#Lethal firepower

[000marie198]

Do you believe that Tails would turn into a more morally dark gray character if anything bad were ever to actually happen to Sonic?

Like we all know if Sonic isn't there to be both his impulse control AND moral support he would have a nuke by now.

The thought of Tails turning more to violence or more extreme measures if or even when sonic isn't there anymore has always been so interesting

Dude probably already does have a nuke stashed somewhere.

In my personal opinion? I don't see him turning morally dark grey. I mean, of course he can go unhinged and feral but I don't think he would go down a dark path if something bad were to happen to Sonic. I believe that Tails himself is a hero just as much as Sonic is and he would live by his brother's teaching and moral advice. He would keep up the legacy and rise up to the challenges with determination and courage. With how close these two are, I doubt Tails would just not care about what Sonic would've hoped to see him grow up to be.

But he would let loose and clear all bets when it comes to the one who harmed Sonic. After the event of anything bad happening to his brother, Tails would not hold back from outright murdering the one intentionally responsible.

Also, he wouldn't become morally ambiguous but he also wouldn't be lenient with anyone anymore. He would not easily give any foe the benefit of the doubt. He would grow far less merciful than Sonic. He would become a tad but like Shadow. Not in the regard of bitterness or anything but rather becoming serious and not holding back when it comes to most villains. While before he wouldn't have killed, now he would take down the villains who don't heed his warning without reluctance. Not that he would be killing every foe but more in a 'If this guy doesn't even want to be reformed then I am not giving too many chances' manner.

[bumblingbee1]

It’s funny how I deem Ada to be my favorite mercenary to play as in RE4 Mercenaries mode, while HUNK was the one who helped me unlock two of the four maps there lmao

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Uncharismatic Fact of the Day

Most animals don't have the firepower to tangle with the Portuguese Man'o'war, as their venomous sting can be extremely painful or even lethal. One predator, however, can't get enough of these floating siphonophores! The violet sea snail creates a raft out of mucus bubbles, and waits on the surface of the water waiting for jellyfish to float by for a tasty snack.

(Image: A violet sea snail (Janthina janthina) floating on its hand-made bubble raft by Denis Reik)

If you like what I do, consider leaving a tip or buying me a ko-fi!

[why-bless-your-heart]

I just think the whole Home Alone type thing is fun. Like “Oh noooo you’ve invaded my home whatever shall I doooo }:) psych.” Full-out guerilla warfare tactics. Maybe the bad guys have superior forces and firepower, but the good guys know that if you get that one doorknob wet the jerry-rigged electric wiring system will give you a, well, maybe not technically lethal shock, but it’s not gonna be pleasant. “Oh nooo our Star Trek ship has been boarded by hostile forces,” the entire engineering department has been fantasizing about this day since they were kids, you’ve got gleeful combatants popping up out of the air vents. “Alas and alack, our castle has fallen to the foe,” turns out the servants know all of the back ways and aren’t particularly interested in switching employers. It’s just fun!

[mistyresolve]

| Incident Report - Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Pilot Reader

Word Count - 4.5K

Summary - The reader is the pilot of an apache helicopter, one the most dangerous, advanced killer in the sky. She’s been the 141′s go-to when they need aerial support for a year. Each time she is called to a mission with them she immediately thinks of one person, Ghost. And she’s not the only one finding it hard to focus on the mission when working with the other. So when she devises a plan to finally get what they both desperately need, Ghost happily obliges her.  

Warnings/Tags - 18+ ONLY,  swearing, SoftDom, slight switch, praise, fingering, pussy licking? unprotected sex, creampie 

A/N - not to be nerdy but the apache helicopter to hella fuckin cool

Masterlist  ❤︎  RTB (Part two)

The first time you joined Task Force 141 on a mission was a year ago, having been asked to be their aerial support. Unlike the regular formal introduction that happened where you would meet your new team and mission in a conference room, you had been introduced on the tarmac. You were just doing the final safety checks with the engineer when the 141 arrived. 

You thanked your engineer before leaving to meet them. The only one you knew from previous collaborations was Captain Price. And it was Price who introduced you to everyone else. You tucked your helmet under your arm, catching it on the curve of your hip so you could have a free hand to shake with. 

“Nice to see you again, Stitch,” He dipped his chin at you, before sweeping a hand at the pack of men behind him. 

“Always a pleasure,” you gave him an easy smile. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware, this is the 141,” he pointed to the first individual, “Soap”, his grasp was firm and as you shook his hand, and gave each other a curt nod. Then Price moved the next, “Gaz,” you did the same with him, he offered you a sweet smile and you couldn’t help a matching one from growing on your own face. The last soldier was more stoic than the rest, harder to read, “and Ghost. This isn’t everyone but it’s who will be on today's mission.” 

When you met Ghost eyes you knew immediately he was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. You were thankful he was on your side. Thankful that you’d never have to come toe to toe with him. You took note of the fact that his eyes lingered on you too. Dark eyes roamed over you. Not in a heated lewd sense, but like a calculating predator. He was taking note of weaknesses and blind spots already. You wanted to wave a little white flag at him, marking yourself as an ally. 

Just then your co-flyer, having previously focused on the manifests, joined in on the pleasantries. 

“This is Dutch,” you knocked your shoulder against his, “The best gunner and partner a pilot could ask for.”   

“How long have you guys been flying?” Gaz inquired, cocking his head to the side. 

“Three years with this girl,” you threw a thumb over your shoulder to the aircraft behind you. It was an apache helicopter, one of the most advanced technologies all packed behind the painted green casing. The most exciting piece of equipment is the integrated helmet display, allowing either the pilot or gunner to slave the live footage of the chain gun to the helmet. It tracked an individual's head movement to provide an even more accurate aim. 

The apache was one of the most dangerous helicopters in the sky and you got to pilot it. You almost cried when you got your placement after flight school. You did cry after your first flight. 

Gaz let out a low whistle, “Is she treating you well?” 

You nod, “As long as I give her proper aftercare.” 

That first mission went smoothly, really smoothly. 

The Apache was built on the premise of being agile and lethal, and with you and Dutch inside the cockpit, the aircraft was able to reach its full potential. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t show off for them just a little. Show them who you acquired your callsign, Stitch. Bobbing and weaving around bullets and missiles. Threading between the terrain. Dutch provided firepower with unmatched aim. Dutch hammered the enemy with chain gun rounds, rockets, and HELLFIRE missiles. You’d also be lying if you said the elated cheering of the 141 over the radio didn’t boost your ego. 

You had provided them with as much support as you could be having to RTB for fuel. 

Every mission was no different from the first. All of them a success. And you couldn’t help the exciting you that hopped around in your chest every time you got assigned to the 141. 

One of the reasons was that you had grown a certain affinity for one of the members.  

Today’s mission was a little different. It started off with you being called to one of the conference rooms with Dutch right at your side. When you entered the room and found out who you were meeting, you grinned.

“Hello, boys,”  you immediately started searching the room for one person in particular, finding him seated at one of the tables. He had one arm resting on the table in front of him, and his head resting on his other fist. His eyes were already on you, slowly racking down your body. The heat behind his eyes made you feel good, made you want to ravish him right then and there. 

The tension was there from the very beginning, and it only grew every time you saw him next. You could feel it swell and surge between you guys, and you were damn sure he could too. Neither of you had acted on it though. Mostly because of the conflict of interest. Partly because the chase was fun.  

His gaze met yours, heavy-lidded with filthy vehemence.  

Some flighty and skittish part of you taking the reins and you had to look somewhere else. Anywhere else. You landed on the table he was sitting at, littered with maps, pictures, and documents. You slapped down on that piece of yourself, cursing at it. He made you nervous and loathed him for it. No man has ever made you nervous.  

“What’s on the itinerary for today?” your voice came out a little higher than it usually did. You shifted a document over to get a better look at the map. Price ran through the plan, briefing you and Dutch on your roles.   

The flight started off as expected, being called into action when the 141 had difficulties shaking the enemy and were in a vehicle chase. Their ammo was running low and one of them was shot. The wound wasn’t mortal but apparently, he was hurtin’.  

They were speeding down a desolate street of a deserted city when you reached them. You maneuvered your heli to hover behind a highrise, waiting until the enemy forces sped around the corner at the end of the street. When finally they did you rolled over into the middle of the street, hovering high in the air. Dutch fired away, taking out the forefront. 

“Fuck yeah!” Soap yelled into the radio, and you could see him shoot a fist out the window of one of their trucks.  

You shifted, barreling forward, adding pressure. This allowed Dutch to make a run with the chain gun as you flew overhead. You didn’t like the position but the highrise buildings on either side of the streets gave you no choice. 

“Let me know when you guys see smoke!” you had to yell over the sound of Dutch’s bombardment and strafe. You dipped between two buildings and met the reflection of the apache in the windows. You gave Dutch a quick salute in said reflection to which he returned with his own, before repositioning to enter the battle further back. More space meant more time for reaction. You would support them for as long as you could, they just needed to get out of the intended location or when they lose the tail. Or when you get rid of them. 

“Smoke!” Ghost shouted, warning us of the heat-seeking missile. 

“Flares!” you counter. Inverting the aircraft you released flares. The maneuver was the only way to get them out and in front of you in time to counter the MPADS missiles. You swore, “That was too fucking close.” 

Even Dutch seemed a little uneasy about it. You rightened yourselves, wanting to gain distance and height. 

“Switching to helmet display,” you announced, joining Dutch in the shooting. The 141 raced underneath you, and you applied as much cover as you could manage before needing to refocus on piloting. Four blocks away were reinforcements for them. You could manage it, Dutch could manage it. 

“RPG!” 

You merely had to dodge these ones, leaning left then right as they blew past you. 

Three blocks. 

Two blocks. 

Dutch signalled to you that he was out of HELLFIRE, and Missiles, “I got 50 rounds left in the chain gun,” he remarked, his voice calm and collected. One of the reasons you loved him as your gunman.     

“We’re RTB, we’ve given you guys all we could,” I hailed down to the ground, pulling away. 

“Thanks once again, CADAVER,” Price replied, calling you guys by your aircraft callsign, “See you two back home.” 

“We’ll have dinner ready and on the table for you guys,” you said, already heading back.

“Sunday roast?” Soap joined in.

“It’s Thursday, Mate,” Ghost answered for us dryly. You couldn’t help but smile at the familiar exchange.  

They were back on base an hour after you guys, and we met up for a quick and dirty debrief before being let off for dinner. You had purposefully chosen the seat beside Ghost during the debrief. He had also purposefully knocked his knee against yours underneath the table. The fleeting and seemingly innocent touch made you throw your other leg over the other and squeeze your thighs together. 

Like always you dreaded the inevitable paperwork that you had to complete and hand in tomorrow. You had just finished it when an idea formed in your wicked thoughts. 

With your action report in hand, you knocked on his door, plastering an innocent look on your face before opening the door. An expression of pleased confusion passed through his dark eyes, darker still when they dilated at the sight of you. He was still in his gear, only he was missing his weapons. You had strategically worn easy-to-remove clothes. An oversized sweater you’d stolen from the locker room(and nothing underneath you might add), and plain black leggings.   

You waved the piece of paper in front of him, “I thought it would be a good idea to compare notes.” 

You catch the ghost of a smile in his eyes, and he scanned the hallway before stepping aside to let you in, “Brilliant idea,” he shut the door behind him. 

It was your first in his barracks, and if you hadn’t known any better you would have assumed the room was vacant. Apart from the paper and folders on the desk, the rest of the observable room was pristine. 

Before answering the door he was probably working on the same report as you were. His writing was neat and tidy, a mixture between print and cursive. You examine the papers with a hum. He stayed a step back, he wanted to let you make the invitation before closing in. 

“I hope you’re not gossiping about me in here,” you jest as you drag a finger down the page. 

“Never,” he said, his voice low and serious, “I only ever say the most wonderful things about you.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, your loose hair falling over your shoulder, “Like what?” You dared a glance back at him, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. There was the invitation he was looking for. 

“How the team always feels safest when we have the infamous CADAVER watching over us. How professional and talented you are,” the emphasis he put on “professional”, wasn’t mocking, but a challenge. A disguised question. 

Are you sure? 

You bit down on your lip, “Mhm.”

He took a step closer, reaching to take your report from your hand and placing it on the desk in front of you. His other hand comes to plant itself on the wood beside your hip. You could smell him, like smoke and rain. 

“How I’m finding it harder and harder to work alongside you,” you could feel his chest against your back. The bulletproof vest getting in the way of feeling the muscle and heat you knew to lay just beneath. 

“Because all I think about is how good I could make you feel,” he reached his free hand around your hips, pulling you back into him, his fingers digging into the flesh. Your breath caught and you placed one hand on the desk for support, your other one reaching for his around your waist. Your fingers disappeared under his sleeve to wrap around his wrist. You don’t know why but there was a fleeting shock when you met warm skin. Maybe you were half expecting him to be an actual ghost, with cold lifeless skin.  

“The sounds you’d make for me,” oh, he was arrogant, but it didn’t bother you one bit. No, his confidence and conviction made you hot, and your breaths came out in bursts. He drew you closer so you could feel his own response to the proximity, “How you’d crawl back to me and beg for more.” 

Your eyes almost rolled into the back of your head and you leaned your head against his shoulder, “Ohmygod,” it came out more slurred than you had anticipated. You reached up to his masked face, tugging at it slightly, “Kiss me please, Ghost.”

“Go on,” he instructed.

“Tell me when,” you breathed as you twisted to pull up the mask, stopping at the bridge of his nose when he said. He let you take him in, the strong curve of his jaw, his full lips, and the…light spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks. You traced his jaw, fingers dancing across his skin.  Lingering on the light scar above his lip. 

“You’re beautiful,” it was barely a whisper, barely audible. But it was enough for him. His hand shot from the desk, wrapping around your jaw before crashing his lips against yours. The kiss was erratic and deprived. After a year of circling each other and building up the frustration and tension, it felt like this was it was your time kissing anyone. The sensation of his mouth on yours made you burn. His tongue swept the line of yours, to which you wantonly open for him. He delved in, tongue running along the roof of your mouth, your tongue. The action made you well aware of the fact that if he got between your legs he’d make you scream with pleasure. You moaned, and he caught the sound, sucking your lip, and teeth biting down. He trailed wet, openmouthed kisses across your cheek, down your jaw, and sucked bruises into the supple skin of your neck. You whimpered, and it must have been a little too loud because a hand came to cover your mouth. 

“Unless you want to fill out an incident report tonight too, I suggest you use your inside voice,” he brought his mouth to your ear, his own pants fanning across your skin. You tugged at his vest, asking him to remove it. He removed his hand, “Say pretty please.” 

“Please, Ghost,” you tugged again, “I need to feel you,” Lord knows you’ve already waited long enough.  

He removed himself from you to unsnap it from his body with trained military ease, next was the black canvas jacket. The fabric of the black dry fit underneath was pulled tighter across his shoulders and chest. You were going to eat him alive. You were going to let him ruin you. You turned to face him fully and you hardly got the chance to reach out to him before he was over you again. His hands drove into your hair, around the back of your neck. Your hands ran across his chest, feeling hard muscle, the heat of him searing your palms. You travelled lower, untucking the shirt from his pants to gain access to his skin. Nails dug into his abdomen, leaving behind red lines. He hissed at the delicious pain.

Before you could register it, he was lifting you onto the desk and standing between your legs. He tugged you until you were flush with him, his hands securing you to him. You could feel his hard cock through the pants as it pressed into your stomach. You were in trouble. He was going to rip you apart. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t put it in until I have you nice and ready,” he must have felt you tense at the realization. You met his gaze, then started to roll your hips against him. His eyes widened before he slammed them shut and faced the ceiling. He didn’t let you get any further though. His hand shot to your chest, pushing you back until you were laying on your back. His nimble finger pushes your sweater up and pulls your pants down to your ankles. 

“Jesus fuck,” he croaked when he was met with your bare cunt. He pushed either leg to the side so he could have an interrupted view. His fingers grazed over you, and you jerked your hips up trying to meet his touch. 

“Don’t tease me,” you mewl at him, half tempted to relieve the ache yourself. 

All he could do was shake his head, eyes fixated on your arousal as it dripped down onto his desk. This time his fingers slide into your folds, coming to a halt at your clit. He made slow circles with his thumb. You gasped and had to bring the sleeve of your sweater to your mouth to bite so that you didn’t get too loud. He moved down and slid in two fingers, his brows furrowing in bliss as you greedily took him in. Your breasts tighten and you reach under your sweater to cup one and squeeze. His attention flicked to the activity and shoved the sweater higher so he could watch. The cold air was jarring, and your nipples hardened from both the temperature and arousal. 

Then he pulled his fingers back a couple of inches before slowly guiding them back in. He switched between watching your face morph with ecstasy and your pussy, enthralled with both but not sure which one to choose. He found a slow, teasing pace. One that was going to drive you to tears if he kept it up. 

“Faster,” you choked, trying to grind yourself on his hand but he stopped you with a stern grip on your hip. Yet he did as you asked, picking up speed and angling his hand so he could reach just a little deeper, and curving his fingers inside you. You couldn’t contain the moans anymore, and he seemed to have forgotten about the need to stay quiet. You started to shake as you neared your climax. You caught his expression, his lips parted and eyes glassy, you didn’t think he’d remember his name if you called to him. Your cunt tightened just as you started to cum. 

He removed his fingers.  

And dropped to his knees. 

He looked up at you, his pupils were completely blown, and placed your thighs on either shoulder and brought his mouth to you. You sobbed, frustrated with the stolen orgasm and the new stimulation. You placed your hands on the back of his head and pushed him further in. His tongue was way better than his fingers, and when he dragged it up the length of your length you thanked him. He sucked and licked and tasted you. The filthy wet sounds as he ate you out filled the room. You were so sure that if someone pressed their ear to his door they’d be able to hear it too. 

This time when you neared your orgasm you held him there, making sure he wasn’t going to pull away again. He groaned into you, and it was at just the right moment that the vibrations of it sent you spiralling. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you pant, tears pricking at your eyes. Your body went taut before it loosened. He stayed to lap you up. Placing chaste kissing on your clit. When he rose, he only wiped at the bottom of his chin to get rid of the cum dripping there so he could lick the rest of it from his lips. He leaned down to kiss you, allowing you a taste for yourself. 

You were going to ignite, and the only thing keeping you from doing so was digging your nails into his back. 

“Do you want more?” He asked, giving you an out should you have changed your mind. The thought of him going unrelieved after what he just did to you was absurd. You wanted him again and again and again. 

“I want all of you.”

He pulled away only to remove his shirt and undo his pants. His cock was hard, and you could see it pulse. He wrapped a hand around the middle, his thumb gliding over the head. 

“I’m on the pill. And Im clean,” you babbled. You wanted to feel him, without any barriers. 

“Are you sure?” he eyed you, “I have-”

“Yes.”

He didn’t waste any more time. He tapped the head of his cock against you, sliding his length into your folds, collecting the slick there. He rocked back and forth, holding himself against you with a thumb, “Shit.”  

“Fuck me. As hard as you need to,” he said before picking you up and sitting back into the chair behind him with you straddling his lap. He rested his hands on either hip; not to control or take charge but just because he wanted to touch you. Feel you in his arms. 

You swallowed as you guided him in, pausing at the head to adjust. Relax. If he hadn’t taken the time to warm you up, you would have shot right off him. The slight burn and stretch as you sank down onto him forced a cross between a squeak and a moan. You wished you could have captured his reaction on tape. His breath quivered, and he leaned his forehead on your shoulder. The both of you had thin coats of sweat on your hot, sensitive skin. Everywhere he touched you it felt like he brought with him flashes of lightning. 

“Just like that,” he grounded, tilting to the side to get a better look at where you connected. When you made the first rise and plunged back onto him, he nearly whimpered. You pulled back slightly, gauging his appearance before continuing. 

“I’m good,” he half laughed before tilting his head back and exposing his throat to you, “You’re just bloody tight.” 

“Well, you’re big,” you retorted, lifting yourself up and back down. 

“Mmm,” he shot you a conceited smile. 

So, he liked the occasional praise.   

You braced your arms on his shoulders, fingers dipping under his mask so you could grip at his hair underneath. You dragged a tongue up the column of this throat, the salt taste of sweat, and nipped at his jaw, “And so fucking hard.” 

His hips jerked up, meeting you on your descent. Hard. Lightening shot up your spin, and stars blocked your vision. Your pace picked up, chasing that pleasure. Riding him like it was the only thing keeping you alive. You racked your nails down the front of his chest, catching on his dog tags. Little red lines appeared. The desire to carve your name into his chest surfaced. You settled for your initials. 

He hissed at the mixture of pain and pleasure. His cock twitched inside of you, “Atta girl, mark me as yours.”

You rocked your hips against him, the muscles of his stomach providing extra stimulation against your clit. It left a trail of slickness and you would make damn sure licked him clean after. 

His groans turned into hot desperate whimpers, and his grip forced himself up and impossibly deeper. You squeezed around him.

“Good-” he choked, pulling you in to rest his forehead on yours, “Cum for me, baby.”

You did as you were told, your body convulsing and shuddering. You could feel it drip out of and onto him. 

He followed, fast and hard. You could feel him pulsating as his seed painted your walls white. It was hot and… a lot. He was leaking out of you and he was still inside you. 

You stayed like that for a couple of minutes. Catching your breath. Collecting your mind. 

“You think,” you paused, “you think they heard?” you asked, his team wasn’t far. They were either in their own room or congregated in the common area. Which was just down the hall. 

He pulled back, eyes searching your face, “Umm, yeah. You’re loud.” 

You faked an insulted gasp, “You’re loud.”

“No’m not,” he was. He wasn’t the silent type. You liked that. Liked it when your partners were vocal. 

“Liar,” you lifted yourself off him, cum dripping out as you did so. 

His chest seemed to puff out at the slight, pleased with his work. 

“You think they’ll see me?” you tightened your pussy, to keep it from leaking onto his floor. You pointed to the clothes he’d tossed onto his bed and he tossed you your shirt and pants. 

“They won’t say anything. There’s a shower in the bathroom,” he offered, you were just going to go back to your room and shower there, but it was a little risky. If the room smelt like sex, you did too. He followed you into the bathroom, flicking on the light, “Next time bring panties so you can walk around with my cum inside you,” he murmured as he watched. He pulled his mask back down over his face. At some point, he had pulled on some sweatpants. 

“You’re dirty,” you said playfully, locking eyes with him in the reflection. 

“Or better yet, we can fuck in your room so you won’t have to sneak back out.”

“You want to do the sneaking next time?” you tilted your head back to look up at him.

His eyes narrowed, “I’m really good at the sneaking.”

Because of his mask he wasn’t able to join in on the shower. But he did bend you over his backroom sink, holding your hands behind your back with one hand, and the other hand wrapped around your neck so he could make sure you watched as he fucked you from behind in the mirror. 

It was an hour before curfew when you finally slipped out of his room. He almost didn’t let you, tried pulling you back in. When you stepped into the common rooms, Gaz, and Soap pretended to be really interested in the walls, carpet, and couch. Price was nowhere to be seen. 

“The captain left a couple hours ago,” Gaz didn’t even look in your direction. 

He left a couple hours ago because that's when it all started and if he couldn’t hear anything he didn’t know anything. If he didn’t know anything he couldn’t get mad at anything. 

“Thank you,” you shoot back before very quickly exiting their barracks. 

Masterlist  ❤︎  Tag List Form

A/N - we love a vocal king

[zvaigzdelasas]

Detailed tests on the damage capability of kinetic energy weapons against US military armour have found it could be possible to take out a tank in one shot – even if it does not look like any damage has occurred.

That was the conclusion of Chinese scientists who conducted the in-depth assessment of kinetic weapons through experiments and numerical simulations.

They found that a solid sphere, weighing 20kg (44lb) and hurtling towards its target at about four times the speed of sound, could spell disaster for advanced tanks manufactured to US military standards.

The kinetic energy carried by such a projectile would be around 25 megajoules. This value may seem large, but when converted into electrical energy it is less than 7 kilowatt-hours, scarcely more than the energy it takes to cook two turkeys for Christmas.[...]

it was found that bolts connecting important equipment to the inner cabin wall could fracture. Even if the crew survived the impact, they would be unable to return the tank to its normal combat state.[...]

“Under high-speed kinetic projectile impact, certain typical locations in the armoured target exhibit impact response spectrum lines with amplitudes at certain frequencies exceeding the safety limits recommended by the US military standard MIL-STD-810,” Huang’s team wrote.

“Components at these locations have a high probability of failure due to overload damage,” they said.[...]

high-speed kinetic projectiles have the potential to achieve lethal damage even upon grazing contact, and their launching methods can be diverse.

Chinese naval scientists recently claimed that they have installed an electromagnetic coil gun on to a land-based wheeled platform and conducted rapid consecutive firing tests. This coil gun has the ability to accelerate heavy spheres to incredible speeds in the blink of an eye. Photos of this new weapon circulated on Chinese social media, sparking much speculation and excitement.

While the mobile coil gun might have appeared primitive, just as the early tanks did, some military experts believed it to be a game-changer. If electricity replaces gunpowder as the driving force behind lethal weapons, the landscape of future warfare will never be the same.[...]

Tank crews often point the front of the vehicle towards the energy, as this section is designed to be the most rugged and able to withstand the most firepower. But a kinetic projectile hitting this section would send destructive stress into the tank’s interior, potentially causing catastrophic damage to its firepower capabilities.

“The grip of the tank gun stabiliser console can be shaken off, the wiring base of the console pulled out completely, all connections between the fire control computer and the turret severed, resulting in a substantial loss of firepower,” the researchers said.

1 Jan 24

[vickyvicarious]

As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.

Jonathan's sheer rage is really notable here. I imagine at least a part of it is the sight of Dracula in his own clothes once again, after what happened last time. He also doesn't attempt to watch for Dracula's return at all, and while his stated reasoning is certainly a possible part of it, I wonder if he also simply doesn't want to have to bear witness again if Dracula returns with another victim. After all, despite the library being listed as a secondary safe place to sleep, Jonathan hasn't really done so before (except when he was locked in). But he knows it is a safe place, and while still nearby, it seems to be not right next to Dracula's room. If Dracula does bring back another child (which is by no means guaranteed) then even if he can't help, Jonathan at least won't have to listen as they are killed.

But with his rage and his desire to try and stop Dracula harming others, you might think he would want to be closer, right? Again, some of it is that self-preservation instinct. But his line about "no weapon wrought alone by man's hand" tells us he doesn't think he could, even if he had much more firepower than he actually does. Jonathan has had lots of experience with various strengths and abilities of vampires, but doesn't know their weaknesses. He's figured out that Dracula didn't like the crucifix, and 'sleeps' during the day, but that's about it. He may believe only some kind of holy weapon could even harm him (not wrought alone by man's hand). And he's not wrong about that, at least when a vampire is active. All the methods Van Helsing lists later are intended for use when a vampire is already weakened by the time of day/in a 'sleeping' state - even the stake, beheading, and 'sacred bullet' are all only listed as options to kill a vampire in their coffin. The most that seems doable while they are awake, at least that we ever see in the book, is to ward them off in one way or another. The crucifix and communion wafers aren't pleasant and the vampires avoid touching them but they don't seem to actually physically burn/scar in the same way they did Mina. Now, that may simply be because the vampires never touched any of those holy objects long enough, but regardless, Jonathan's instinct here isn't really wrong per say. Just not complete.

If he is convinced of this, then why attack Dracula in his dirt box tomorrow? Well, he's in the heat of rage and guilt at knowing what Dracula will unleash on many other people. It's the same as the other day, really. When Jonathan sees or hears someone else being hurt, he can't help but try to do something, even if he doesn't really believe it will get anywhere. In this entry, that isn't happening. And it's no guarantee that Dracula will bring back another victim; he's gone out multiple other times without seeming to have done so, after all. Not to mention the main reason: Jonathan says above that he would still try to kill Dracula if he had a weapon - he just is afraid it wouldn't work.

[neon-knights-mercenary-company]

The world outside of Rowan’s cockpit was cast in shades of grey.

Sleet drove away the sun, battered away at building and bunker alike, leaving them indistinguishable from each other, the metal titans moving between them nothing more than looming silhouettes. Tracers and the occasional actinic glare of a laser would disrupt the illusion, casting hundreds of tons of metal and myomer in stark relief, before the snow cloaked them once again in anonymity.

Rowan cycled her scopes from IR back to Seismic, as the frozen mess proved once again too difficult for her Marauder’s sensors to pierce. Holding still to get a good reading, she found her target- a Rifleman RFL-3N, providing the AA cover keeping their air support at bay. She lined up her PPC’s crosshairs over the center mass, and-

CLANK

KRACK

A split second before she depressed the trigger, an incoming shell caught her ‘Mech on the left torso, stripping away over a half ton of armor and throwing off her shot just enough for a lethal blow to thetorso to simply rip off half of the offending Rifleman’s firepower.

Fuck.

Rowan turned her attention to the new threat- a Centurion CN9-A, it’s AC/10 reloading a new cassette. She turned the stumble of the blow into a smooth twist and step back, putting a building between her and the Rifleman even as she brought her weapons to bear on the Centurion.

She missed with her large laser, but managed to track the Centurion with her arm mounts as the ‘mech twisted its torso. Her medium lasers carved great molten furroughs across a score of armor plates, rather than punching a hole through to the tender bits inside. This was no green pilot- that, or they just got lucky. Better to treat them as the former, though.

Rowan pushed her mech into a sidestep, behind the cover of a building as her lasers cycled. Seismics showed the Centurion closing the distance, but stopping before getting to the corner instead of rushing through.

Definitely not a greenie, then.

The Centurion peeked around the corner, only exposing it’s arm-mounted autocannon and part of it’s torso and cockpit, and fired off another burst, even as Rowan pushed her Marauder to move.

Her mech danced around the burst of fire, closing the distance, before swinging a leg out in a kick aimed at the barrel of the Luxor-D autocannon. With the clang of metal on metal, the end of the barrel sheered away from the gun, but the Centurion’s pilot pushed forward, nearly unbalancing Rowan. She windmilled the arms of her Marauder as she stumbled back, and the Centurion pushed it’s way fully around the corner.

The Centurion’s medium lasers slashed a weeping red line across her ‘mech’s left arm, and managed to burn out the focusing lens on her own medium laser.

That fucker.

Rowan saw red.

As soon as she caught her balance, she shifted the center of gravity on her mech, and fell more than stepped forward into the offending Centurion, pushing it to the ground with all 75 tons of angry Marauder bearing down on it. The arm housing her now-ruined laser came down in a mad swing against the prone ‘mech, sheering away chunks of BAR-10 and leaving a section of the delicate structure exposed. A swift kick to shatter the knee actuator of the fallen ‘mech ensured it would have a hell of a time getting back up, and she sprang away back to her feet, uncannily smooth for the towering monstrosity she piloted.

Backing up a dozen paces, she fired off a final parting shot with her remaining medium laser. Her shot was aimed well, and touched off the ammo bin the opened up torso. The ensuing explosion breifly illuminated the battlefield, and in that moment through the red haze that had settled over her vision, she saw a model of ‘mech unlike any she’d seen before.

It’s shining silver form was superficially similar to her own Marauder, but it seemed to be some sort of frankenmech, with a Catapult’s twin-box style LRM launchers on the shoulders.

She decided to call it a Maraudapult, and was prepared to turn and charge the newcomer like she had the Centurion, when the IFF ping came back Friendly.

Rowan shrugged, and turned her attention back to the fight at hand-just in time to witness the Maraudapult obliterate a Hunchback-4G, that she hadn’t seen sneaking up on her damaged flank.

Woah.

Rowan took note of her savior’s IFF, resolving to buy them a drink when they made it off this fucking planet.

[rw-repurposed]

Rain World Repurposed - SEVEN RED SUNS

Seven Red Suns was a notable Iterator in their local group. He was Five Pebbles' mentor and was seen as a senior by many just below Looks to the Moon. His relationship with the OG Chasing Wind was a respectable one, albeit the two don't interact as much as No Significant Harassment does.

After Pebbles' isolation, Moon's final broadcast, and Spearmaster had come back to him, Suns were distraught over what had happened and he took a step back from communicating with the others in the local group except with Sig. Eventually, Suns opened to Wind as well after Wind told them that he is going to leave the Sliverist group and disconnect with everyone except their local group. Suns respected Wind's decision and everything was well.

Until it wasn't. When news struck that a Repurposed Chasing Wind had destroyed multiple Iterator facility grounds and their superstructures Suns immediately tried to contact Wind and confront him about it. Wind refuses to take responsibility for his actions and even warned Suns to not interfere. Shocked by how insane Wind had become, Suns sent Spearmaster to investigate of what had happened with Chasing Wind.

Unfortunately, Spearmaster was caught. Wind then gave Suns a threatening message contained in a pearl lodged inside Spearmaster's chest. He will come to Suns and destroy him if he intervenes one last time. Suns was not having it and fortunately for him, Sig had a surprise for him. Sig was able to replicate Wind's repurposing method and had repurposed himself beforehand.

With Sig's help, Suns was repurposed with a lot of firepower and immense capabilities as if he was built for war:

He had a built-in energy reactor capable of generating an unlimited amount of power and energy while disconnected from his superstructure. This energy reactor is capable of empowering an entire superstructure alone.

He was given extra platings of armor for his body. Capable of resisting the worst of physical damage even explosions. This plating of armor also allowed him to conduct even more heat for his energy cells.

He's capable of combusting himself into a fiery rocketbot if his energy reactor was overcharged. Making him devastatingly fast and powerful in melee combat.

He's able to shoot out a laser from his head insignia. Not a normal Iterator brain blast, but a scorching incinerator that would leave no ashes remaining on its target.

He's capable of summoning energized spears from his hand plates. Yes, Spearmaster was the blueprint for his main choice of weaponry. And he was delighted to have Spearmaster as his combat duo.

His energized spears were as lethal as an explosive and fire spear fused into one. In that, it explodes as it hits its target and burns the target into crisps afterward.

Sig gave Suns a bit of an old-fashioned knight armor over his armor platings. Albeit a bit excessive, Suns still accepted it because it gave him more defensive capabilities. Sig however just thought it looks cool on him.

After his enhancement was done, Suns strapped himself for the journey towards Wind's facility ground to confront him once and for all. Wind has to be stopped or else who knows what he'll do to the other Iterators or ecosystem next time. Sig and Spearmaster followed right next to him, however, Sig separated from him later on to check on Looks to the Moon while still maintaining his overseer to look after Suns.

Suns will confront Wind one way or another...

[guerramecanica123]

Seven deadly sins AUs

pride sans: He can spawn ghostly apparitions of enemies that stab them with bones, and these manifestations are able to actually cause physical harm to the enemy, making bone-imp creatures emerge from the void to jump on them and suck their lives away. He's a tough adversary with the ability to fire forth swift, lethal punches, launch a gigantic tendril from its arm to attack from across the area, crash into the ground with the force that upends people standing on it, and emit a wave of energy that threatens to poison anybody hit by it.

greed sans: greed sans, he truly symbolizes the sin of greed and takes you for your entire value. Then some claim he's a genuine master of deceit and trickery. He hides behind a facade of charm and charisma and can rapidly manipulate any situation to his advantage.

Lust sans: Lust Sans is loud, sardonic, and welcoming, with a fast, keen wit. He is also fun and naughty, frequently teasing and stressing inappropriate jokes and innuendos. He likes a good chuckle and pulls a few pranks. He is tremendously flirty and enjoys making people blush. He is always up for a challenge and can be relied on to be the life of the party. {UnderLust Sans Sprite. by TheRealAllanTorngren}

envy: Meet Envy Sans is a person who understands how to adjust and respond. When he sees someone who is more powerful than him and has more technology than his AU, he will do whatever he can to make his AU or his resident stronger and smarter. They duplicated the designs for themselves, yet they would not just copy them; they would advance them by finding ways to adapt them as flawlessly as possible. If Envy Frisk ever resets the Genocide, or if an AU destroyer enters his AU, Envy Sans will torment them. It's not something enjoyable for him to do, like having a drink with friends; this is a scratch he can't itch. He will do whatever it takes to be the most influential and recognizable envy in the multiverse, his universe, and beyond.

gluttony: Glutantony sans is capable of biting with a force of up to 6,000 Newtons and will devour anything and everything around him. His metabolism is so fast that drugs and toxins have no effect on him, including anesthesia. He would eat his enemies alive. He possesses superhuman durability, which helps him withstand fatal wounds and prevents him from dying, but overwhelming firepower can kill him.

wrath sans: Whatever occurred, he's come to do what he does best: kill in a fight. His ruthlessness is on full display. He works best in the midst of the violence, charging into The Fray and releasing powerful crippling blows that turn enemy after enemy into a corpse, allowing his targets to get a head off before turning back with a deadly counterattack, but while his body is durable and his mind is fragile, it is easy to lose himself in the bloodlust, for if the wrath sans feels his life is in danger, he will become ferocious, lashing out at Friend or Foe and focusing solely on his own survival. He may be both a strong antagonist and a faithful friend, as well as protective of those close to him. He is always aware of his surroundings and can quickly assess a situation, allowing him to adjust his strategy and tactics accordingly. He is incredibly strong, making him a valuable asset to his team.

Sloth sans: He is slow to act but has an incredible memory and can recall information quickly. He is also highly intelligent and can often come up with creative solutions to complex problems.

[sanam011]

"Warrior of the Air: Exploring the A-10 Warthog's Dominance"

History of the A-10 Warthog

The A-10 Warthog was developed by Fairchild Republic in response to a United States Air Force (USAF) requirement for a close air support (CAS) aircraft to provide ground troops with effective and precise air cover. The development began in the early 1970s, with the first prototype taking flight in 1972. After a series of tests and evaluations, the A-10 Thunderbolt II officially entered service in 1977, marking the beginning of its illustrious career in military operations.

Design and Features

Capabilities and Performance

The A-10 Warthog is primarily designed for close air support, providing vital assistance to ground forces by engaging enemy targets with precision and firepower. Its versatile arsenal includes a variety of air-to-ground missiles, bombs, and rockets, making it highly effective in missions ranging from anti-tank operations to close air support for troops in combat zones. The aircraft’s slow and steady flight characteristics, coupled with its ability to loiter over the battlefield for extended periods, make it a reliable and invaluable asset in modern warfare scenarios.

Significance and Legacy

Conclusion

In conclusion, the A-10 Warthog stands out as a true military marvel, blending rugged design, lethal firepower, and unwavering reliability into a single aircraft. Its role in providing close air support to ground forces has been instrumental in shaping the outcome of numerous military operations. As we look to the future of aerial warfare, the legacy of the A-10 Warthog serves as a testament to the enduring value of purpose-built aircraft in meeting the challenges of modern combat. Whether roaring across the skies or on static display, the A-10 Warthog remains a symbol of strength, precision, and unmatched combat capability.

[noirofhyrule]

Sniper Riffle

I'm back to this about writing stuff 😎🤙

I think this one hasn't any warnings so it's sure to go. Maybe an slightly vulgar language but it's normal I think)?

Apparently I made 1451 words, yay!

Enjoy!

I'll make a summary later with my drabbles list next, I think… maybe, I don't know

Wynter was upset that Ghost had excluded her from his team for the upcoming mission. 

He seemed to have certain prejudices about her abilities that Wynter was determined to keep quiet. Ever since that accident in the Almas, plus the events of the previous mission where she almost shot Ghost by mistake, she seemed to have lost what little trust she had gained from him.

 That frustrated her a lot, she felt she was worthless in 141. Everything had changed since she left home in Las Almas, away from her brother. 

Still, she didn't lose hope, and with a smile, she combed her hair into a braid and set out for the firing range, where Ghost's team was training. 

Intimidated by the soldiers bigger than her, she took what courage she could from wherever she could and advanced to her locker in the armory, where her weapons that she had customized over the course of those few months were. 

At first, Price had told her they were too flashy, however, she bought it with an ornament for him in the shape of a little frog. 

Wynter pulled his favorite sniper rifle out of his locker, a garish pink Victus XMR that he had extensively customized. The weapon boasted numerous stickers of kittens, hearts and rainbows that contrasted sharply with the rifle's black metal. On the side, Wynter had had the name "John Wick" engraved in a sleek silver font, in honor of his favorite fictional character. 

In addition to aesthetic customization, Wynter had internally modified the rifle to maximize its accuracy and firepower. He had replaced the barrel with a longer barrel and the stock with a more stable stock with an adjustable rest. He had also installed a powerful telescopic sight with variable magnification for sniping. These improvements, coupled with his own skills, allowed Wynter to make incredibly accurate shots at long distances.

Wynter stroked the cool pink metal of "John Wick" before she strode decisively to the range, ready to silence Ghost's doubts about her abilities. The rifle seemed to live in her expert hands as she raised it and aimed at targets, proving that appearances could be deceiving and that her unique weapon was as deadly as any other.

Once there with her "John Wick" rifle, she felt ready to beat the best mark that belonged to Lieutenant Ghost with 30 seconds. 

Wynter positioned herself on the firing line, with "John Wick" firmly braced against her shoulder. He could feel the skeptical stares of Ghost's team pinned to his back, but ignored them as he focused on his target. 

At the sound of the whistle, he quickly aimed through the telescopic sight at the first humanoid target, 300 meters away. He held his breath and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed across the range, impacting right in the center of the target. Without wasting time, Wynter reloaded and turned to the next target, taking it out with a clean shot to the head.

And so he continued, moving from target to target with lethal grace. His movements were fluid and his shots accurate, the result of countless hours of practice. But as he progressed through the course, he could feel the growing tension in his muscles. 

As he reached the tenth target, his pulse quickened slightly and the shot struck a few inches off center. Cursing internally, he adjusted his position and focused for the final shots. He managed to hit the two remaining targets, but the damage was done.

When the horn sounded marking the end, Wynter lowered the gun, panting. She had completed the course in 33 seconds, narrowly missing Lieutenant Ghost's record. 

Behind her could be heard derisive laughter and disparaging comments from Ghost's team. 

"She's not good enough, Lieutenant. We should get someone more qualified," one of them said. Ghost said nothing, but seemed satisfied that he had excluded her.

Gritting his teeth, Wynter gave them a withering look as he mentally prepared himself for a second attempt, this time without making mistakes. He would show them what he was capable of.

After his first failed attempt, Wynter closed his eyes, taking a long deep breath, he needed to concentrate. He memorized the location and distance of each target, plotting the ideal course in his mind. 

After a few minutes, he returned to the firing line with his eyes alight. This time there was no hesitation or nervousness, just cold determination. 

At the sound of the whistle, he moved like an unstoppable machine. His movements were economical and lethally precise, without an ounce of wasted energy. The telescopic sight seemed to guide itself to each target, and the shots came out of "John Wick" like pink lightning.

First target, second target, the rifle almost seemed to fire itself in his hands. Wynter was on autopilot, every muscle in his body working in total synchrony. There was no room for hesitation or error. 

By the time the final horn sounded, he had cleanly hit all 12 targets in a mere 25 seconds, shattering not only Lieutenant Ghost's record, but also Gaz's, who stood in first place at 27 seconds. 

He lowered the gun panting, with a smirk on his face. Ghost's team watched in complete awe of his feat. Wynter turned and looked at them defiantly, "John Wick" still smoking in his hands.

"Now do you still think I'm not good enough for your team?"

She had shown what she was capable of, and was ready to take her rightful place among the best. 

None dared to respond. Wynter walked over to Ghost, who was looking at her with a mixture of surprise and admiration. "I hope this shows you that you can trust my abilities, Lieutenant. And that you will never belittle them again."

With that said he withdrew, leaving Ghost considering that he had misjudged the talent of the stubborn Wynter. From that moment on, he began to see her with different eyes, realizing how much potential she had and that she would be a terrific addition to his team, in more ways than one.   

Wynter had proven that she was there on her own merits, and she would never again allow anyone to make her feel less because she was a brand new girl in their groups. Especially not the stubborn Lieutenant Ghost, who had just discovered that he wanted much more than her skill with a rifle in his ranks.

After her impressive display, Wynter began to walk away from the range, satisfied that she had silenced the taunts of Ghost's team. 

However, the Lieutenant's loud voice stopped her in her tracks:

"Wynter! I didn't tell you to leave. I want to see you in my office now".

Wynter froze. A shiver ran down her spine as she heard Ghost's serious tone. She slowly turned around to find him staring at her, his face inscrutable.  

Behind Ghost, his team burst into derisive giggles.

"Uh-oh, someone's in trouble," sneered one of them. 

"Looks like the girl has a date with the school principal" added another with a chuckle.

Wynter felt her face redden, but she kept her gaze up as she followed Ghost towards the main building. She could feel everyone's eyes glued to her back.

Once inside the imposing office, Ghost sat behind his desk and motioned her to take a seat across from him. Wynter obeyed, resisting the childish impulse to look at the floor. 

"So..." began Ghost, interlacing his fingers in front of him. "You want to join my team to this mission."

Wynter nodded, bracing herself for reprimand. But the words that came next left her completely baffled.

She was already ready to apologize when Ghost abruptly interrupted her.

"What you did out there was not only humiliating, but a gross disrespect of my authority as your Lieutenant." 

His tone was icy and his eyes flashed with restrained anger. Wynter inwardly cringed, but remained silent.

"You show up here, barge in on my training and make such an ostentatious display...do you think my team will respect you now after making me look like an idiot?"

Wynter stammered "I...I'm sorry sir, I meant no disrespect...".

But Ghost continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I'll expect you tomorrow at 0600 hours for your first mission. And don't even think about bringing that pink atrocity with you. We need discretion for covert operations."

He then abruptly stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. 

Stunned but excited, Wynter retreated from the office. Despite the scolding, Ghost was giving her a chance! This was her big chance to prove herself on a real, real mission. 

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - The Siege

Silco remembers the war between Zaun and Piltover...

tw: violence, bloodshed, mentions of rape, aftermath of war, PTSD

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

“The Siege,” Jinx whispers.

The Siege.

That's what they call the partition—belowground and above. An incursion of monsters, but as with everything else, the definition of monster differed depending on which side of the river one's blood flowed. In Zaun, it meant the Enforcers. To Topside, it meant the entire Undercity populace. The war was a warped mirror; the inevitable endpoint of decades of resentment and repression. 

Silco remembers the losses suffered, and the dead left behind. Their neon city a pitch-black hellhole. The crack of gunfire and high-pitched wails. The humid air beating down on them like a superheated fist; every breath dragged as if through bloodstained cloth.

The Last Drop was blown sky-high. With it, so many of Vander's hopes, and the heart of his lie. A principally foolish and persistently shortsighted lie: peace between the cities.

Peace was never in Zaun's stars.

The only bright point shone through the dark. The embers of Piltover burning.

The final night was spent in a game of deuces with the Enforcers. Zaun's last stand: a desperate gamble against the odds. Their enemy was equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry. They outnumbered the Fissurefolk ten-to-one.  Their ranks were lethal and their bullets endless.

Their mistake was hubris. Topsiders had never fought for their own freedom. Why would they? They had it already, in full measure. But the Fissurefolk? They'd never known the comfort of choice. When you've got nothing left to lose, everything's a chip to bet. Every breath is a fight to the death.

Five hundred Enforcers descended into the Undercity. Only twenty-three returned home.

Silco had devised a strategy off-the-cuff. No time to weigh the pros and cons, or schedule a war-council with the chem-barons. Most had fled to their strongholds. The rest were too busy pillaging. It fell on Silco to act, and he had done it on his own terms. He'd chosen those with the most to lose from Piltover's reign. Ballbusters and bruisers; mercenaries and miscreants; chem-fiends and chemists. A motely crew, each with their own agenda. But none who could be bribed with coin or cowed by bullets.

They loved the city too fiercely.  Loved it with a rage that ran so deep the only answer was freedom.

Or death.

When the Enforcers stormed, they were ready.

"Don't meet them head-on," Silco ordered. "Lure them down.”

Down—where centuries of gallows fodder had hid from the law. Down—where every backstreet had bred sinners and spawned killers. Down—where every crevice was a chokepoint and every corridor a death-trap.

Down—where life was a war waged by inches.

Silco knew the terrain like the black hollow of his heart. In boyhood, he'd negotiated every cobblestone with intimate ease. As a man, he and Vander had made the back-alleys their own, long before they'd claimed the Lanes. The festering warrens deepened into a sinuous complexity that presaged threats at every turn. 

The Enforcers had the firepower, but no experience. They'd been taught to take prisoners.  They'd never learned to chase shadows.

"Give 'em a taste of home," Silco said, and led the way.

Into the slithering dark, he and the crew descended. Sentries were stationed along the canals; shadowrunners between the bridges. Jinx stayed by his side. The others scattered through the alleys. The Enforcers were stubborn—but their strength was not without limits. A fortnight of hard-hitting combat was wearing them down. The disorienting labyrinths left them vulnerable to paranoia. The fumes from the chemical sludge became a miasma.

By midnight, they'd gone from towering titans to terrified mice.

Jinx took the initiative. With the crew's help, she rigged the drain valves with bombs. She didn't have the resources for a big blast; not after the destruction of Piltover's cityscape. She'd had to get creative. With canisters of compressed gas, she'd flooded the streets with pressurized sewage. It was a fatal, fast-moving tide; the Enforcers were left with no choice but to retreat into Zaun's guts or face a no-man's land of filth.

Straight into Jinx's trap.

One Enforcer's footstep triggered the pressure plate. A gas of hallucinogenic potency spewed out. It had each man turning on the other in a frenzy of gunfire and screams.

Sevika and crew took aim, ready to take the rest out at close range.

Silco stopped them.

"Let them bleed out," he said. "Save our ammo."

A second squad of Enforcers rolled in. They charged headlong into a Jinx's playground of razor snares and spring-loaded incendiaries. The explosions lit up the streets. The shrapnel sliced open their ranks. They fell shrieking to the gods for mercy.

Mercy was a foreign language belowground.

"Steel yourselves," Silco ordered the crew. "Their reinforcements will be prepared."

The prediction was dead-on.

In the hours after midnight, the two cities reeled. The Enforcers were dazed and drained. But they knew their mission, and followed it doggedly. When the third wave came, they were equipped with body-armor and respirators. They took shelter behind reinforced barricades, and penetrated the dark with night-vision goggles.

In the ruins of Factorywood, they cornered Silco's squad.

It wasn't a melee—but a massacre. The Fissurefolk knew the territory, but the Enforcers were locked and loaded. With a barrage of gunblasts, they sent Silco's men toppling. While the survivors regrouped, they began a relentless advance. The whistling scream of bullets and the liquid pop of blood vessels became a symphony. The streets ran black with gore.

Silco had to make a snap decision. Retreat or engage?

In his ear, Vander's voice:

"Kill me, if you must. But spare the Lanes."

At the forefront, the battle raged. At the sidelines, the corpses piled up. At his crux, the choice was simple.

Silco thought:  You died for our cause, brother.

I'll fight for it.

Sevika's hand fell on his shoulder. She urged, "They're closing in. We need to fall back."

"No."

"Sir—"

Silco's mismatched eyes scoured the flaming skyline. He spied the Old Hungry, the first spot Vander had ever showed him. He saw its smoking turrets and pockmarked walls.  He saw the gutted factories and charred canals. He saw the smoldering husks of abandoned homes. He saw the wreckage of his people's lives, and felt the ache of their loss.

He stared at the blackened vistas of his savaged city, and knew: Vander had always meant to protect it.

To the last breath.

So did he.

"No," he repeated, and met Sevika's shocked stare. "No retreat. We box them in the sewers. Then we go all in. We fight with everything we have."

"Silco—"

"We end this, Sevika," he said, and his voice didn't come from inside his chest. It webbed up from someplace deeper still, down below the cracked foundations of his psyche. It was a place of endless hunger, unyielding rage; an impregnable nucleus of self. "No more games. No one—nothing—is coming for Zaun again. We take the fight to the bastards, and we burn them out."

Sevika's expression shifted from shock to steel.

He would never forget the look. It burned through him; bit deep into his gut. It was the look of a soldier saluting her flag; a Valkyrie summoning her chariot; a priestess kneeling to her god. It was the look that said: I will follow you to hell, and make it a home fit for us both.

A vow as binding as blood.

There was a salvo of intensifying gunfire. Shrapnel spangled off the cobblestones. There were screams and the choking stench of gunsmoke. Silco dared a look over Sevika's shoulder. He saw two of their number dead—the twins, Zoked and SzSza—their faces the same pallor as the soot hazing the foul air.

Sevika's hand squeezed his shoulder, then fell away.

She said: "I'll hold the line."

"Hold it tight. No quarter—"

"—No mercy." She smiled, a slash of teeth. "You've got ten minutes, sir."

"I've got a lifetime." A heartbeat, his eyes on hers. "Go."

Sevika went. 

The troops fell in behind her, the whole company a solid wedge. She led them out. The Enforcers took one look and opened fire, their bullets blitzing. It didn't matter. The Fissurefolk held formation. Sevika's orders rang strong and cold. They'd trained under her, and would lay their lives at her feet.

Silco saw the brief radiance of Sevika's mechanical arm firing up. The blade jutted like a lance. Charging, she cut an arc of whizzing metal through the bodies. The noise of gunfire gave way to a riot of screams. More Enforcers pressed in. Their shields were a bristling wall, but Sevika kept coming. Her body was a juggernaut, a battering ram, a dragon's claw. She tore the barricade in half, sending the Enforcers reeling. They opened up a lethal crossfire, but she didn’t stop. Her prosthetic arm was a meat-shredder. Every swipe opened up a torso or a throat.

Every blow was a testament.

To Zaun.

To Nandi.

To him.

Silco understood. She was ready to die for the cause—and be done with it. There was no one else left to command; he was the last line of defense.  Him and whoever was left of the holdout. The street was a riven map of bodies. So many dead, their number beyond counting. 

Silco counted the survivors: twenty-three. 

Twenty-three against an Enforcer's squad of fifty. 

Eighteen more would die before the dawn. But not before they wiped their enemies out of existence.

Silco shouted: "Down-low!"

It was the signal.

Six of the survivors closed ranks in the narrow streets, holding off the assault as best they could. The rest followed Silco through the tar-slick warrens. A volley of bullets ricocheted off the stone walls; a flare went whizzing overhead. The fetid murk of the Sumps had never smelled so sweet.

"Fuck!" Lock shouted.

A distant explosion swelled across the rooftops. In the shower of flaming wreckage, Silco turned to glimpse Sevika. Her left was arm was a mangled twist. She'd caught the tail-end of a rocket-launcher blast. A starburst of blood hit the wall. She staggered in a daze; her mouth shaping unsayable words.

Then she vanished. A ripple of smoke spread like a shockwave.

"Fuck," Lock said again, more raggedly.

Silco wanted like blazes to turn back. But that wasn't his and Sevika’s bargain. She'd bought him ten minutes, not a lifetime. The deal was to go all in. They were out of options.

There was no turning back now. No running.

Silco let the image of Sevika burn itself into his retinas. His pulse didn't race. His breath didn't quicken. There was only a blackness of rage, spiking into a knife of pure white-hot focus that scalded his hairline down to his nerve endings.

He made a vow, then and there.

He would not fall. Not while he had blood left to shed and lives left to save.

Not while he had Jinx.

They crashed through the gritty underbrush and into Zaun's sewers. The muck sucked at their boots. The atmosphere reeked of decay. The city's bowels were a subterranean labyrinth of wormholes and dead ends. A haven of nocturnal low-lives; a last resort against Piltover's rule.

The ultimate death-trap

Silco kept a breakneck pace, navigating the complex with unerring instinct. It had been nearly a decade since he'd set foot in these corridors. But his memory spat out the layout, and his body knew the way. The tunnel branched, forked, doubled back. His crew kept in formation, their boots like a drumroll behind him. They cleared each intersection with brute efficiency. No matter how fast the Enforcers chased them, Silco knew they couldn't keep up.

Not without losing a man—or three.

The tunnels narrowed into a chokepoint of interlocking grates. Silco's hand slid across the slime-slicked wall until he reached a rusted panel. The concealed hatch yielded with a shriek. He thrust his torso through a gap and found his way down a rusted ladder. His feet hit a submerged floor. Within moments, the rest of the crew were gathered in a low-ceilinged chamber.

It was a storage depot. The air stank of purifying chemicals. Steel barrels lined the walls; rubber drums piled up in the center.  Silco kicked one open. Dust spurted, and with it the bite of gun-oil. Inside was a cache of weapons. They were the same design used by the Enforcers: top-of-the-line, and packed with a payload. Enough to level a city, or lay waste to a battalion.

The crew's shock was audible. "Holy shit!"— "You gotta be kidding me!"— "Where'd all this come from?"

"A last resort," Silco said succinctly, and lifted the lid off another barrel. There was a stash of grenades. His smile spread like blood in the darkness. "We'll bury them alive."

He snapped orders and the crew leapt. The explosives were prepped and primed. The trap was laid. They set up along the tunnel’s mouth. Dustin took point. Lock and Ran guarded the rear. The rest were to act as a cordon along the walls.

And Jinx—

She was to his left, just like always. Fishbones was slung across her back; Puff-Puff was holstered at her thigh. A belt of grenades encircled her hips. Her arm cradled Pow-Pow with a casual alignment of weight, like a child in the crook of her elbow.

His child—a wisp of a creature—with enough firepower to destroy a nation.

Yet the worst wreckage was her eyes.

"Jinx."

Silco beckoned, his voice soft as a slit throat.

Soundless, she came. Her eyes held a fritzed-out blankness. She was Jinx times ten—and yet she was almost gone, all the animation drained out of her. The past days had pushed her psyche past the boundary of human endurance. There was a vacuum inside her now: the space Silco ought to have filled with love—and hadn't.

He'd failed.

Failed as a father. Failed as a leader. Failed as a man.

He was a black-hearted monster who'd built an empire on blood and drugs. He'd cast away Vander for a knife to the gut; he'd forsaken Nandi's goodness for a last-ditch gamble. He'd sent his precious girl off to die without a thought; now he wasn't certain he could summon her back to life. In one night, he'd managed to ruin himself, and his city, and the one person he would kill for.

The universe, in its cruelty, had sent Jinx to save him. 

Silco cradled Jinx's face in both hands. The brokenness of her eyes pierced him to the bone.

"Jinx," he said, "You've done well. You've done so well tonight."

Jinx stared. Her irises glowed like sickly phosphorescence.

"You've kept us alive," he said, more urgently. "Now you must hold on."

A quiver of breath. "Hold..."

Silco fought down the tide of self-loathing and forced himself to keep speaking. "Hold on to yourself, Jinx. Stay with us. The fight isn't done."

Jinx stared blindishly.

"Please, Jinx. We need you."

The words throbbed: hollow, desperate, true.

Jinx stayed silent.

"I need you!” Silco barked, a brutal whiplash of command. "Now, Jinx. Hold on to yourself—as I hold on to you. I will keep you alive, even if I have to burn their whole damn city for it."

The silence stretched on.

Then—

Jinx shivered.

The fizzle in her eyes faded. She pressed the heels of her palms to the swollen lids and rubbed. When her lashes lifted, the brightness was all the brighter. It was like a magic trick. In a trice, she was there: his wild child, his weapon; his wonder.  She focused on him with such intensity, it felt as though his skull might fracture under the impact.

Her lips shaped secret syllables. Silco could barely hear them over the choking silence.

"Say again, child?"

"Show them," Jinx breathed.

"What?"

Her eyes gleamed.

"We'll show ‘em," she said. "We'll show 'em all."

Silco nodded. His palms skated up the sides of Jinx's neck, a tender strangulation. Leaning in, he kissed her forehead. Then he let go.

"All in," he said.

"All in," Jinx repeated, and he knew she understood.

At their backs, the thud of boots.

"Bossman!" Ran hissed. "They're coming! They're fucking coming!"

No time for delay. The surviving Enforcers were forty-two strong, and no fools. They'd follow Silco's straight into the depths, until they could call it a victory. They were tenacious, tireless, but they had no idea who they were facing.

Silco was counting on it.

He ordered, "Bite the bullet."

In their network's parlance: Go hard. Go fast. Go out with a bang.

Tonight, there was no better motto.

The Enforcers' footsteps thudded. Closer. Closer. Silco gave the signal, and the crew went on the offensive. A canister of colorless gas spewed across the floor. In the gloom, a flash-bang. The smoky air was interrupted with sparks.  Silco and the crew kept their heads down, their aim high. They wore goggles and had sealed their mouths with respirators. It was enough to keep their vision safe and their lungs unclogged.

The Enforcers were not so fortunate. They tore off their helmets, eyes throbbing from the flashbang—and began to choke. The gas was from the mines: a caustic chemical that burned their throats. They stumbled into the dark, and met their deaths at the business ends of his crew's barrels. They emptied clip after clip, the recoil jolting their arms, their hearts like hammers in their chests.

The tunnel morphed from a war-zone to a blood-red hell.

The survivors were disoriented but determined. Blindly, they charged. The crew's reflexes reverted to close-quarters combat. Blades whipped out, and the Enforcers were taken by the throat and the gut. The fight devolved into a brawl, the sound of metal and meat a ghastly concerto.

An Enforcer swung the barrel of his rifle. Its butt nailed Dustin in the gut. He went down, gasping. The Enforcer aimed his firearm. Then his head exploded. His corpse slumped. Behind him stood Jinx, the muzzle of her gun smoking.

A shriek came from the left. Ran went down, a knife stuck in the arm. The Enforcer drew a pistol. Silco was quicker. His palm gripped the bone handle of Vander's bowie knife like a lover's throat. Soundlessly, he crept up behind the Enforcer. The blade went in like a kiss, deep into the man's jugular.

The Enforcer gurgled; his pistol dropped. Silco's boot slammed into his back. The Enforcer toppled. Silco followed, and the knife went in, and out, and in. The man thrashed, his last words a plea. Silco twisted the blade. He didn't bother with the mercy of a quick reply.

In the background, the Enforcer's comrade charged, and died screaming. A scythelike swipe of metal took his legs off, and sent him spinning like a child's doll. Sevika rose out of the haze. Her prosthetic arm was a fritzing exoskeleton—but her blade was intact. Her hair was charred against her skull and her silhouette bloodsplattered.

She didn't look human anymore. She was the dragon in the flesh: a thing made of rage and fire and steel.

A third Enforcer lunged at her blind-spot. Silco pivoted, and whipped out his boot knife. He threw it. It spun in a whirling blur, then buried itself hilt-deep in the man's left eye-socket. He slumped.

Sevika's eyes caught his. A nod was traded between them; a debt owed and paid.

Then their attention went to the carnage.

To the hunt.

The Enforcers were down to sixteen. Silco's own crew were reduced to the same number. They'd done their job: a suicide mission turned triumph. Now it was a matter of finishing the fight.

Silco gave the final order: "To the Bridge!"

It was the home-stretch. It was also the greatest risk. They'd never had time to run drills, and Silco had never wanted to test their mettle in a live-fire scenario. But their survival depended on it. If more Enforcers charged belowground, the fight was over. Their city was lost. Their freedom, forfeit.

They could not stay in the Sumps any longer. They had to go above.

"Jinx," Silco shouted. "It's time!"

Jinx nodded. Fishbones was slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were a smoldering pink, and her mouth was set. She was a small, vicious thing, armed and ready.

And she was his.

Together, they sprinted. Up through the subterranean tunnels. Up through the stinking dark. Up towards the light.

The battle was not done. But it would be, soon. They had the upper hand. They had the Hex-gem. And they had the element of surprise. Piltover hadn't anticipated the Trencher's’ zeal. Now they would learn the full truth: that a cornered beast will bite and bite hard.

Silco would do the biting. He'd sink his teeth in, and twist, and tear until he tasted blood.

And he would savor every drop.

At his side, Jinx was a bright streak. Her eyes shone. She was the broken girl he'd plucked from the streets: the comet who'd saved his life.

Now she'd save their city.

At Bridgeside, there was an oncoming wave. A troop of Enforcers. They were the vanguard, and Silco's crew would have to fight tooth and nail.

So they did.

In the heart of the firestorm, Silco took the helm. Sevika was his right hand. They were two beasts of war, their teeth bared and their claws out. Every inch was suffering; every breath was a challenge. There were bullets and blades, screams and smoke. Silco's mind was caught in a mesh of razor-wire. His hands were a blur, the knife an extension of his arm, the pistol an extra digit. He didn't know how many Enforcers he killed. Only that they'd fallen, and kept falling.

His crew fell too. He saw Thieram's head blown off his shoulders. He saw Cath, slumped over in a pool of entrails. He saw Ran dragged into an alleyway by three Enforcers. He heard the shred of cloth and the crack of bones. Ran's screams rang out, a high-pitched wail of violation.

The others fell to the sludge in the aftermath, their eyes staring blindly.

And Jinx—Jinx was a blur. Pow-Pow and Puff-Puff were her wings. Fishbones was her trumpet. She cut a path through the swarm, a gloriole of destruction.

In the final surge, the Enforcers were taken apart. Silco and Sevika became the butchers. Jinx was the killing-blow. With a scream that resonated to the rooftops, she unleashed her arsenal. Fishbones's rocket sailed. The Bridge exploded, a chain reaction that rippled down its length. The night was ablaze; a perfect blue inferno.

She painted Piltover with magic and doused it with blood.

She saved them all.

She saved them, but victory came at a steep cost. War is like that. It sinks inside you, under your skin, into your lungs, rooting itself in the mind and soul. You must surrender something of yourself as a matter of brute survival—or perish. In the aftermath, there was no jubilation. Only the sun rising on a city laid waste, and a long march down the path to progress.

His squad were reduced to five. Each one was in rough shape. Sevika had gone into shock from the blowback on her left arm, bronze skin turning ashen, her dark eyes glazed beyond the sphere of pain. Ran huddled under the blanket, bare-skinned and slicked to the elbows with blood, features distorted with agony. Dustin lay pin-cushioned with morphine syrettes, a twitchy pup yelping for rescue. Lock stayed standing, but he resembled something badly-chewed: ragged with wounds and missing whole layers of himself.

Jinx, meanwhile, crouched in the shadows. She'd kept pushing bullets into Pow-Pow's chamber, then emptying them out. Over and over, with no real sense of purpose, as if they were memories she was trying to jam inside and then blast out for good. Her eyes were huge, pupils ringed in luminous pink. Tears streaked her cheeks like war-paint.

Silco stood in their midst, a crooked silhouette plastered with blood. His fingers clenched and unclenched on Vander's knife. Everything will be fine, he could have said with a slickster's ease. A lie, but the dogs of war were fed by lies. The machines of progress were fueled by them.

He could have lied, out of necessity, or cruelty, or mercy.

He hadn't.

Words failed to take the night down to scale. It was too big, too bloody. It was freedom, and the past, and the future.

It was Zaun.

By dawn, they'd picked their way to a safehouse in Entresol. Bodies everywhere on the street. Slabs of spoiling meat. The ones still groaning, he'd ordered dragged to the temporary shelters. The rest, they'd left where they lay. The time for cremation wouldn't be for weeks yet. By then, most corpses would be unrecognizable.

Inside, Singed was waiting with medical supplies. Together, they'd tended to the wounded who trickled slowly in, patching up bullet holes and setting broken limbs. In the end, few survived perfectly unscathed. Some lapsed into comas that they never awoke from. Others died in a rictus of anguished screams. The lucky ones went silently, slipping into death's embrace with a sigh.

It was near sunset by the time Silco slept. By then, the light in the safehouse was an eerie twilit green, just enough to make out the bodies of his crew rolled in threadbare sleeping bags: Lock an unmoving mass, Dustin sprawled on onto his back in a jittery sprawl of limbs, an arm flung out, knuckles nearly touching Ran’s hair, peeking in tufts from the fabric, the rest of their body enfolded. Silco found himself in the corner, apart from the others but close enough that if someone went into Shimmer convulsions, he'd be at hand to stabilize them.

Across from him, Sevika lay sprawled on her side, eyes shut. Her good hand lay stretched out, in the weak halo of the candle. Silco had stared at it. For a moment he'd wanted to take her hand in his, all rough and bruised. Nothing else. Just take her hand. The war had reminded him that there were facets to his life that he couldn't keep by the wayside forever.

Desires that had nothing to do with Zaun.

He hadn't touched her. The candleflame was flickering, and they couldn't waste it. He'd licked a fingertip and pinched it out. And in the dark, he'd rolled, fitting his chin to the hard curve of Jinx's skull. His child lay nestled close. Dead to the world; her scent salty from weeping. Tears still seeped from under her sleeping eyelids.

He wanted to sleep too. But the safehouse was full of specters. Vander. Nandi. Lika. Benzo. His knife lay close at hand, the blade clean. He'd stared at it, and vowed that Topside would never be forgiven.

The night never forgotten.

[soraka-in-warhammer40k]

Space Goat List Design (temp title)

Today's topic: Deathwatch

Alright, due to popular demand let's try and do this

@strumwulf , @trat-yrrebeulb, @saintnuke-ac, I hope this sort of post is what you expected, and if anyone wants me to cover a specifc supposedly "bad" faction, just drop an ask into my inbox.

Todays's topic is the Deathwatch. As by a Metawatch article from three weeks ago sitting at the very bottom of the roster with a miserable 42% winrate, right there with Admech. In this post I'll put together a list that definetly will pack a punch on the table and definetly perform better than 42%.

Let's see what we are working with first. Our Army Rule is "Oath of Moment" - essentially "each round pick a target, go fuck them up with full hit rerolls". The detachment rule is 3 tactics to pick for a round, which is Sustained Hits 1, Lethal Hits, or Precision on a 6. All in all pretty simple, just fire up whatever is needed. Nothing here gives us specific instructions on list construction, so let's look at the Stratagems:

Aside from Armor of Contempt, each of those targets either ONE regular unit or TWO killteams. Adaptive Tactics is fairly lame as well, so we will spend our command points mostly on a) teleport 2 killteams around with Teleportarium and b) turn on one of the Rounds-Boost depending on the situation, either Hellfire or Kraken.

That gives us the first order to be effective: slap two Killteams in there, and we can effect the most points (and firepower) with this by using Proteus Killteams. Two big units are priced 360p each, which gives us a neat 720p core to work around. There's just a problem with that: those boys will never hold objectives. Ideally you always have them placed at max range, have them blast away, and then jump back up.

So what DOES actualy hold the objectives for us? For the homefield that is fairly simple: 5 man Infiltrator Squad. Their 12'' deepstrike denial shuts down so much possible enemy nonsense, making their inclusion for the homefield a no-brainer. We are now at 820p with that.

But what about other objectives? In general Space Marines are not good at holding objectives unless they throw a Terminator Brick on something. Their units are too pricy to be relegated for holding duty most of the time. Luckily, we don't have to be good if we can just grab the enemy homefield instead. Usually that's not easy for the faction, but among the exclusive Deathwatch units there is an Aircraft Transport: the Corvus Blackstar.

And would you look at that, it can transport EVERYTHING.

So what is the most annoying, hardest-to-remove, packs-a-punch unit we can send right on its way to the enemy homefield? Centurion Devastators of course! A squad of 3 with Grav Cannons should be able to deal with any big stuff the Blackstar's Hurricane Bolters can't shred - and would you look at that, they even get full rerolls when shooting a target on a marker. But wait, there's more! We still got three unit slots left on our party cruiser! It's a bit cramped, but we can still fit a unit of Eliminators in there! Very useful if the marker is full of units and you can't directly disembark on it: they can move after shooting, so you still got a shot of scoring the objective after blasting the enemy off it.

Adding that all together with what we already have that puts us at 1260p, and oh dear, we don't have any characters yet!

Remember the pitiful 5 man infiltrator squad we left to defend our base? Those people will just get shredded away by any sort of serious indirect fire, or especially ballsy deepstrikers, and then our primary scoring takes a nosedive. Turns out for just 70p you can eliminate that risk entirely: a Librarian in Phobos Armor gives essentially the entire unit Lone Operative. Since the enemy cannot deepstrike within that range due to the unit's ability, that means they are now ultra-safe. With the homefield now at maximal security, we are now at 1330p.

So what to do with the remaining points? Well, the Proteus Killteam does have a mirror: the Fortis Killteam. While the first gets a bonus for aiming at targets above half strenght, they get a bonus for hitting units below that. There's just one problem: they don't have deepstrike and out other Killteams are clogging up the Teleportarium. So we add a regular Apothecary with the Beacon Angelis enhancement to a squad of 10. Just in case those Plasma Boys blow themselves up, we now got a medic on standby.

Adding that to what we have puts us at 1640p. To make the most out of this, let's add a Watch Master and 5 Deathwatch Veterans - they are just there to carry the following Enhancement:

This levels up Oath of Moment to its old glory, AND gives you an extra use. Meanwhile the special weapons on the Veterans can pack quite the punch as well, even when they are just a small unit. The "makes stratagems more expensive" skill is also neat.

Overall: 1920 points by now.

What we do with the last 95 points is completly up to preference. I just threw a Callidus Assassin in there for scoring purposes, and that fits thematically with the Proteus Teams jumping around.

TO CONCLUDE OUR LIST CONSISTS OF:

Librarian in Phobos Armor

Apothecary (Beacon Angelis)

Watch Master - Warlord (Tome of Ectoclades)

Deathwatch Veterans (5 models)

Centurion Devastator Squad (3 models)

Corvus Blackstar

Eliminator Squad

Fortis Killteam (10 models)

Infiltrator Squad (5 models)

Proteus Killteam (10 models)

Proteus Killteam (10 models)

Imperial Agents: Callidus Assassin

With a total of 1995 points. Weapon options are to be taken as common sense dictates (= no Frag Cannons on the Proteus, Fortis goes full Plasma, high damage weaponry on the Blackstar).

Notes on playing this list:

The most interesting part about this: the list has an extreme advantage when going second. Not only can you start deepstriking on the first turn with your Teleportarium, you can also RAPID INGRESS THE CORVUS BLACKSTAR in the enemy T2, meaning for your T2 you can already zip over to their homefield. The list is not ideal for secondary scoring (you will most certainly not even consider Investigating Signals with just the Callidus), but it does not have to be, for your focus is to ruin the enemy primary scoring by directly putting their homefield into your focus. And hey, "Capture Enemy Outpost" is 8 points, so having your Centurions parked there at the first chance you get definetly will also score a bit.

Your biggest worry is running out of command points for you have no generator in your list but that is something one can play around. The operating procedure should be fairly obvious: mark Oath of Moment Target -> let the Proteus Killteams blast them off the table. Eventually strike in the Fortis Team for cleanup duty. Meanwhile the Blackstar with its cargo has its own gameplan mostly independent from that.

The biggest issue for this list in a competititve setting is time, for your goal is to win the primary game in the long run. I recommend unit trays for the Proteus Killteams so taking them off the board and putting them back down is easy.

Last fun bit: I am not sure how this works on the rules specifically, but in this list you would have TWO instances of "make a enemy battle tactic stratagem worse". Of course that means you target their best + Command Reroll, but I am not sure if you can stack them. Putting Command Reroll at a 3CP cost sounds hillarious tho...

[jknighttoku10]

Lexamus-prime: THE DANGEROUS ZAXIS-MAN!!!

LEXAMUS-PRIME/THE DANGEROUS ZAXIS-MAN

NAME: LEXAMUS-PRIME.

HUMAN NAME: Zack Torres.

Other names: Green boy (Hate’s that name), The dark avenger, King of the beasts, Animal, destroyer, protector, Child of the monster. Death, Monster king, The lethal protector. L.P. Hatchling.

Code name: Zaxis-man or GOJIRA CONVOY.

Real name: Lexa Zaxis.

Alignment: Maximal (good, anti hero)

Full robot mode hight: 40 m.

Human size height: 7 feet 6 inches (229 cm)

Human form height: 5'9” (1.75 m)

Alt modes: transmetal 2Gojisauras, human, turbo semi Truck, flight mode/jet.

Strength: 9.0

Intelligence: 10.0

Speed: 8.0

Endurance: 9.0

Rank: 10.0

Courage: 8.0

Firepower: 10.0

Skill: 9.0

Weapons (both cybertronian/full robot and hi-q/human size and beast mode ) : Combat Swords, shield gun, morph gun, combat claws/bone claws, teeth and tail, main sword the Primal Rage, shoulder cannons, arm sword and sawblade, chains(they work like spawn’s, venom’s and ghost riders) , cannons from trailer drone.

Powers and Abilities(both cybertronian/full robot and hi-q/human size and beast mode ): Atomic breath, spiral heat ray, radiation heat ray, durability,prehensile tail, tail spikes, anti-flash protective membrane for swimming, symbiosis, nuclear pulse, durability(not that strong against certain weapons), intelligence (he holds it back sometimes because of his anger and doubt), Amphibiousness, Physical abilities, Plasma Cutter(spiked tail attack), copy ability/power configuration.(on weapons and vehicles only)

Likes: His team/family, meeting new people, being called by his real name and/or human name by his friends, 80’s and 90’s music, Hanging with others, exploring places that are new to him, relaxing, and swimming in the ocean. Seeing others happy and safe (that includes the people of the planet he protects) Food, reading, tinkering with his stuff(weapons, computers and gadgets), Learning new things.Kirby. Dislikes: Seeing those he knows or who are innocent and can’t defend themselves get harmed or worse, psychos, greedy and corrupt people and soldiers, those who talk bad about him and his friends and family. power hungry villains, poachers, the Predacons, some members of his team pickering and arguing, being lied to and secrets being kept from him and people trying to kill him and his friends and family. Those who use those he knows as bait.

Personality: Lexamus is a bot who has problems but tries not to let them get to him. He cares for his team even if they occasionally drive him crazy. Knows how to have fun(sometimes). He stands up for others who can’t stand up for themselves. He is still an anti hero. But all of that he struggles as a person always scared to let others new to Him in and is bad at talking to people sometimes, but he loves to try new things even its unknown to Him and his anger doubt and past will sometimes get the best of him when it comes to himself and/or others around Him.(if they get hurt our worse he will get really mad and show how angry He just like the doom slayer) He is learning to improve His skills on science and combat even tracking from those He meet, but some people See Him as a dark hero, a monstrous brute full of rage when fighting but on the inside, He is A person who’s strong enough to be gentle in his own way. And he prefers not to join parties (sometimes) he just likes to run around and leap and explore the jungle, cities and look at the night skies. Reading, tinkering.

Back story: Back on cybertron Lexa and his twin brother were trained by the mighty Grimlock before and then Dai-atlas one of the great swordsmen of crystal city at a young age but then. The cruel Elitist Sentinel prime ordered His scientist to force Lexa and His brother and other children to be a part of the power master program to beat the Decepticons. The experiment worked but Lexa struggles to take the lives of those who weren't a part of the war even questions His commanders orders but he suffered hard abuse from him and forced to take lives of any age made Lexa sick to his stomach. but after Sentinel prime’s death and after they left to Earth Lexa Took the form of earth’s most powerful creature GODZILLA form before he saw humans where no better than the Decepticons and corrupt Autobots he served under after seeing the wars, pollution and abuse on the planet. he and his team let their anger out on the humans to respect their new home but then was chosen by Optimus primal’s energon matrix to become Lexamus-prime and put his selfish rage and anger aside to protect the humans he hates from the true enemy The Predacons lead by the current leader of the Predacons and Decepticons. Megatron Zero. but he still struggles with his anger and past and doubts.

Teammates/Family: Groundspike/Luke(best friend and advisor) , Aliza/nora, Zontrax/kenny (adopted son), Red-dog/Johnny, Straxes/Wu, Leonix/Mike, Zora/Mei, Amelia-q, T-AI, Quickswitch/Jeff , Blaze Saber/Joey ,Blue, Delta, charlie,Echo(the zilla sisters). Huaman (human sister).