Eternity RPC Board
06-30-2018, 04:53 AM
It was a beautiful morning on Lake Gideon's southern coast, and MT7 Valentina Svetlana intended to enjoy every minute of it. Cold, clear water was a treat in the scorching summer heat, even if the most she got from the cupola of her FC200 Coyote was a cool, wet breeze. Every other direction was blinding sand or somber scrub brush, and even the inference of coastline over the next hill was intoxicating.
Her Coyote, 21, was part of the mechanized company rotated in for border patrol periodically. The nimble infantry fighting vehicles were to Vestians as sedans were to foreigners, and with ninety five percent of all Coyotes ever built still running in some capacity there were machines to spare for such a trivial duty as guarding a stretch of desert border. Svetlana figured that 21, for fifteen years prior part of a frontline Elanii DMZ unit, now had another ten or twelve years left in her before being demoted to civil defender paddy wagon, then another seven before being released to civilian duty like mail carrying.
All told, this mass produced cannon with wheels would serve the Vestor Licit People's Mandate for nearly forty years - all due to the Vestian obsession with hot roddery and grease monkeying, which ensured that each generation of vehicle crew would be even more lavish with maintenance, repairs, and upkeep than the last. This had the peculiar effect that older Coyotes were more valuable than newer ones, despite the technological advancements.
An FC200 fresh off the line today had bare metal and factory settings, while a multi-decade veteran like 21 had its sights dialed and engine tuned to perfection by no less than three crews - to say nothing of the tapestries of paint that adorned its approved panels. Svetlana and her crew had taken 21 south to Lawact for the Custom Show last year and made it to the semifinals, losing out to an admittedly gorgeous rendition of the Great Patriotic Resistance on an '81 Coyote.
A rumbling crescendo in the distance brought her back from her reminiscing. Instinctively she looked to the sky, hoping for a flash thunderstorm to drive out the heat. No such luck. Perhaps it was some commotion on post, an unlucky cargo handler who was about to earn himself a wave of demerits. She considered voxing the dispatch for details, but shrugged and let it go. Vocex calls were priority only, and there was no need to single out her unit on a quiet patrol like this.
Far in the distance, she could make out the faint skyline of the foreign metropolis Detigstad, a Miljoeni city. She was miles too far away to see any kind of activity, but the sight of the robber-baron city put her ill at ease. She told MT8 Vasily to start the engine and tapped out a telex message to dispatch as the reassuring rumble of the diesel kicked in.
"21 TO DISP - DISTURBANCE 180 OF 4240 - ADVISE," was all that she had time to type out before another, closer series of rumbling booms echoed across the desert floor. These were close enough to be obviously manmade. She flipped down the closed-circuit mic on her bulky helmet.
"Gunner up," she said, hearing it repeated with popping static in her ears.
"Gunner up, ponyal," said the young gunnery officer, MT9 Tereshkova, sliding down the scope from her seat.
"Gunner, traverse, one-eight-zero," she said, all business now. "Driver, one-eight-zero into forty-two thirty-nine. Take it slow."
A small chorus of 'ponyal's signified acknowledgment. In a few seconds, 21 was easing down the dirt path towards the noise.
"21 TO DISP - INVESTIGATING 180 INTO 4239 - SAY STATUS," Svetlana sent off, growing increasingly uneasy that dispatch was taking longer than their signature twelve seconds.
21 crested a hill, and as the hull settled back down Svetlana was greeted by a sight so surprising that she scarcely noticed the telex receiver beeping with a response from dispatch.
"DISP TO 21 - BORDER SEISMOS NONRESPONSIVE 4220 TO 4285 - INVESTIGATE - VOCEX AUTHED," it said.
The nature of the problem was quickly made obvious. A large force -no, a wave, a seething carpet- of foreign armor was streaming onto Vestian soil, the ruined frontline bunkers behind them with their broken expensive seismometers and unlucky immolated MT9 sentries pouring thick, oily smoke against the bright sky. It was a scene of sheer mechanized horror, the kind of thing they show in Motor Officer School to scare the slackers straight.
"Back up, back up!" Svetlana hissed into the mic, and 21 lurched back over the hill in reverse to avoid being spotted and killed. At her further urging, Vasily guided 21 into a hidden nook in the gnarls of rock and sand which would provide concealment unless the Miljoeni came scouring the hills. By the speed of their advance, that seemed unlikely.
Willing the ice in her veins to go away with each measured, tense exhale, MT7 Svetlana picked up the vocex receiver and called dispatch.
"Overwhelming armor advance from the east," she managed to get out. "Get me Lawact now."
FU Remaining: 7 of 7
Gambit response: 1 FU
Gambit attempt:
1d6 rolled for a total of: 2 (2)
Her Coyote, 21, was part of the mechanized company rotated in for border patrol periodically. The nimble infantry fighting vehicles were to Vestians as sedans were to foreigners, and with ninety five percent of all Coyotes ever built still running in some capacity there were machines to spare for such a trivial duty as guarding a stretch of desert border. Svetlana figured that 21, for fifteen years prior part of a frontline Elanii DMZ unit, now had another ten or twelve years left in her before being demoted to civil defender paddy wagon, then another seven before being released to civilian duty like mail carrying.
All told, this mass produced cannon with wheels would serve the Vestor Licit People's Mandate for nearly forty years - all due to the Vestian obsession with hot roddery and grease monkeying, which ensured that each generation of vehicle crew would be even more lavish with maintenance, repairs, and upkeep than the last. This had the peculiar effect that older Coyotes were more valuable than newer ones, despite the technological advancements.
An FC200 fresh off the line today had bare metal and factory settings, while a multi-decade veteran like 21 had its sights dialed and engine tuned to perfection by no less than three crews - to say nothing of the tapestries of paint that adorned its approved panels. Svetlana and her crew had taken 21 south to Lawact for the Custom Show last year and made it to the semifinals, losing out to an admittedly gorgeous rendition of the Great Patriotic Resistance on an '81 Coyote.
A rumbling crescendo in the distance brought her back from her reminiscing. Instinctively she looked to the sky, hoping for a flash thunderstorm to drive out the heat. No such luck. Perhaps it was some commotion on post, an unlucky cargo handler who was about to earn himself a wave of demerits. She considered voxing the dispatch for details, but shrugged and let it go. Vocex calls were priority only, and there was no need to single out her unit on a quiet patrol like this.
Far in the distance, she could make out the faint skyline of the foreign metropolis Detigstad, a Miljoeni city. She was miles too far away to see any kind of activity, but the sight of the robber-baron city put her ill at ease. She told MT8 Vasily to start the engine and tapped out a telex message to dispatch as the reassuring rumble of the diesel kicked in.
"21 TO DISP - DISTURBANCE 180 OF 4240 - ADVISE," was all that she had time to type out before another, closer series of rumbling booms echoed across the desert floor. These were close enough to be obviously manmade. She flipped down the closed-circuit mic on her bulky helmet.
"Gunner up," she said, hearing it repeated with popping static in her ears.
"Gunner up, ponyal," said the young gunnery officer, MT9 Tereshkova, sliding down the scope from her seat.
"Gunner, traverse, one-eight-zero," she said, all business now. "Driver, one-eight-zero into forty-two thirty-nine. Take it slow."
A small chorus of 'ponyal's signified acknowledgment. In a few seconds, 21 was easing down the dirt path towards the noise.
"21 TO DISP - INVESTIGATING 180 INTO 4239 - SAY STATUS," Svetlana sent off, growing increasingly uneasy that dispatch was taking longer than their signature twelve seconds.
21 crested a hill, and as the hull settled back down Svetlana was greeted by a sight so surprising that she scarcely noticed the telex receiver beeping with a response from dispatch.
"DISP TO 21 - BORDER SEISMOS NONRESPONSIVE 4220 TO 4285 - INVESTIGATE - VOCEX AUTHED," it said.
The nature of the problem was quickly made obvious. A large force -no, a wave, a seething carpet- of foreign armor was streaming onto Vestian soil, the ruined frontline bunkers behind them with their broken expensive seismometers and unlucky immolated MT9 sentries pouring thick, oily smoke against the bright sky. It was a scene of sheer mechanized horror, the kind of thing they show in Motor Officer School to scare the slackers straight.
"Back up, back up!" Svetlana hissed into the mic, and 21 lurched back over the hill in reverse to avoid being spotted and killed. At her further urging, Vasily guided 21 into a hidden nook in the gnarls of rock and sand which would provide concealment unless the Miljoeni came scouring the hills. By the speed of their advance, that seemed unlikely.
Willing the ice in her veins to go away with each measured, tense exhale, MT7 Svetlana picked up the vocex receiver and called dispatch.
"Overwhelming armor advance from the east," she managed to get out. "Get me Lawact now."
FU Remaining: 7 of 7
Gambit response: 1 FU
Gambit attempt:
1d6 rolled for a total of: 2 (2)