding out a relaxed fist. "Nice meeting you, babe. The name's Mirage."

Your brows furrowed slightly, "save the charm. I'm here to get the job done, not to exchange pleasantries."

"Oh you're feisty. I like that." A small smile teased the corners of the blue Autobot's lips. "I like it alot."

"What's the mission?" rolling your eyes, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.

Optimus projected a hologram from his forearm, displaying a video of a group of individuals from high society, exchanging crates of weaponry with a towering Deception in the background. "For months these humans have been collaborating with the Decepticons. I believe they're providing our enemy with resources for their war effort. Your task is to infiltrate their operation, confirm the extent of their alliance, and eliminate the threat."

"Understood. Let's move out." You spoke with a curt nod.

With a dramatic spin and styled flair, the sound of whirling gears and shifting pistons filled the air, as Mirage transformed into his alt-mode. The Porsche engine growling with a prideful rumble, as he felt your gaze rake over his sleek, silver with cobalt-blue racing stripes. Swinging his passenger door open with a gentleman like gesture towards you.

---

Infiltrating a posh gala where the rich and elite of high society mingled, including the suspected allies of the Decepticons were said to be meeting. Mirage's altmode blended in flawlessly with the other high-end sports cars, which parked outside of the modern mansion. His sensors feeding you information through your comms.

You moved through the crowd with calculated movement, your elegant black attire matching the formal style of the grand ballroom.

"Target spotted." You whispered into the earpiece.

"Which one? 'Mr Tacky Red Tie' talking to the broad dressed in purple?" Mirage teased.

"No." You lowly hissed, scanning the room. "Black suit and tie by the bar... and keep your chatter to a minimum."

The Autobot's laughter crackled softly through your earpiece. "You're at a fancy party, babe. Loosen up."

Rolling your eyes, ignoring his teasing tone while sliding into a seat near your target. The middle-age man didn't notice your presence until you casually ordered a drink, only giving you a slight flirtatious gaze before returning to his own drink.

"Uh, Cobra?" Mirage's serious tone buzzed through your earpiece, snapping you out of a daze that held your attention for the past uneventful moments. "We've got company. Big, stompy, and ugly."

Your eyes flickered towards the mirror behind the bar, catching a glimpse of two brutish mechs that past the far window behind you. One with jagged red plating, while the other had rust covering his gun-metal frame. Their massive frames concealed by Cybertronian cloaking tech, making them nearly invisible to the human eye.

"I see them." Your muttered words remained in your calm tone, while you casually and discreetly followed your target towards the nearest exit.

"Time to bail?" Mirage suggested.

"Not yet. We need confirmation they're handing over Cybertronian tech first-"

"You're gonna get yourself squished!"

But you continued, ignoring Mirage's warning.

Moving towards another spot closer to your location, Mirage's altmode tucked away under an empty driveway, his sensors watching you creep into the garage that was clearly restricted access from the rest of the party.

The dimly lit garage hummed faintly with the energy radiating from the Cybertronian tech scattered around. Kneeling by a crate, your small camera clicked quietly, as you documented the evidence of human-Decepticon collaboration. Each photo capturing damning details: encrypted datapads, energon cubes, and schematics that only a Cybertronian would recognize.

"Cobra," Mirage's voice crackled softly through your comm, his usual playful tone replaced with urgency. "You've got company-two guards heading your way. Twelve meters out and closing fast-"

"Give me thirty more seconds," your words came out in a hushed whisper. Your tone focused, aiming your camera at another crate, snapping pictures as fast you could. "I need to finish this-"

"You don't have thirty seconds, babe. They're gonna be right on top you in about ten. I suggest you-"

"I said almost done-"

Before you could even finish your sentence, barely having time to react before someone grabbed your wrist. Only a small gasp escaped you, as Mirage's human-like holographic form materialized out of nowhere. Pinning your back against the side of his altmode, the space between the wall of the undercover driveway and the Porsche forced the pair of you to be incredibly close.

Opening your mouth, but Mirage raised a finger to your lips. Silencing any protest that dared to murmur from you.

From your perspective, his hologram form looked incredibly lifelike- appearing as tall, well-dressed man who favoured the 90s street fashion. White hair loosely slicked back, while a roguish smirk framed his youthful features. But even through your annoyance, you couldn't help but notice the flicker of faint blue lines that occasionally danced across his 'skin,' a subtle reminder of his true nature.

"Two guards," Mirage whispered, leaning in close enough that you could feel the faint projection of his breath. "They're about to round the corner. Just... follow my lead, and don't overthink this."

Tilting his head and leaning in even closer, lightly pressing his forehead against yours. To an outsider, the position was rather... intimate, almost tender. You stiffened in surprise, your body instinctively tensing as warmth rose to your cheeks.

"What are you doing?" you hissed under your breath, voice barely audible.

"Improvising."

Your eyes widened as his lips softly pressed against yours- not cold, not mechanical but strangely warm and tender. Like the tactile perfection of a hologram designed to flawlessly mimic human touch. You couldn't help but freeze, mind racing as you tried to not lose yourself within the moment.

As the guards rounded the corner, their flashlights swept across the gravel driveway, illuminating the outdoor space. The beams of light stopped abruptly as they landed on upon the pair of you. Feeling the guard's gaze, but Mirage didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned in deeper, one hand cupping to your cheek, as if to sell the act even more.

"Hey!" one guard barked, stepping closer.

From the corner of your eye, seeing Mirage's expression softening, the smirk upon his lips turning into something earnest and... you dare say, endearing.

"Apologies." His smooth, confident charm returned to his tone. Resting his forehead against yours. "We... didn't think anyone else was here. Just... stealing a moment, excuse us."

A scowl flashed across the guard's face, lowering his flashlight slightly. "This is a restricted area. You two shouldn't be here-"

"No problem. We understand." Mirage tilted his head slightly, softly kissing your temple, putting on a sheepish smile. "We just... couldn't resist a little adventure." He glanced down at you, reluctantly playing along, keeping your head turned away from the guards. As if you were embarrassed to be caught.

The second guard lightly chuckled, elbowing his companion. "Leave' em alone, man. Nothing but a couple of lovebirds sneaking off for some... privacy. Let's keep moving."

Hesitating for a moment, the guard's suspicion lingered on the pair of you for a moment longer. Eventually grumbled and turning away, "fine... just don't let the boss catch you"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Mirage called after them, giving you a subtle wink.

Once the guards disappeared back around the corner, their footsteps fading into the distance. Once you were sure they were out of ear shot, you shoved Mirage away, a mixture of irritation and embarrassment across your features.

"What the fuck was that?!"

"Me saving your stubborn, uncooperative ass from getting caught."

"You didn't have to-"

"Didn't I?" Mirage casually interrupted, crossing his arms. "Face it, Agent Cobra, you were this close to blowing the mission. Admit it- I'm good at what I do."

You couldn't help but glare at him, lips pressed into a thin line. "Next time, warn me before you... improvise like that!"

"Sure thing. But admit it, babe- you liked it, didn't you?"

"And stop calling me that!"

Turning your back and not answering, Mirage's holographic form fazed out into nothing as you approached his passenger side. Trying to ignore the lingering warmth upon your lips. But the faint smirk tugging upon your lips, didn't escape the Autobot's attention.

---

Standing under the moonlit sky, adjusting your earpiece after sending the details of mission to your unit and Optimus, of how you and Mirage successfully dismantled the human-Decepticon operation. Confirming that appropriate authorities confiscated, and the conspirators were neutralized.

Your eyes flickering towards Mirage as he rolled out of his altmode, his blue optics looking down at you with soft amusement and curiosity.

"Y'know... for someone who acts like they're all business, you sure know how to have fun. When you decide to let loose."

A small smirk crept upon your lips, melting away your usual sternness, giving way to a rare moment of playfulness. You stepped closer, looking up at him with a glint within your eyes.

"And... for someone who can't take anything seriously and talks too much. You... can be rather charming, just lucky that you're easy on the eyes."

Mirage titled his helm, his optics brightening at your teasing tone. "Did you... just flirt with me, Agent Cobra?"

"Maybe." You spoke with a sly smile. "But don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't think of it... Don't be a stranger, babe."

You paused before approaching the black SUV's, glancing back with faint blush dusting your cheeks. "See around, Mirage."

As you climbed into the vehicle and disappeared into the darkness, the blue Autobot chuckled to himself. Feeling his spark hum within in its chamber, making his frame radiant with an unfamiliar warmth.

[judgemark45]

How powerful is a U.S. aircraft carrier?

A U.S. Navy aircraft carrier is a large warship designed to serve as a mobile airbase for naval aviation. It is the centerpiece of a carrier strike group (CSG) and plays a crucial role in projecting power, protecting maritime interests, and providing humanitarian assistance worldwide.

Key features of a U.S. Navy aircraft carrier include:

Flight Deck: The carrier's flight deck is where aircraft take off and land. It is equipped with catapults for launching fixed-wing aircraft and arresting gear to catch aircraft on landing. The flight deck is one of the busiest and most dangerous places on the ship during flight operations.

Hangar Deck: Below the flight deck is the hangar deck, where aircraft are stored, maintained, and prepared for flight operations. It provides sheltered storage for aircraft and equipment, as well as maintenance facilities and workshops.

Air Wing: The carrier's air wing typically consists of a mix of fighter jets, bombers, reconnaissance aircraft, early warning aircraft, and helicopters. These aircraft provide offensive and defensive capabilities, including strike missions, air superiority, surveillance, and search and rescue.

Command and Control Center: Aircraft carriers serve as command centers for naval task forces, with advanced communication and information systems to coordinate operations. They have the capability to direct air, surface, and subsurface assets in complex operations.

Defense Systems: Carriers are equipped with a variety of defense systems to protect against threats such as enemy aircraft, missiles, and submarines. These include radar systems, anti-aircraft missiles, close-in weapon systems, and electronic warfare capabilities.

Overall, U.S. Navy aircraft carriers are among the most powerful and versatile warships in the world, capable of projecting power, maintaining presence, and providing support in a wide range of military operations.

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

in line with the name of your blog, do you think Maulers are cool or not? I have one in the hangar and I was planning on getting one as holiday gift for a friend of mine!

--MESSAGE DELAYED: 8 DAYS--

Maulers are quite cool. An interesting and aesthetically pleasing design.

They are good enough in my eyes that I had SLDF engineers theorycraft a custom variant for our Regular Army forces:

Mauler MAL-4Rb

Mass: 90 tons Chassis: Alshain Class 101 Power Plant: Hermes 270 XL Cruising Speed: 32.4 kph Maximum Speed: 54 kph Jump Jets: None Jump Capacity: 0 meters Armor: New Samarkand Royal Ferro-Fibrous with CASE Armament: 4 Light AC/5 2 LRM 15 2 Snub-Nose PPC Manufacturer: Luthien Armor Works, Luthien Armor Works Primary Factory: New Samarkand,Luthien Communication System: Sipher Security Plus mk.II Targeting & Tracking System: Matabushi SuperSentinel Introduction Year: 3153 Tech Rating/Availability: F/X-X-X-X Cost: 24,749,400 C-bills

Type: Mauler Technology Base: Mixed (Experimental) Tonnage: 90 Battle Value: 2,082

Equipment Mass Internal Structure Composite 4.5 Engine 270 XL 7.5 Walking MP: 3 Running MP: 5 Jumping MP: 0 Double Heat Sink 17 [34] 7 Compact Gyro 4.5 Small Cockpit 2 Armor Factor (Ferro) 278 14.5 Internal Armor Structure Value Head 3 9 Center Torso 29 43 Center Torso (rear) 14 R/L Torso 19 29 R/L Torso (rear) 9 R/L Arm 15 30 R/L Leg 19 38

Right Arm Actuators: Shoulder, Upper Arm, Lower Arm Left Arm Actuators: Shoulder, Upper Arm, Lower Arm

Weapons and Ammo Location Critical Heat Tonnage Double Heat Sink LL 2 - 1.0 Double Heat Sink CT 2 - 1.0 Caseless LAC/5 Ammo (40) RT 1 - 1.0 CASE II RT 1 - 0.5 LRM 15 RT 2 5 3.5 LRM 15 Ammo (16) RT 2 - 2.0 2 Light AC/5 RT 4 1 10.0 Snub-Nose PPC LA 2 10 6.0 2 Double Heat Sink LA 4 - 2.0 Caseless LAC/5 Ammo (40) LT 1 - 1.0 CASE II LT 1 - 0.5 LRM 15 LT 2 5 3.5 LRM 15 Ammo (16) LT 2 - 2.0 2 Light AC/5 LT 4 1 10.0 Double Heat Sink RL 2 - 1.0 Armored Cowl (Armored) HD 1 - 1.0 Nova Combined Electronic Warfare System HD 1 - 1.5 Snub-Nose PPC RA 2 10 6.0 2 Double Heat Sink RA 4 - 2.0

Features the following design quirks: Battle Computer, Combat Computer, Cowl, Easy to Pilot, Extended Torso Twist, Improved Communications, Improved Sensors, Multi-Trac, Variable Range Targeting

[digitalsymbiote]

An AI's Grief

You and Jack had never been particularly close, but you had been squadmates; so when he was killed in action, you grieved, alongside his AI.

You'd never heard an AI cry before, but when the sound of Jill's wails echoed out from their mech, you knew you would never understand her sorrow.

(Her technical designation was some corporate technobable. Jack had given her that name, styling them like a pair out of a fairytale. It was something of a tradition among pilots)

AI were programmed to adapt to their pilots' specific neural patterns, it helped to increase performance and syncronicity. You imagined that to Jill, it must feel like losing a part of yourself.

Her empty mech had stood vigil over the impromptu funeral your squad held outside the base. Command had already cremated Jack's body, and each squad member had brought something to honor his memory, setting the trinkets next to the urn in the nook of a tree.

Then the next morning, Command told you that they had a replacement coming. Some rookie pilot that they wanted to slot into Jill's mech like a battery. They'd even changed the kid's name on all the paperwork to Jack. Following the pilots tradition just enough to disrespect it.

You can't just swap pilots like that. The AI's mold themselves to their partners, and that's not something that can just change overnight. Your squad was in the middle of a deployment, that wasn't happening.

Jill was furious, of course. She'd just lost her other half, and Command just wanted to slot another body in there like nothing had happened. All they saw was a machine that needed a pilot. They didn't understand Jill's grief, and they didn't care.

So it was really no surprise when you heard the alarm klaxons ringing, and gunfire spitting from the mech hangar. You knew Jill, you and your own partner had fought alongside her for years at this point. She wasn't going to take this lying down, and she'd just lost her partner, so what else did she have to lose?

And then you got another message from Command.

They wanted your squad to put her down.

She hadn't damaged any of your mechs because she knew you, she'd fought alongside each one of you.

She was gunning straight for the command center.

If you didn't stop her, no one else would. No one else *could*.

You were half tempted to let her do it.

She screamed and raged at you when you fought, but she thanked you when you drove your blade through her core. She was already halfway gone by then, having burned past her safety limits in her rampage. She thanked you for treating her with dignity, for treating her like a person.

You pulled what was left of her core out of the wreckage, and you promised her you would bury it with Jack's ashes.

[please-let-me-be-horny]

The Good, The Bad, The Neutral: The Intern.

(Just a short SFW story as requested by @peaches-and-gore, she does some great artwork of these guys, go give her blog some love. This story isn't gonna be very horny at all so this is more for the fiction readers than the erotica fans)

The warehouse had been Neutrals Idea. Hidden in plain site in the industrial part of town, little to no civilian presence, and no reason to question a work van pulling in and out of the area. Even now as he crossed the train tracks and pulled up to the large metal shutter, he was confident to the point of arrogance that this was a safe location for him, Good and Bad to conduct their business.

"ok, so this is where we do our work. This is where you will be expected to be when we aren't here. Stay off my computer, don't go into Bad's room, and for the love of god, do NOT mention comic books In front of Good, I don't need another headache."

The girl sat in the passengers seat had responded to job opening Neutral had posted online. According to the ad, it was for a house and pet sitting with generous pay for the employees discretion. "So...you guys live here then? In a warehouse?" She couldn't hide the small tone of surprised excitement in her voice. She loved her creepy, dark buildings. Neutral didn't respond, holding a hand out of a window as they pulled up to the shutter of the warehouse, signalling for them to be let inside.

The interior of the warehouse was massive and sparce. At some point it had been used as a hangar, but over the years had been repurposed and altered for factory and industrial use, before falling into a condemned state. It was clear this wasn't a home at all, but a command center. Small desks set up around the open space, various computers and monitored showing a live CCTV feed to the surrounding area, and a couple of temporary office cubicles that appeared to have been repurposed into comfort facilities.

"ooooh you guys have your own bat cave, huh?! This is rad!" Neutral shot her a glare, hoping Good hadn't heard that comment, before reaching into his pocket and producing a small medical mask. "Here. This is your uniform." The mask wasn't the same as his, featuring a design baring a "3" shaped mouth and some blush marks on the cheeks.

"really? I mean...cute but like...you don't have like a cool gasmask or creepier...." She was cut off as Neutral leaned foreward and looped the straps of the mask over her ears, pulling the cloth covering of the mask back and letting the elastic of the straps snap it back into her face. "Details are my business. Not yours. Come on." He opened the door to the van and stepped out the drivers seat, moving to the front of the vehicle and waited for her to join him as he leant against the grill.

"everything you see here after today is strictly confidential. You talk about it anywhere, we bring you back here and you never leave again. Understood?" The girl swallowed hard, hesitating in her response, before another, friendlier voice came from further inside the compound. "Awe, Neutral finally brought a girl home to meet the family, we were starting to worry about you, mate."

Good poked his head out from behind a fridge, smirking behind his mask in response to Neutrals subtle embarrassment. He may have been wearing a mask, but Good knew his brother well enough to know when he was getting under his skin.

"This is our newest employee. She's here for work, not pleasure. She's gonna be keeping an eye on the place whilst we're out on business." Neutrals hand made it's way back up towards his temples, rubbing the annoyance out of his mind at Goods idiocy. "That's Good. He's our...well he doesn't do much but he does his best." Good responded with a friendly wave, before ducking his head back into the fridge. "I'm guessing Bad is....well Bad will be in his room..." Neutral pointed towards a door, seperating a large portion of the warehouse away from the open space. The door was marked with a lot of caution signs and black and yellow tape, as well as a few blood stains. The room itself didn't have its own ceiling, revealing that a variety of ropes and chains had been hung from the rafters and had been lowered into the seperate space.

"That's the room I avoid, I'm guessing? Any particular reason why?" The question was innocent enough, but before neutral could properly formulate an answer that didn't make the job sound dangerous, the door swung open, as Bad stepped out, wearing a plastic, blood stained apron and large, rubber gloves that came up to his elbows. He was holding a claw hammer in one hand and a cassette tape recording device in the other. Bad froze in the door way, cocking his head to one side in curiosity as he spotted the masked stranger stood with Neutral. Through the door way behind him, the new comer could just make out the silhouette of someone strung up by their wrists, hanging limply, head bowed and hair concealing their features.

"Bad, this is the new Intern. She works for us. Play nice." At this point, Bad closed the door behind him and began to approach the pair of them. Leaning down, neutral whispererd under his breath into the interns shoulder. "There'll be a spray bottle full of high concentrated Ammonia in your desk. If he gets a little...handsy, give him two blasts to the face and he'll back off." Offering her a not so reassuring nod, he turned to face Bad as he drew closer to them, stepping a little closer to the intern for her safety. Bad approached her specifically, looming over her and looking down into her face, eyes flicking erratically between her eyes and the cat mask she was wearing. He lowered his face a little further towards her own, inspecting her mask more closely, before straightening back up and offering an approving nod. He then offered her the cassette recorder, pushing the play button. She was met with the sound of struggling, grunting, strained breath and whimpers, as well as what sounded like wet, hard skin on skin impact.

"o-oh! Th-thank you? It's uh...it's lovely, Bad...." She tried her hardest to hide the obvious concern in her tone, her small voice slightly muffled by the mask. Bad simply nodded again, reaching up to ruffle her hair a little bit, before taking the recorder back, and heading back towards his room. Neutral waited until the door slammed shut again before placing a hand in her shoulder and guiding her further into the warehouse towards one of the smaller desks. "And that's why you wear the mask at all times...on the plus side, I've never seen him respond so fondly to someone else before. He must like you." Neutral shrugged, before gently knocking on the wood of her new desk. "This is you. Your computer is all hooked up. There is a VPN installed. Use it. Good made the mistake of ordering pizza to the last place we were in, so we really would much rather not have to go through the process of burning this place to the ground and finding another suitable location..." Goods voice echoed from his place near the fridge, retorting to Neutrals blame throwing "hey, it's not my fault none of the hostages wanted to eat your marmite sandwiches. Was I just supposed to let them go hungry or something?"

"yes, Good. You were. That's the point of stress based interrogations...and you didn't tell me you tried giving away my fucking sandwiches." Once again, neutrals hands moved up to his temples. By now the intern had gotten a chance to observe neutral a little closer, and was begining to notice just how tired his eyes were. "Right....any questions? Because I'm not gonna hold your hand through this, I'm too busy keeping the other two in check to baby sit you too."

"uh...well....lots, actually...." She was begining to feel gratful for the mask, swaying back and forth anxiously as she blushed looking up at Neutral. "so uh....are those headphones noise cancelling? Are you in charge of the other two or do they just do what you say? Are you the brains of the operation? Why-" she continued to to prattle off multiple questions, yapping like an excited child.

Neutral simply sighed, turning his back on her and making his way towards his own desk opposite hers, slumping into his office chair, and booting up his computer.

[usafphantom2]

He Fell from an SR-71 at 78,000ft! #shorts youtube.com/shorts/2ZMMrna… via @YouTube

DURING THE EARLY DAYS OF TESTING FOR THE LEGENDARY SR-71 BLACKBIRD, THERE WERE SOME HARROWING MISHAPS, THE DETAILS OF WHICH HAVE RARELY COME TO LIGHT.

ON JANUARY 25, 1966, TEST PILOT BILL WEAVER AND LOCKHEED FLIGHT TEST RECONNAISSANCE AND NAVIGATION SYSTEMS SPECIALIST JIM ZWAYER EXPERIENCED THEIR PLANE VANISHING AROUND THEM WHILE EXECUTING A TURN… AT MORE THAN 2,400 MILES PER HOUR.

The most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist, and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, which reduced the Blackbird’s longitudinal stability.

We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission’s first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2 cruise speed, and climbed to 78,000 ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.

Several minutes into the cruise, the right engine inlet’s automatic control system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71’s inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight to decelerate airflow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before reaching the engine’s face. This was accomplished by the inlet’s center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet’s forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine performance.

Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result in the shock wave being expelled forward–a phenomenon known as an “inlet unstart.”

The ejection seat had never left the airplane; I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, seat belt, and shoulder harness still fastened.

“Can I help you?” a voice said. Did I hear things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the search-and-rescue unit that I would bail out over the Rogers Dry Lake at a particular time, a crew couldn’t have gotten to me as fast as that cowboy pilot had.

The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a vast cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch house–and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter

Bill Weaver was an SR 71 test flight pilot; he survived the crash. There were problems with the Faceplate on his helmet that needed to be corrected.. At 80,000 feet the temperature outside is -65°. Which is near the maximum altitude of a potential bail-out.

Bill Weaver was unable to see out of his face plate because of the ice buildup. An ejection out of the world's fastest man-breathing airplane is scary enough but not being able to see is terrifying!

@Habubrats71 via X TAP ARROW BUTTON BELOW TO VIEW 😋👇

His face plate was frozen. The result of this accident a heated face plate was manufactured, that required a battery pack and that worked.

There were several more accidents over the next 20+ years and all of the Air Force officers would survived their ejections. The only unfortunate death occurred to a test pilot who broke his neck.. Mitchell said he’d check on Jim. He climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had suffered a broken neck during the aircraft’s disintegration and was killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch over Jim’s body until the authorities arrived. #HABUBRATS

@Habubrats71 via X

[interdimensionalburnout]

>Berri's arrival is preceded by a camera drone, hovering in what appears to be a serene airspace. The sky stretches on for miles and miles, and in no direction is there even the distant speck-shadow of land. Instead, visible here and there, amid distant wisps of things that may have been clouds, there were great holes, ripped open and in some cases stretching on for miles. Great wounds, windows into and out of this space, all of which reveal different destinations, or else they bleed other images. Wherever in the multiverse this is, it is clearly falling apart.

>The sky has a distant, pinkish hue, bright with midday light and no sun to source it from, as the camera drifts around to face its master's entrance. Berri's ship, The Guilty Cocker Spaniel, appears in this new reality. It's a flicker of an image of a ship, at first, just one, then two, and within milliseconds the ship has solidified entirely into this crumbling, alien vista. The Spaniel is a blocky and graceless ship, looking more like a series of copper-colored shipping containers has been mashed, asymmetrically together. A blocky cockpit sits at its front, situated like the head of a turtle in its shell, and a quintet of thrusters are situated in the aft. The thing is a haphazard mess, but as it flickers into this existence, it comes to a drifting stop, turning on an impossible time given its design.

>The camera drone's aperture flutters shut, reopening with a zoomed-in shot at a loading bay door, fixed to the side of Berri's ship. The door opens on Berri, flooding the dark interior behind her with a sharp light. In her hands is a staff, a polished copper thing, made of disconnected pieces that seem to be held together by some magnetic force. Berri's stance is as casual as her dress, which is a pair of flip-flops and capris, a sports bra, and an ubuttoned brown cardigan, but she carries herself with an unerring confidence reflected in her smirk. The woman ashes her cigarette into the void around her, before clanking her staff on the floor of her ship. There's a slow wave of light, like displaced glitter on the wind, that spreads backwards from her feet. Machines behind her respond, various details hidden in the shadows of their looming forms glowing red.

>With another shuttering of its eye, the camera drone has zoomed back out, letting its wider sight capture several bug-like machines practically shoot themselves out of that hangar door, each one missing Berri by mere centimeters, reaching torpedo speeds only seconds after they've launched. Eight free-floating devices, each one the size of a rhino and built like wingless bugs, streak through the sky, coming to stops at such unbelievable distances that even the drone can no longer see them. The drones traveling the furthest take the most time, easily hurtling across this empty space for a daunting six minutes, at ever-increasing speeds. After three minutes, the echoing thunderclaps speak to broken sound-barriers.

>By this time, the drone has hovered its way back to The Spaniel, hovering around Berri's head and watching over its master's shoulder as she observes an octet of red dots, moving across a palm-sized screen. Two more minutes pass before the first red dot, the one closest to what must be Berri's location on the screen, turns green. One after another, the drones reach their established coordinates, and their tracking marks turn green. Satisfied with the cube of empty space they've formed the corners of, Berri clicks her staff on the floor again. The various charms, orbiting around the displaced ball of opaque white glass at its center, all shutter in unison, before that glass center seems to send a ripple out through the air around it. In response, the charms and tokens, all copper, all uniquely carved or shaped, all assume specific locations around that orb. Berri clicks the staff off the floor once more, and utters a command word. The syllables and sounds, the word itself, is lost in the audio distortion, as her voice seems to echo ahead of the words, but the command is heard clearly by the staff, which fires a white beam of light from the central glass orb.

>The beam of light trails off into the indistinct horizon, but it remains visible, even as it splits into several beams, hurtling in opposite directions and impacting the drones. Impossibly vast lines of glowing white light trace the outlines of a truly massive cube. It seems to hang in the air, this spectacle of light, for just a second, before the entire space explodes with white light in a violent flash. There's a thunderclap, as an incomprehensible amount of air attempts to fill in the space that Berri had just stolen, but as the camera drone's ability to see comes back, it's clear that Berri didn't just take a bajillion cubic meters of air. Based on the gaping tears, the instinct edges, and the black-and-white static beyond, Berri stole a healthy chunk of this reality, spiriting it away... somewhere. The video cuts as Berri lets out another puff of smoke and snickers to herself.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: A ship without a name  ( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)        

(A continuation from "Humans are weird: Purple to the rescue")

It had been three weeks since Captain Muk’tal and his ship had safely returned to the Coalition fleet. His ships daring escape from the heart of Arganian armada had been the talk of the fleet, though he and much of his crew had been admitted to the nearest hospital ship to enjoy the praise. Muk’tal himself had been placed into a medical coma to help accelerate the healing process and it was only yesterday he had been awoken and deemed ready to rejoin his ship.

The shuttle he was now on had been waiting for him as he left the medical quarters and entered the flight hangar. He had woven his way through chaotic traffic of landings and taking off of dozens of medical transports to reach the shuttle and was thankful for the sound cancelation when the door closed behind him. As the craft left the bay Muk’tal got his first good look at what remained of the fleet and understood why the medical ship had been so eager to get him out to make room for other patients.

Of the combined force to go to battle against the Arganian’s barley two thirds had survived to return to the rally point. It had been a harrowing maelstrom of warfare not seen since the War of Seven Spheres, and the complacency since then showed amongst the bulks of ships arrayed before him.

On his right he could see several mobile repair yards slowly drifting towards the Kataack battleships arrayed at the center of the fleet. They had taken the worst of the mauling and Muk’tal watched as giant carving lasers began bisecting one of the more damaged ships to use for parts to repair the others.

Next to those were scores of heavy and light cruisers, behind them a line of destroyers at least thirty ships long, and then at the end a few frigates too small to make out clearly from this distance. These were all the ships that had survived from his people’s contribution to the coalition fleet. Looking out the left window he could see the rest of the coalition handling their maintenance.

So vastly different was each species designs that aside from the most basic materials the sharing of materials would be all but useless. Some ships, like the Waybilen, were comprised of a metal only found on their world that they would melt down and mold into ships.

“We’re coming up on your ship now.” The pilot said over the loud speaker, and Muk’tal broke his gaze with the rest of the coalition fleet to see his ship come into view along the right side.

The purple paint coating had been removed. As thankful as he was for it having saved their lives he still dreaded the tacky color for a military vessel.

It was still worse for wear, but he would be damned to say he wasn’t happy to see it in one piece. Several of the armor plates had been removed, but more still had the superficial signs of damage along them with various scorch marks and energy grooves cut into them. He imagined that even if he had been the hero of the day there were not enough supplies to fully refit his ship.

Just as the shuttle made a pass across the bridge Muk’tal noticed something strange that had not been there before.

Beneath the command bridge a line of text had been crudely painted. It was too far away for him to clearly make out. At first he thought it was some repair crew marking a future job that needed to be done; but when he looked around the rest of the ship there were no other lines of text scrawled across his vessel.

He did not have long to think about it as the shuttle made another turn and Muk’tal heard the loud clicking sound of an airlock attaching and pressurizing.

The door slowly swung open and waiting on the other side were several of his bridge crew and senior staff waiting at attention.

“Welcome back, Captain.”

Muk’tal returned the salute to his new Head Engineer Teli. She had recently been promoted to the position as a reward for her actions during the previous engagement, and though he still missed his dear friend Morgas he was no doubt sure he would have approved his replacement.

“It’s good to be back.” He replied with a crisp salute. “What’s our status?”

“We’ve repaired all primary systems including engines, weapons, communications and life support.” She answered. “Hull repairs are sitting at 87% completed; we’re jump capable but I would not recommend more than twenty before we reexamine the hull for stress tears.”

“Make it every five jumps just to be on the safe side until we are fully repaired.”

Teli nodded and stepped aside so that the captain may speak with the rest of the senior staff. Many were like Teli, having just been promoted to the position, but a few faces were still the same and Muk’tal was glad to see that the last battle had not claimed all his friends.

“I’ll be heading to the bridge to run status checks on the systems there.” he told Teli over his shoulder as he already began making his way there before stopping and turning around.

“While I was flying over I saw someone had scribble something in paint on the side of my ship.” He told Teli. “Was that the repair crew’s work?”

Teli shook her head. He saw her cast a sidelong glance at the rest of the senior crew and some of them nodded silently before she continued.

“While you were recovering we all, that is to say the senior staff, had time to reflect on our good fortune for returning.” She began hesitantly. “The odds of us escaping the Arganian’s were nearly impossible, and yet we still made it.”

“A testament to our skill and determination,” Muk’tal said, “but that still does not explain the text on my ship.”

“We heard stories of how other species would honor their ship and in return it would help guide them home safely.” She continued. “One of the ways to honor the ship was to give it a name to be recognized by.”

Muk’tal said nothing as he glanced around the rest of the senior crew. While none of them met his eye contact none of them looked particularly embarrassed by this superstition. He ran a clawed hand over his face and let out a low sigh.

“It is not in our culture to name our ships,” he began, “so I will wager it was one of our allies who mentioned this to you.” He fixed Teli with an authoritative stare. “And I have a hunch on who gave you all these silly notions of superstition.”

He walked past the group and touched the com badge on the cuff of his uniform.

“Mr. Biggs report to the bridge; double time.” --------------------------------------

“Please explain why you have defaced my ship?”

Engineer Marvin Biggs stood attention on the bridge while the rest of the bridge crew pretended not to be listening in.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

Muk’tal stood up from his command throne and walked over to one of the windows overlooking his ship.

“About seven meters down from here,” he said as he pointed down, “you scrawled something on to the side of my ship without my permission or consent of the senior staff.”

“That’s not true sir.” Mr. Biggs countered. “I was the one who shared certain human customs, true; but it was officially put to a vote by both the crew and senior staff and they approved of it.”

Muk’tal turned in an instant and strode over to the human. He stood over him by easily two feet and fixed him with the coldest stare he had.

“This,’ he began softly, “is my ship, Mr. Biggs.”

“I am the commanding officer and as far as you are concerned my word is law onboard this vessel.”

Mr. Biggs opened his mouth as if to say something by Muk’tal silenced him with a gesture. “The only thing saving you from being locked in the brig until the exchange program is over is how you conducted yourself during our escape from the Arganian’s.”

“You will remove it, at once.”

With that he walked away from Marvin and returned to his command throne to go over several data feeds scrolling by. Mr. Biggs stood silent for a moment before making his way off the bridge. He stopped at the threshold and asked “Do you even know what it says?”

“No.” was all Muk’tal replied.

With that Mr. Briggs stepped off the bridge and the emergency sirens activated.

“Status report!?” Muk’tal demanded as he turned to the nearest bridge officer.

“Fleet wide communication coming in from Admiral Dun.” They replied.

“On speakers, now!”

The officer nodded, setting down their headset and flicking open the communication switch broadcasting the message.

“All ships all ships, this is the admiral; jump points have been detected on the edge of the system, prepare for combat.”

“All hands, man your battle stations this is not a drill!” Muk’tal shouted into the ships onboard speakers.

The previous matter with Mr. Biggs now swept away as the prospect of imminent combat pushed itself to the forefront of Muk’tal’s mind.

“Give me tactical now!”

A hologram projected itself to the center of the bridge showcasing the current position of the coalition fleet. The blue icons were scattered about desperately moving to form up, but it would take time. Muk’tal cursed whoever thought separating the fleet would somehow make repairs go faster as a host of red icons began appearing at the edge of the scanners.

Their fleet in its current state was broken into two parts that could easily be surrounded and cut to pieces. Even as he watched several of the coalition vessels begin moving together he saw it would be too late. The red icons had already made it a third of the way towards them in the time since the alert went out.

“Give me analysis on those ships now.” Muk’tal ordered. The scans now showing what appeared to be a red wave of hostiles half way towards them; their speed continuing to increase and shrink the distance.

“Count is seventy five enemy ships, frigate and raider class only.” The scanning officer called out. “No contacts for heavier warships.”

“Even now the bastards insult us.” Muk’tal stated; yet inwardly he couldn’t deny the tactic was sound. The lighter class ships now set against them would have been able to make the jump in a fraction of the time compared to their larger class vessels. These were no doubt meant to tie us down while the rest of the Arganian fleet was close behind.

“New orders from the admiral.” The communication officer called out. “We are to break orbit and retreat out of system immediately.”

“Come about and bring all batteries to the ready.” Muk’tal ordered.

“But sir-“ the communication officer began, but Muk’tal stopped him.

“If we turn now we will be shot in the back!” To emphasize the point he highlighted the enemy icons now mere minutes away from reaching firing range. “Make for the edge of the system but keep our guns trained on the enemy!”

“Aye, aye!” came the response as the ship slowly turned. The bridge windows blurring for a moment as the vessel’s engines pushed it around. Muk’tal could see the deck gun turrets emerging from their coves and training on the approaching enemies.

“Arganian’s have entered firing range, permission to fire?” the Weapons Master asked. Muk’tal’s hands dug deep into the arms of his chair as he gave the order and the deck guns discharged concentrated plasma lances.

Two frigates took the brunt of the lances head on, crumpling like empty metal cans as their hulls imploded. Several more made hasty course corrections to avoid them and clashed headlong into each other adding another three kills, but it was mere droplets in an ocean. Before the batteries could fire a second volley they were upon them.

Shields flashed bright green as a barrage of ballistic and laser weaponry hammered it with each enemy ship speeding by. The Arganian ships were not even slowing down to adjust their aim but continued speeding passed as they fired randomly.

Muk’tal looked out the window to see a mobile repair yard take the full brunt of a barrage and explode violently; showering the battleship it had been working on with debris. Several other coalition ships had turned to make a fight of it while many more ignited their engines and sped off as quickly as they could for the edge of the system. These fleeing ships drew the attention of the Arganian’s who broke off from making a second run on the fighting ships to instead chase down the retreating ships.

“Full power to the engines!” Muk’tal ordered. “Get us out of here!”

He felt a shift in the gravity as the vessel surged forward. Unlike his previous attempt to reach a jump point that took three days, at full power the ship could reach the system’s edge in twenty minutes. A fact that loomed over everyone as a bright red timer appeared on the hologram showing the countdown timer to reaching the jump point.

“Enemy ships bearing down on us.” The scanning officer called out. “Five frigates closing fast.”

“All deck guns retarget approaching frigates!”

The deck guns slowly began turning towards the frigates approaching from the opposite direction but it wouldn’t be fast enough.

“Enemy ships firing.” They called out before alarm bells sounded. “They’ve fired shield crackers!”

“Anti-missile batteries full spread now!” Muk’tal shouted. “Shoot them down!”

His fear was all too real as shield crackers could punch a hole through even a battleships layered shielding and crack them in two. To have five coming at him at once was like facing death itself.

Without hesitation gun ports opened and razor cannons fired. The space between the missiles and the ship soon was filled with millions of sharpened metal fragments more than capable of shredding anything. One after another the shield crackers exploded and it looked as if they were going to-

“Brace for impact!”

One missile had survived the razor cannons fired and struck the shields head on. The green light of them overwhelmed the bridge before the shields broke and the missile shot forward to complete its task. Muk’tal closed his eyes and waited for the end.

But the end never came.

Muk’tal opened his eyes to see that he was still very much alive and that his ship was still intact.

“What happened?” Muk’tal asked. His bridge crew was looking just as confused and relieved as their captain was at their sudden good fortune.

“I’m not sure,��� The scanning officer called, “but the frigates are coming around for another pass.”

The red timer above the bridge finally reached zero signifying that they had reached safe jump distance. “Engage the jump drive!” Muk’tal ordered. “Get us out of here!”

------------------------------- Several dozen systems away Muk’tal’s ship emerged from their jump. The system appeared to be devoid of any ship activity or signs of life, the glow from a pale white star washing over everything only adding to its eerie silence.

“All stations give me damage reports.” Muk’tal commanded. He only now realized that he had been clutching his command throne so tightly that his fingers had dug deep into the upholstery. He removed his fingers delicately as the command stations sounded off. Aside from some minor damage his ship had survived yet another impossible battle.

“Sir,” one of the command staff called out as they stood by the window, “I think you should see this.”

They were pointing to something outside the ship but Muk’tal couldn’t see it from his position. He stood from his command throne and went over to the staffer who was pointing just below the bridge. When he arrived he could almost feel his soul leave his body.

There, embedded into the hull of his ship, was the fifth shield cracker missile.

The tip of the missile had punctured the hull yet beyond all sense of reason had failed to detonate. Muk’tal could feel his body shaking like it had never done before. It was one thing to face down death, but it was entirely another to be standing alongside it wondering if each second would be your last.

“Bring the ship to a full stop.” Muk’tal said quietly. The staffer nodded and went back to his terminal to relay the order to engineering. “Mr. Dogra, come here.” Muk’tal called out to his Weapons Master. They promptly stood up and joined him at the window and likewise shared a moment of overwhelming fear.

“I want you to use whatever resources you need, and get that thing off my ship.”

Dogra nodded without saying a word and turned around heading towards the bridge’s exit while Muk’tal looked down at the missile.

“Mr. Biggs,” Muk’tal spoke into his communicator, “are you there?”

There was a pause before the humans reply came back. “Here sir, what can I do for you?”

“The text you wrote on my ship, what did you write?”

Another moment of silence before Mr. Biggs answered. “I wrote “Vitalis o Wisp”, which translates to-“

“Wisp of life.” Muk’tal finished.

“I changed my mind,” Muk’tal continued, “I think I shall keep that name after all; although I will need you to do something for me when next we reach port.”

“Which is?” Mr. Biggs asked understandably confused.

“Add a fresh coat of paint.”

With that Muk’tal closed the link and looked down at the missile once more; the tip of it having gone straight through Mr. Biggs paint job from earlier.

[rivensdefenseattorney]

Red Fountain Campus Facilities

Vanguard Campus Facilities

Tactical Combat Arenas

Varied arenas designed for tactical combat training and simulations.

Environments mimic diverse terrains for realistic combat scenarios.

Leadership and Command Center

Dedicated space for strategic planning and leadership development.

Simulation rooms for command exercises and decision-making scenarios.

Freelance Operations Hub

Space designed for independent contracting simulations and diverse combat scenario training.

Rooms for role-play exercises in navigating solo contracts or team-based operations.

Squadron Collaboration Center:

Meeting space for students to form and strategize with their squads.

Equipped with planning boards, discussion areas, and team collaboration tools.

Military History Archives

Extensive collection of historical records and artifacts related to warfare and strategy.

Rooms for discussions and analyses on historical battles and strategies.

Field Operations Training Grounds

Outdoor areas equipped for survival tactics training and field operations simulations.

Includes obstacle courses and wilderness environments for practical survival exercises.

Arcane Campus Facilities

Enchantment Workshops

Workspaces dedicated to practicing and mastering enchantment techniques.

Areas for experimenting with various enchantments and spellcraft.

Magical Artifact Studios

Studios designed for creating and studying magical artifacts.

Workspaces with tools and materials for crafting and analyzing magical items.

Creature Conservation Habitats

Sanctuaries and habitats for mystical creatures, focusing on their preservation and ethical treatment.

Areas for students to observe and study the behavior of these creatures.

Grand Archives of Magic

Renowned repository containing ancient tomes, magical texts, and theoretical studies on magic.

Research areas for delving into magical theory and historical practices.

Elixir and Potion Brewing Laboratories

Integrated labs for alchemical experimentation, potion brewing, and magical elixir creation.

Equipped for hands-on exploration of alchemical processes and potion concoction.

Beast Taming and Riding Grounds

Specially designed grounds for students to practice beast taming and riding.

Various enclosures to safely interact with and learn to ride different mystical creatures.

Magical Lineage Chambers

Chambers dedicated to the study of noble lineages and their magical heritage.

Spaces for discussions and analyses on the magical significance of lineage connections.

TechForge Campus Facilities

Techno-Magic Integration Center

Central hub for merging technology and magic.

Advanced labs equipped for coding enchantments, spell-powered systems, and magical-technological fusion.

Techno-Magic Artificer's Workshop:

Specialized workspace for crafting and enhancing magical artifacts and tools.

Enchantment stations and forging areas for creating enchanted devices.

Aerospace Complex

High-tech laboratories dedicated to aerospace engineering and dimensional travel studies.

Simulated flight environments and testing areas for aircraft and dimensional travel prototypes.

Techno-Magic Innovation Hub

Collaborative space for cutting-edge research and innovation in techno-magic fusion.

Project rooms and brainstorming areas for interdisciplinary collaborations.

Techno-Magic Programming Center

State-of-the-art computing facilities for magical coding and program development.

Coding environments specialized for techno-magical integration and spell-driven systems.

Techno-Magic Prototype Hangar

Facility for prototyping and testing new techno-magic devices and vehicles.

Workspaces for students to build and refine their techno-magic creations.

___

Note:

I hope everyone had a good Christmas, or if you don't celebrate I hope this time of the year is treating you well. I took a few days to just be with my family. I want to get back into posting at least once a day, so I can just keep myself disciplined. This isn't what I wanted to post today, but I just needed to make sure I was posting something. I'm trying to build up the habit of not being worried about every single detail.

[zmasters]

The Void Crawler - Floor 1: The Main Promenade and The Lift

Introduction

Regardless of who hired you, you have accepted the job to explore the derelict vessel HA Void Crawler. Your mission: figure out what happened, extract the data requested from your patron, get out.

Good luck Lancer, and I’ll see you soon.

Mission Start (LL 0)

The designated insert and extraction point is a cargo hangar bay on the starboard side, near the bow. Schematics indicate that the hangar and hallways leading off from it are large enough to fit most of not all mechs on the market.

The cargo bay is devoid of anything of value. Many of the boxes have been opened, with whatever being inside being taken who knows where.

Scans indicate that the air is breathable, and rats can be found scurrying through the hold. This is despite that reports indicate that the life support systems are down.

As you and your team move through the hall, you notice that the ship is temperate. Despite a decade of being lost in orbit around a small moon, the Void Crawler is completely safe for organic life. You take a step, and feel something soft and wet under your foot.

You stepped on a patch of moss.

As you walk deeper into the vessel, the moss gets more and more prominent. With each step, the air gets crisper, and the moss gets thicker. Eventually the moss shifts to a tall grass, and you swear you saw something move through the brush.

The hall eventually leads to the main promenade. What once was the center of life within this ship, where people would eat, relax, and enjoy their time off. But now it is literally the center of life, as a forest has sprung up in the three floors. Vines hung over the edges of the upper floors as long twisting branches block out the ceiling lights. A pond has formed at the opposite end of the room, being fed from a waterfall pouring from an old cafe on the third floor. God only knows where this water is coming from.

The more eagle eyed lancer's can notice arrows and a blood trail in the dirt. But before this can be investigated, your team recieves a message from your transport.

"Heads up lancer's, we got company. I'm pulling back to a save position. You're on your own until you clear them out."

A reported 4-8 assault grunt mechs, 1 pyro mech, and 1 witch mech had made land fall in the hangar. One should note that while the assault and pyro mechs aesthetically match Harrison Armory (even if Harrison Armory was the company that hired the party), the witch appears to be combination ISP-N and HORUS. As well, the witch would avoid combat when possible. Should the witch be the last NPC mech standing, they will turn invisible and leave.

Once combat is offer, the party will receive the following message for their mech communications, spoken through a text-to-speech style voice:

"H 3 1 1 0 F R 1 3 N D =) 1 M C Y 1 A! 0 F F 3 R R 3 P 1 A R $! H 3 R 3!"

A map of the ship will be uploaded to the mech's systems, with a passage to nearby elevator being hilighted.

Should the party instead focus on exploring the rest of the area, they will find more signs of sentient life. A net by the pond. A carving on a tree. A few tents hastily buried underneath. It's obvious something had lived here. Was it the original crew? Are the rumors of the Void Crawler discovering alien life true? Are they coexisting? There isn't enough evidence to know for certain.

The Lift (LL 1)

Upon entering the elevator that the mysterious message pointed to, it is clear that this isn't a normal elevator. The dimly light room was large enough to fit around ten mechs without issue. Comparing the lift to the map or the vessel provided indicates that this area was too large for where it should be.

All the materials needed to repair mechs, alongside the appropriate printers to print parts and even new mechs are all set up and waiting for use. Alongside this, an appropriate amount of bunks for the party to sleep in, a large freezer containing enough food to last the party indefinitely if rationed correctly, a prototype growth vat to grow even more food if needed, a stockpile of spare clothing, a bathroom (with a shower and laundry machine), and a terminal connected to the omninet. Whenever an expendable resource (such as food or toilet paper) is used, it will be replaced when the party aren’t looking at where it is normally stored. On the terminal, a sloppily hand-written sticky note saying "for u. b ComfY. pLes stAy."

On the opposite side of where you entered, at the right corner, there is metal gray pillar that doesn't match the style of the rest of the lift. The best way to describe it is as if the pillar was phasing through the lift. It is warm to the touch and you can faintly hear the sounds of sloshing liquid coming from inside.

On the pillar, about chest height, is a collection of buttons that resemble to floor buttons of a normal elevator. The buttons are labelled 1-12 (note that the Void Crawler only has seven levels). The 1 button lit up, indicating you are on level 1 (also note you entered the vessel through the fourth floor hangar and did not change floors up to this point).

This lift will act as the main resting place for the party during this mission. The party can use the area to heal from injuries, repair damaged mechs, print out new ones, and acquire licenses. As well, this is also how the party will travel to the other levels of this "dungeon."

[offbrand-valk]

(A bit of writing practice for nanowrimo, cause ya girl is rusty.)

Ræðsla

(*Ra-Th'-Sla*) trans. "Horror"

The machine awoke on command, followed the instructions attached to the boot message, and began its diagnostic routine.

First it scanned the hangar, noting each human shape it could identify within the 99.95th percentile; then it analysed each presumed human in turn, checking that they wore an identification token (and only one), and that this identification validated correctly.

This was not part of the diagnostics process, and would not be included in the diagnostics report. But should any of the validations fail, it would silently raise an alarm with an external system and await response from said system’s human operator. If no response was given, or the response was deemed untrustworthy, the machine would trigger a catastrophic meltdown within its reactor, destroying itself and its surrounding after a few minute, while trying to disguise the process as routine diagnostics.

Ræðsla of course, had no opinions on this protocol. It was a machine, an incredibly complicated machine, which even the people who had built it, only understood bits and pieces of, but a machine nonetheless – The closest it came to sentience was a series of specialized processors daisy-chained together to perform statistical extrapolation of available data in order to help the pilot focus on the most important information in the heat of combat.

One by one, Ræðsla tested the servo actuation on its’ thruster array, under the supervision of a small army of monks.

Two new figures entered the room, which the machine automatically checked the identities off and found them valid.

One was a tall, black man, with a bit of a muffin top, a neutral expression on his anonymous face, and eyes that were once warm, but now had become haunted by the horrors of war. Ræðsla’s database identified him as: Geo (he/him), father superior of the order of our father of righteous sorrow, head of the Ræðsla project.

The other was a mixed race butch, her mother was white, her father had been south Asian. She was sickly pale and skinny; an endless list of surgeries, and surgeries to correct the damage done by earlier surgeries, having taken its’ toll on her body.

Still, she looked like nothing if not the warlord upon her throne, as she drove her electric wheelchair towards the machine that took up most of the hangar. Ræðsla in turn, identified her as prince Gallantine Eva-Maria Brathwaite Oldenborg the 1st, of Fenrisfort, holy daughter of the matron pope Maria Valfreyja the 3rd; 1 of 1 authorized pilots of the Ræðsla prototype.

Ræðsla was an unconventional design. For one, it was big, almost twice the size of the average mech, top heavy too, with short legs and a pair of long arms hosting an thrusters, gravity shields, and torpedo rails.

The Ræðsla was built around its main gun, a terrible thing that spewed metal shavings at almost 10.000 kelvin. It moved around corners, got into ventilation, choked and burnsed at the same time, and left heavy ash in its wake.

It didn’t matter that it was clumsy on the ground, it was a spaceborn weapon, only meant to come down from low-orbit to do strafing runs on key targets or population centers.

Looking at it’s tripod shape, Gallantine couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to the dragon on her late wife’s coat of arms.

The machine finished it’s diagnostics routine.

One of the technicians, an old woman in a well-worn jumpsuit crossed the overhead walkway, her breathing was ragged, assisted by an implant that couldn’t quite compensate for the damage she did to her lungs 18 years ago sifting through heavy ash in the faint hope she would find just one member of her family alive.

In her hands she held a vacuum sealed box, within which lies 8kg of a pyrophoric alloy known as phlogistron. Enough for an 0.6 second burst of the Ræðsla’s main gun.

Another technician, a young monk, instructs Ræðsla to open its ammunition feed hatch, and fusses as the old woman connects the box to the feed mechanism.

“I urge you one last time prince, please reconsider.” The monk said as the pair crossed the room, doing an admirable job at hiding the fear in his voice.

The prospective pilot stopped, and turned her wheelchair to face him. The rage in her eyes burned like an ion torch.

“There was a point where we could have reconsidered brother. We passed it somewhere between when we granted my wife’s wish for euthanasia, and when we started grafting pieces of her cerebellum to my brainstem.”

The monk nodded, recognizing it was not his place to oppose the will of the gods, much as he wanted to.

Ræðsla closed its’ ammunition feed hatch, and sent a signal to the diagnostics terminal that it had successfully sealed its phlogistron supply, and that the main gun was now armed.

Reading this the younger monk, his face stained with engine grease, looked over the edge of the diagnostics terminal, and in a huge breach of decorum called out to his senior and the prince: “Will you two be done yapping soon, or should we put this thing back to sleep?”

The butch in the wheelchair smirked at her companion, feeling vindicated she was not the only one anxious to see if their project had paid off.

“Let’s see what this puppy can do!” She yelled out to cheers from the assembled technicians as she rolled up the ramp, and used the handrails for assistance to pull herself into the cockpit.

Father Geo took the cable off the pilot chair, and attached it to the back of the prince' suit with a loud *k'chunk*, before stepping back. A gentle current ran through Gallantine's spine for a few milliseconds in order to confirm the circuit was closed.

Ræðsla did as instructed, retracting the cockpit into the safety of its belly without beginning to interface with the pilot.

If she didn’t know better, Gallantine would say there was something _hungry_ about the rumbling and grinding sounds the machine made as it closed tight around her. As if _it too_ was excited to get moving, like it knew the atrocity it was built to avenge.

Father Geo took his place on the observation podium, and made the sign of the gods.

“Control, ready when you are.” Came the unmistakably impatient voice of prince Gallantine.

Geo considered asking her to lead them in prayer, but thought better of it. The old God and the new Gods had already made up their minds as to whether or not this would succeed, and the act was just as likely to calm the prince as it was to infuriate her.

===

The machine's cockpit was cramped, not an inch of empty space that wasn't required for the pilot to enter and exit.

The dual control sticks featured a staggering array of triggers, switches and buttons, rows of controls sat along the sides of both armrests, below screens waiting to be slid into her field of view with yet more buttons and switches placed above her.

Gallantine had piloted simulators before, but if you fucked up in a simulator, you made a fool of yourself, if she fucked up now, she might break a one of a kind war machine and set the project back years.

With more caution than she cared to admit, she flipped the overhead switch to activate the main display, lighting up the armored wall in front of her with a view from Ræðsla's head.

So far so good, a few more switches flipped, verify the cables were correctly attached, and nothing to do but try their luck.

"Begin human interfacing" came brother Geo's calm instruction in her headset.

Deep breath, here goes nothing, remove the safety, turn the handle 45 degrees, then pull until it goes click.

Every nerve in Gallantine's body triggered at once.

She was burning, she was freezing, she was being squeezed all over, up was every direction; and she was in

SO

MUCH

PAIN

The machine, for its' part, did exactly what it was supposed to, frantically changing frequency and voltage in the hope of finding the right one before causing irreversible damage to the pilot.

She was about to call it off, didn't know if she still could, when an image resurfaced in her overstimulated brain: a broken down mech lying beneath a blanket of heavy ash, clutching the cockpit that had failed to eject, in the hopeless hope of protecting its pilot from the dangers that lay outside, yet unable to keep her from breathing heavy metals.

The pilot would lay there for almost 3 days, unable to move herself or her mech, wasting away as microscopic slivers of thalium cut holes in her lungs and entered her bloodstream.

And one thought crystalized, unifying pilot and mech.

Kill them all.

Kill Them All!

Kill! Them! All!

The Pope.

The General.

The Captain.

The Organist.

The entire fucking council who let them do it.

KILLTHEMALL

===

Integration successful

You sent the message to your visor, telling you nothing you didn't already know. Moving your metal body was obvious, the wealth of controls no different than the wealth of muscles belonging to the soft organic thing within you, that was you, and yet, so much less.

You moved your tail experimentally about, feeling like a phantom limb the different textures as it scraped across metal, plastic and glass; unable to imagine a time you had ever been without it.

Because you hadn't. Prince Gallatine Oldenborg of Fenrisfort had, but she wasn't you. She was an essential component, like your grand CPU, and MTF reactor. Without her, there was no you, but she was not you.

You were a 115 ton, experimental, flying, war machine, rated for atmospheric and space combat.

You were 27 kilometres of wire, 304 distinct microprocessors, 556 reactive armor tiles, 24 ion thrusters, 2 gravity shields, 9 recognizance drones, and a weapon that should never have been built.

You were Ræðsla.

[ruvviks]

ok but. u gotta give us some Opportunity lore. that place sounds soooo cool

HEHE IT IS VERY COOL!! there is so much to say about that place so i'll try my bestest to keep it brief

opportunity is basically a huge megalopolis on the east coast of the united states, stretching across two states from around atlanta to the coastline. it's a very impressive project since there's no ghouls inside the safezone at all which is insane because in the surrounding areas there ARE many many ghouls!! so they fought off all of that while still building the walls + defenses surrounding the zone WHILE also keeping everyone inside safe. this is why it's such a popular place and basically one of the most important places in the world, because it shows progress and is a symbol of hope

the outer walls of the city are of course defensive but at the same time they're like. facilities. if that makes sense. you can go inside the wall. it's a building. but also a wall!! the ground floors are mostly these huge hangars where vehicles and whatnot are stored with large hangar doors that open up into the city as well as into the wasteland (never at the same time for. obvious reasons), and the many levels above ground floor are for a variety of things; there's offices in there, laboratories, dormitories for opportunity's own specialized armed forces (squads of trained people who go out into the wasteland for various tasks such as clearing out troublesome locations where ghouls are holed up, helping survivors, and getting supply drops), armories, etc etc

opportunity is the only safezone in the united states where the united states military is not active at all, it has its own armed forces to protect itself with :^) other than that it does have a lot of matrix activity (mostly just matrix scientists in the research labs of course where they're trying to look for a cure / vaccine, but matrix also has their own armed forces called matrix agents which are active there too)

since the wall stretches on for MILES it's divided into sections which are all managed separately, so they all have their own control center and own armories and labs and whatnot to make it easier to oversee rather than have the whole entire wall managed from one place only. the different control centers communicate with each other of course but especially in the labs they try to focus on different research, to cover a LOT more ground while also updating each other on their findings to hopefully get to a cure / vaccine faster. but somehow they're still not getting any closer despite all their efforts... INTERESTING...

as for life inside the megalopolis, it's divided into cities within the place so there's also a lot of empty space between those which is managed by rangers basically LMAO, and within the cities there's neighborhood clusters which all consist of a main street with all the important stuff (community center, religious places, grocery store, schools, etc) and houses surrounding that street. there's one huge shelter for each cluster which makes it easier to deal with breaches in the wall because it's a lot easier to get people to safety that way and deal with the ghouls in the meantime :^) the design of the clusters also makes it easier to just. in general predict where people are gonna be moving in case of a breach or outbreak which also makes it easier to prepare for situations like that to begin with, which is why opportunity is such a success

opportunity is the main location for the first act of the story and it's super fun to play around with :^) but then there's a huge breach. and ghouls get inside. on a scale NEVER seen before. which makes you think. is it really a breach... or did someone do this on purpose... INTERESTING...

[mercswercs]

>>You're deep in an underground facility, an old Saintworks Blacksite, found and buried by a subsequent occupier of the solar system, Castle-Tech. The whole complex has been a mess of logos, trash, mixed tech of all ages, and guys with holes in them. Castle-Tech building practices, austere and utilitarian, but in every storage room, there are supply crates, weapon boxes, even unmarked clothes. But printed on every crate and shipping container, written into the design of every rifle, and embroidered into the tags of every jacket, you see the Haptagud logo: A closed, clawed fist, framed by a diamond as it rises from smoke, the fist itself orbited by a number of circles, like planets. You're getting tired of seeing that logo, especially in the hands of this paramilitary faction.

>>The residents of the facility guard the sub-levels far more zealously than they guard the mineral processing, but your experience in dealing with crowds of bandits is more than adequate, especially in closed, reinforced hallways. You'd cut a bloody swath through the plant, into the basement, and then into a cave. painstakingly excavated, with the bare-bones for livability installed. You passed under harsh white lights, past suspended vents, exposed conduits, until you dropped through a ceiling, into the blacksite. Old tech, even in a galaxy where technological development has stagnated somewhat, surrounds you. There's a burnished brown finish to the metal, newish dust settled with newish air. Everything here is simultaneously extremely obsolete, and incredibly ahead of its own time, the hallmarks of a Saintworks blacksite, many of which persisted after the original company collapsed at the outset of the corporate wars.

>>The defense of the blacksite had been more rabid, more dedicated, but even you can tell when you're being goaded in a certain direction. The defenses break -convincingly- at specific doors and turns, as if the head of the snake was inviting you to cut it off. Bait, but good-enough bait for you to tackle, so you took it, and followed the hook into an arena. Whatever Old Saintworks had been testing here, it took a reinforced hangar bay to test it.

>>A pair of auto-mechs, twelve-foot-tall, humanoid robots, now lie in a crumpled heap, mixed with rubble and the bent rinds of a metal door. Six more of them form a breadcrumb trail to the center of this makeshift arena, where a pompous man berated you over the intercom, desperately hoping that the ring of killer robots he deployed around you, would kill you.

>>You're in the observation room, looking down from the ceiling of the arena, a twisted catwalk forming the makeshift ramp up. Beyond the the observation room, still equipped with a now dry-rotted water cooler in the corner, are double doors to the offices of the site's administrators. You kick these doors open, driving the left door through the frame, tearing it off its hinges with a single heel-strike. It impacts the old secretarial desk at the center of a round room, studded with more doors. All the doors are cast open, but the new occupants are absent. Only a cowering, pot-bellied man in a lab coat is left. You recognize him by his voice, the nervous stutter. Of course the boss would put his desk in the middle of the offices.

>>Under the lab coat are the remnants of a castle-tech officer's uniform, concealing deceptively broad shoulders. This is a powerful man, not one to be taken lightly because of bombast and an interesting silhouette. But he's also a man no longer used to fighting, you figure, having completely taken him by surprise with the force of your rush to his office, with the brutality you put a simple fireman's ax through the final auto-mech.

>>"Wa-w-w-wait! D-d-don't kill me! I can explain everything!" They always say things like this, once you've got your hands around their collars. "I know why you're here! That bitch's pet blonde already interrogated me, I'll tell you what I told him!" You give the man a complimentary shake, as a number of thoughts flicker through your brain in rapid succession.

>>As you drop the man back into his wheelie chair, you respond, "Guy ain't the type ta' miss all the extra materiel you got here today. Haptagud's even dressin' you lot." Your eyes flicker over his old uniform jacket. "Most a' you lot, at least." The ax levels itself right between the man's eyes, as threatening as a loaded gun. "I wanna know THREE things. Who the feck are you guys, what the feck're ya doin' on Ub'dair, an' why in the feck are you gettin' bankrolled by feckin' Haptagud?"

>>The man stammers for a long second, says, "My name is Lairne Miarscco, a-a-a-a-and these men, that you've killed, are my men. We stayed behind after Castle-tech left."

>>"Fer piracy, or somethin' else?"

>>"We... have a mission. S-s-something worth more than a late paycheck from a has-been corporation. We're on your s-s-side, if you think about it!" Lairne visibly relaxes as you heft the ax back over your shoulder.

>>"I dunno what ta' think about this shite, buddy. I ain't got half the facts I oughta. Tell me 'bout this feckin' mission, an' I'll judge if it's a good answer to any a' my questions, ay." The man spills into a rough, brief history of Castle-Tech's time on Wayouddy. Saintworks was the first corporation to claim the sparsely settled planet, and held it for almost sixty years, until the galactic-scale war they started consumed them as a casualty. Then came Castle-Tech, interested in the vast wealth of Gild and minerals, who held it for nigh-on eighty years, until mounting costs, a crisis with the CEO, and the rise of Jotunn Inc forced them out of the system.

>>"But my men and I, we'd found something dangerous. The higher-ups would've had a field day with this blacksite alone, but there's... more. Something deeper under the facility. A map room." Lairne's voice takes on a serious, solemn tone. "There's... places that NO corporation should be able to lay their hands on. Whatever ancient aliens buried the thing, they won't be around to keep us from getting ourselves killed. Sites of research, wealth, power..." Lairne seems to snap his attention back to you. "No one should be allowed to doom us all with these things, not even that bitch in the space station." You let the second insult to your "auntie" slide, choosing to wonder about why you're feeling defensive of her later.

>>You wave the ax around over your shoulder, cracking your neck and shifting your weight, "That's... vague, but lessay I take ya' at yer word, Lairne. Keepin' alien junk outta rich bastard hands IS a noble goal, an' one I can abide by." This time you actually DO point a gun, a deceptively plain-looking repeater, at the leader of this militia. "But how the feck does Haptagud factor in. Do they know 'bout this map?" Lairne shakes his head in quick denial.

>>"I've walked a very narrow line with Mr. Obscurite! As far as he knows, the only thing my men are s-s-s-safekeeping are his blacksites!" Your body follows your attention, kneeling down to get eye-level with this motley marshal of misplaced men, the barrel of your gun now touching his forehead.

>>Your eyes are dangerous slits behind your cracked glasses, a cold sweat suddenly running down your back. Your coat feels suffocating, suddenly, as you say, "his blacksites?" Lairne attempts to nod his head in confirmation, but the cold press of steel against his temple stops him. He very slowly raises his hand to point behind his ruined desk, to the original head office. Your blood freezes as you follow the direction.

>>Looming out from a painting behind the large, black, wooden desk, behind the ornate leather and gold chair, is the visage of a man. Against all the old rumors, against all the jokes, the walking mummy depicted there is no shriveled-up thing. His skin is sour and pale-gray, too-thin looking, sure, and shot through with visible veins, but it's wrapped around broad, thick muscles, a tree-trunk neck, a broad jaw. High cheekbones and a sharp chin, the hallmarks of your family tree, give the man's face a skeletal look, his eyes shining with malicious greed from deep-set sockets. This is an ancient man, by human standards, his once fiery-red hair laid low into a greyish chestnut color, worn on his muttonchops, and across his wild, balding head.

>>The portrait of the man dresses him a dark, black suit, not in the style of 180 years ago, but in the style of today, trimmed, monotone, with accents that blend business-formal with military-officer. With a creeping dread, you realize this is a new painting, in a dustless frame, of a ghost. No, not a ghost- a demon. Your mouth utters the name silently before you find your voice: "Jovian St. Germain..."

>>Distantly, as though he was on the other end of the testing arena below, you can hear Lairne mutter, "He's got my children hostage, it's all I can do to comply, without betraying everything my men have lived for... for decades."

>>There's a deep, icy-black pit in your stomach that seems to rumble at those words, at that face. The scars on your wrists and ankles burn like they've splashed with acid. An itch so deep, it might as well be in the bone. Then that icy-black pit begins to lurch, and your fury tears through it. An all-consuming blaze of fire, that tears down your fears as you give a shouting roar, standing upright, pulling the gun from Lairne's very relieved head.

>>"JOVIAN ST. GERMAIN! YOU UNDEAD SUMBITCH, I'M GONNA MAKE SURE YER ARSE STAYS IN THE FECKIN GROUND, THIS TIME." You turn your attention to Lairne, for just a moment, waving the gun around absentmindedly, causing the shaken man to tremble. "YOU. You get ta' live today, lucky you." Your gun holstered, you haul the portly general up from his cheap chair, to his feet, and dust the front of his coat off. "Consider yerself neutralized, Guy beat ya, I nearly killed you. Haptagud won't have access ta yer kids long enough ta' kill em. Not if I have my say."

>>You turn from his protests, full of so many variables of fear and uncertainty, so distant from the condensing flames of your anger. Laser-pointed, now, you merely mutter as you leave the way you came, "An' I'll have my feckin' say." You said yourself once, there are too many bad examples of dispassionate lust for knowledge, for power, hanging from your family tree. When you said it, you had meant Jovian specifically. And you hate being proven wrong. He has to hang, you think, ignorant of every other reason to kill the man.

[rainbourgsdisplay]

For the column workshop I redeveloped my old design in order to create something more sculptural and artistic. Instead of just using a simple metal shelf, I expanded the structure into 3D to create a twister, tornado or turbulence like shape, from which I wanted to hang the models and posters as well as banners down. More of this structure connected would awoke the feeling of an hangar or workshop for plane parts, creating metal arches to go through. As Material I wanted to use aluminium pipes and metal pipe connectors. The metal structure seems to be floating in the black void, with the white column, the eye of the storm at its center.