Wuulf Posted Oct 28, 2020, 4:34 pm	‘White Lines’ Sterling revved the engine of the Buzzer. It had been a good few hours since he’d ‘played in the snow’ and it was making him more impatient than usual. Finally! The tavern door swung open and Red came running toward him. “Where the frunk have you been?!” He bellowed over the engine. “Just puttin’ up a help wanted sign. You’ll thank me for it later... so are we rolling?” Port Blacksand, Mile 150 from Elmsfield.  Contracts available: Couriers: Electronic Parts on sale at $862 per unit at Blacksand. Double your money.., if you can get them to Elmsfield. Bounty Hunters: Help needed cleaning up the Elmsfield - Fort Rajuuk road. Targets this week: The Empire, Ultraviolence. The Empire, Chevvy’s Impalers $600 per confirmed kill. Mechanics - one factory in operation at Blacksand. Any mechs willing to pitch in get a corresponding share of production. No references needed. Mutant friendly workspace. Immediate start.
Fealty Lost Posted Oct 28, 2020, 9:41 pm	Santos "JD" Smith watched the mech' putting the last kill mark on the side of his Landy. The guy did good work. There hadn't been anyone in GW with the skills to engrave armor. The guy looked back over his shoulder. "Whadda ya think?" "I think it's good to be back in Elms', Walt." he walked up next to the man and wiped away a stuck bit of shaved metal. "Looks great, as it always has." The man stood, giving out a little grunt of age as he did. Santos hoped Walt had someone to pass his skills onto. Walt leaned onto the hood of the Landy. "Hey, who were these?" he questioned, pointing to the two new skulls engraved onto "Huba Lusayfr," Smith's CR-gunned Landy'. "Those losers? That was Ultraviolence scum. We blazed 13 of 'em today." Smith smiled. "Woulda been more but I...and I'm sure, you, like my loot cars more intact than whakked. Easier to work on." Walt chuckled. "You got that right. You wouldn't believe the crap people drag in here wanting good money for. There aren't too many shooters out there I'd call true marksmen, anymore. Your crew always has been, though. You bring me loot barely shot up. Turning it around is easy. Cutting it up, when there are good parts to cut up, keeps us both in cash. It's good to have you back." Smith shared a laugh with his old friend. "Hey, glad to be of service." Walt pushed himself off the hood of the Landy'. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot! There's some crew put up a bounty of these guys," he said, pointing to the death skull he'd just carved. "I think they're offerin' like, oh, 5-6 bills apiece." "In Elms'?" "I'm pretty sure I saw somethin' posted up at Joe's," Walt said, scratching his head. "I'm old but my mind still works." They shared a laugh, two old war-dogs. Then a moment of silence. They both had demons poked their noses out now and again. "Anyways, I didn't pay that much attention. There's always someone stickin' somethin' or another up on the walls. I just remember seeing "Bounty on Ultraviolence" or some such. You should check it out." Smith climbed onto the step mounted to the door, grabbed the overhead bar and pulled himself up and into the driver's door 'window.' He settled into the seat, thumbed the ignition. "I just might, Walt, I just might." He smiled, waved, kicked the turbo-charged 3.2 liter over. She roared to life. Walt moved back and turned to go, waving over his shoulder. Smith backed out of the bay. 'Bounty, huh?' he thought. Slaughterhouse could use the cash, right now. He wheeled the Landy around and rolled off towards Joe's. He found a spot around back. Locked the Landy' down. He could see a couple other Slaughterhouse vehicles in the lot. Two of the Buzzers. Who the hell drove the BPU up here? ...and how'd he keep it going straight down the road? He chuckled at his own joke. Fkn' BPU's. As he walked in through the door he paused a sec', scanned the bar. He walked over to the announcements board. Scanned the warrants...the usual 'Ride Wanted' or 'Have you Seen...?' bills. There. "Bounty Hunters: Help wanted...blah blah blah...Ultraviolence...blah blah...Fort Rajuuk Road? He wasn't familiar. A shadow fell over the board he was looking at, his left hand went to the hilt of his old K-Bar. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing. Nothing to worry about. "Hey Boss." It was Maria "Too Fast" Dawson. They'd had a 'thing,' once. Long time ago. "Hey, Maria. You see this?" "Yeah. I was thinking like, hell, I got me 3 today, I could use a bonus, but then...." She trailed off, reached around him and stabbed the bottom of the bill. "Mutant Friendly Workspace." "...the fuq...," he started, then spat on the bill. "Fkn mutie-lovers." She leaned lightly against his back, her lips close to his ear. "Yeah, I figured you'd like that." She gave that whiskey-rough little chuckle he'd loved at one point, right into his ear. Parts of him still loved it, obviously. "What the fuq is this world coming to?" He turned, making sure to keep contact with her body as he did. She didn't miss the move. "Feelin' froggy, old man?" She said, smiling. "Ribbit." he replied. She turned slightly, waved to the other Slaughterhouse gangers sitting at a large table a ways off. A few lifted hands in understanding, she had a ride back to the hangar. "Fkn muties." She said, taking the lead towards the door. "Girl's gotta have standards," he said to her dark, bouncing hair. "Damn straight." she answered. "But I'll bend 'em a bit for you, tonight." He laughed, pushing the door closed behind him as they exited Joe's. "'round back." he said. "You know it," she snapped back. He shook his head and smiled, following. 'Fking muties, in Elms',' he thought. 'What next? Midgets?' Slaughterhouse didn't need cash bad enough to be taking it from mutie-lovers.
Wuulf Posted Oct 30, 2020, 12:51 am	‘Red’ Raven Roche slouched back in the booth, her battered long-coat helping her to become one with the shadows. She sipped her pint and ####ed an ear toward the two ageing gangers stood in front of the notice board. Thirteen slavers! Pops looked like he’d have trouble pulling a trigger with them gnarly hands, but fair play to him. A bit mutist by the sounds of it, but so were at least 70% of Elms and a deal was a deal. Red waited for the two old-timers to leave then slid over to join Mr Krauss. Mr Krauss was, well, Mr Krauss. He could get things done. For money. If anyone claimed to know more about him than that you could dismiss it as rumour - it wasn’t even clear how tall he was, where his accent was from and there was even lively debate over the colour of his eyes. But that was all irrelevant, Red needed things doing and Mr Krauss got things done. She kept it brief as usual. “The Randy Grandpa who was just here. Make sure he gets the eight thou. Throw in a new pair of jeans too - those bell-bottoms he was rockin’ haven’t been street legal in Elms since 2089 and a killer’s gotta look fresh. Rest’s your fee.” Mr Krauss remained rigid, aside from a barely perceptible tilt of his head by a few millimetres. In his world this was enthusiastic confirmation. Red slid the envelope across the table, got up as silently as she had arrived and faded out of the tavern.
Effy Posted Nov 3, 2020, 10:03 am	Basilia Alegria steps out of her dusty training flash. This is her first time in GW, and she wonders what can bring people to live in this cramped and foul place. "Seems my training days are over" she thinks with sadness and eagerness all together. Girls around here look all tough and battered, the wishful innocent happiness of Somerset washed away by the years in this the harsh and unforgiving environment. He has been given the only BPU they had, almost like a odd relic you don't know what to do with. No one has ever driven it. It's eerie-electric geeen it's clearly out of place here in Gateway and makes it stand out a bit too much for her likeness, but she likes green, and she knows pirates will chase her the same regardless of its color. 'Hotsauce' Hue Hui is cleaning her hands after checking everything were right in place. "Everything ready Basilia, you know how we do things, safe and slow, take your time to know the handles and try to stick to the road, i've set a high and somewhat hard suspension to help you with the offroad in case you need it. Let's see if we can get some money from our driver-scouting training. We are doing some big spending lately in "the lair", and any source of income is something to tap on" Basilia climbs up to the driver place, gives herself 2 seconds to feel her chubby self adapt to the seat, sniffs the smell of new plastics and parts only new cars do, and turns the engine on... The 4L sure sounds more powerful than the 3.2 of her flash... but those 1000 extra pounds will make her dangerously slow. Checks her rifles have full clips. Tries to have in mind what "Smoker U Drink, Player U Get" guys always say about how great BPUs are. Takes a deep breath and... "Port Blacksand, here we go!"
Fealty Lost Posted Nov 3, 2020, 4:10 pm	"JD" Smith rolled out of his rack at zero-dark-thirty and trudged downstairs. He could smell the old, burnt coffee and didn't care. He grabbed a mug. A minute later he managed to make it to the hangar doors and was met by four way-too-cheery rooks' on guard duty. They must have just come on shift. "Stop it," he grumbled. "...it's too early for smiles." The foursome chuckled at their Boss's morning gruff and puff demeanor. Zola Karabatsos shouldered her way past the three young men she was holding post with. Her smile stayed in place. "Morning you old goat." she said. "Nothing better to do than harass the employees?" Smith nailed her with his steely gaze earned in far too many combats out in the wastes. She didn't even flinch. Nice smile. Nice everything. "If I was 40 years younger...," he started. "You'd what?" she interrupted. He got nearly nose to nose with her, leaned slightly left and brought his lips close to her ears. The other three guards had backed off. They could hear what he whispered, but from the neck up, Zola was bright red. Her lip quivered. Smith leaned back and raised his coffee mug, took a sip. Zola remembered to blink. She took a breath. Cleared her throat. Smith took another sip. "Copy that." she said. Smith put his best smile on. "So, anything exciting happen last night?" Robert Sherman, a semi-crazed newbie who'd actually volunteered to be a gunner on their dual-HFT BPU stepped up and extended his arm, an envelope in hand. "This came about 15 minutes ago, by courier, Boss." Smith handed his mug off to the still semi-comatose Zola. It was a good thing he'd had about half of its contents or her hand would have shaken the top half out onto the ground. He opened the package and found a wad of Evan bucks. $8,000 worth. He raised an eyebrow. Who owned him money here? There was a note: "Bounty considered paid in full" and some emblem that looked weirdly familiar. Bounty? He hadn't contra...oh hell no. The mutie-lover who had posted the 'raiders and slavers' bill in Joe's. Who the hell told whoever it was that his crew had hauled in...? He threw the package out into the fading darkness. Wiped his hands on his bell-bottom jeans and spat on the dusty concrete slab fronted the hangar. It was nagging him...he'd seen that sign before. But where? As he walked back into the hangar, his eyes fell upon the crate held the brand new 3L rotary he'd bought at Arizona's just yesterday. "SON OF A BITCH!" he roared. Stormed over and put his foot through the emblem staring at him from atop the shipping crate. The foursome came running to stand behind their Boss. His outburst had roused the entire hangar. People came running, some half-dressed, some pulling on gear thinking the hangar was under attack. They all pulled up short when they saw their Boss standing over a shattered crate lid, fuming. They didn't see him mad very often. It usually took something very, very bad happening to get him so. People who, a second ago, had been half-running half-hopping trying to get into their leathers, stopped, let their half-on gear fall at their feet. Nobody said a word. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody knew what happened. Even the guards, standing behind their Boss...looked confused. McCollum, their Second, came walking out of the darkness. Scratching her head through the thick mane of raven-black and silver hair she sported, squinting into the light. "What the hell, now?" He made as if to hand her something, realized there was nothing in either hand. "Where the hell's my cof..." was all he got out. Zola was next to him, mug extended. He glared at her. Narrowed his eyes. Everyone thought she must have done something...? Michelle stopped, put her hands on her hips and laughed. "You're just now figuring that out? "Who did you think built that? There's only one camp out there making these, around Elms'. Sometimes, Santos, I wonder about you." She turned on her heel and walked back into the darkness. "I'm going back to sleep." The remainder of the crew stood around, seemingly unsure of themselves. Santos looked them over. "If you're not on duty, get the fk outa my face!" Crew gathered up clothing and helmets and finished pulling on pants or shirts and jackets, then trudged back towards their own bunks. False alarm. You could feel the tension drain out of the hangar. There'd be plenty of time later that day for nerves. Santos made a gesture towards the coffee-covered engine...a sweeping motion as in 'clean that up,' but then turned and with a wave, said nothing, dismissed everything. "Back to it, rooks'...," he said. The four made to make their way back to the hangar door and their posts. The sun would be up in about an hour. They'd get relieved and catch a quick nap and if they were lucky, or unlucky, depending on your point of view; Slaughterhouse would go hunting. ...probably for some mutants this time around, if their Boss's attitude influenced the decision-making. As the four made their way past the stairs leading up to the suspended office facility where their Boss had his personal quarters, Zola slowed down and veered quietly towards the stairs....
Effy Posted Nov 10, 2020, 10:03 am	Basilia steps down from the BPU in front of Elmsfield market. Her body language showing the shacking but still energetic movements of adrenaline rushing off. "Rear armor, is cheese, right armor completely useless, let's see how's the cargo.... 1 ep package damaged beyond any use, the rest seem fine. Tyres damaged, won't survive 2 travels more like this one". "This damn run has been one of the scariest things i have ever done, how am i supossed to outrun anyone while driving this whale!?" - Someone just come here!, got some EPs to sell!, new mint stuff just out of Port Blacksand factories!. And you better pay good for this things or you won't see them around much more!. ...200k later at Arizona's... - "You kidding me! Those prices just to well those walls of rust?. And you say you got no reinforced tyres!???. What kind of place is this!?? If you cannot support merchant operations you could just close this dam city!." ...10k less later at Joe's... (Basilia talking to the first random guy/victim she finds alone there) - I told you i'm done!. They can just use that BPU for the dogs to pee on their tyres!, i'm not going those lost trail roads in that thing ever again. You know, i had to outrun a flash!! A FLASH!! How in the world a dam full loaded 4L whale should be supposed to outrun a FLASH!!?? tell me!!. No, I tell you how you do it!, you scurry all over rocks so your own tyres get eaten, and pray to Sam the flash tyres get eaten faster than yours, and in the meantime you eat bullets. And i ate enough of those today!! This roads to Port Blacksand are just goat trails, full of bumps and odd turns, 3000 years ago they built roads thounds of times better!! Who made those roads!? a dirty bearded goat god!?? I now know why we i've been told to avoid this lost trails!. Just go Somerset and you will find civilised roads there!. ... an hour later a message from Gertrude... - Just cool off a little Basilia, i'm very sorry we made you pass through that thing. You know how things work, we need you and everyone to keep doing our job. We had to leave a turtled apache in GW yesterday, last week we lost a flail we wanted to sell in a travel and Betty is in the hospital, #### happens everyday all around. And we cannot just stop. This time get a normal PU, put an exposed engine, and just surrender before things get too hairy, we can get all the PUs we want from pirates, so just carry your rifles well loaded and you will be fine whatever it happens! We have run pu's lots of times, it will be fine this next time!!
Fealty Lost Posted Nov 10, 2020, 9:21 pm	Slaughterhouse rolled out in the waning hours of night, looking for those looking for trader caravans...or those who dealt in the people part of those caravans. They'd snuck up behind a gaggle of raggedy vehicles with two beat-down-looking carrier vans straggling along with them. By the markings, Pirataka; scavenger Raider 'traders,' a group his crew had tangled with before, but never with such slim pickings. They were headed out from Elms', probably after dealing with some of the shadier 'traders' in the mostly-civilized town for water or food, which they distributed among their own kind out in the wilds. Slaughterhouse didn't really have a fight with them, but when they caught them with double the number of carrier vans, being nice was usually off the table. That many tin cans and they were probably running fuel for the more deadly Raiders or to keep the camp gennies running. Santos didn't mind the vision in his head of Raiders stumbling around in the dark or walking around with torches. He smiled. They'd let this group go. They'd gotten close enough for the rear chase vehicles to put up white flags on poles mounted on their rust-buckets. He'd honor the 'truce' this time. "What's the call, Boss?" The intra-crew short-range comms crackled. It was Michelle "Mac-V" McCollum, his Second and sometime bed-partner. It was complicated. It had gotten more complicated when Zola, one of the new crew, had detoured upstairs to his quarters last week after a little 'incident' early in the morning when he'd discovered he'd been buying product manufactured by that mutant-loving crew had posted Bounty on slavers and raiders week and a half ago. They'd tried to pay him bounty. He'd thrown the cash out into the dark. He wasn't going to touch it. He was sure the rookies on guard duty had not been so picky. Nobody else had said anything about an envelope full of cash being found outside the hangar. "We let 'em go." he replied. "Copy that." He picked up the mic' a second later. "Zero, get your ass up on that ridge and see what's what. I got a bad feeling." He wasn't just saying that. For the last few days he'd felt there was something bad coming. Now his gut was doing flip-flops. He believed in intel', but every now and then.... There had been the usual rumors about some gang or another being seen hovering around the lakes, skirting Elmsfield's defenses but looking for some 'easy pickings.' He knew Oracle was out there; probably looking for some payback. Hammerstein had intercepted a couple trader caravans. They'd had some success. That's who Slaughterhouse wanted...the ones who preyed upon the people trying to rebuild society. He watched as 'Triple Z,' the nickname the younger crew had given her-Zenobia "Zero" Zylstra, their dedicated Scout, ripped by in the muffled buzzsaw she rode, a hopped-up off-road buggy could outrun most cars on the flat and definitely leave them behind in the dirt. She slung the nimble crate around and tore up the side of a hill to their left. It would give her a good view of the surrounding lakes and the long, curvy alley that bordered the Gates of Elmsfield-through which even the bad guys had to go to leave the area. The lakes acted like big funnels. You couldn't go around them, couldn't go through them-although some had tried...and if you didn't know where the 'secret' spot was that brought you up on the town's rear gates, it was bath time. Smith had "Screech" Creech flash the marker lights on the Landy, signaling the crew it was time to hold up and see what they could see. He stayed in his seat. He saw a couple of the ballistic-van crew getting out for a stretch. Behind him, "Too Fast" Dawson swung her long legs through the armored door hatch and dropped to the ground outside 'Baalanxth,' their ATG-armed Buzzer. He saw her walking towards his Landy. "Hey." she said, pulling even with his door. "Hey back." "Your gut, again?" she asked, ####ing her head to the side. "Yeah." She rolled her head around, loosening her neck muscles and reached over her head with both arms, stretching. "Cool." was all she said and turned and walked back to her crew. He saw her turn and look back at the ballistic crews milling around, talking, probably wondering why they'd stopped this close to home. They were only 3 miles out from the Gates. "Mount up, morons!" she yelled. "We're not home yet! Get your heads screwed on! This ain't over!" Hands on hips, she watched the youngsters climb back into their bombards. He saw the dual-HFT BPU pull around to her right. One of the kids leaned out. It was Calvin Tyrell, newest addition to the crew. If he survived, he was going to be a hell of a stick. If he survived Dawson and the bad guys. He chuckled to himself. Fking kids. She was old enough to be his Mom. The comm' crackled to life. "Slavers." was all he heard "Zero" say. He wasn't the only one. Engines roared to life. Open hatches slammed shut. There had been no immediacy in "Zero's" voice. That meant she'd seen them and they hadn't seen her. If she was sure, that meant only one thing. FLMH. "Get your ass back here!" he said into the mic', knowing she'd know he meant her. He punched the power button on his CR, heard the pneumatics charging. Green across the board. He turned to his fellow Gunner, whose board was also green. They nodded to each other. Raymond "Justice" Warren grinned. "Clobberin' time!" "RTB, copy that," he heard Zenobia acknowledge. He heard the engine bark to life before she dropped the mic'. "Alright everybody, form up on me. Buzzers move up. Bombards ease in behind them. CRs flank right. HMGs left." He watched as front ends of Landys, Apes, Buzzers and vans slid in and out of the view on his side mirrors. He eased his Landy right. Heard actions being levered and magazines being loaded on the dual CRs of his personal Landy, the "Huba Lusayfr." He'd been riding her for a while. People recognized her on sight...even the bad guys. The crew performed perfectly. Once everyone was on-line, he gave the signal. "Zero" came buzzing in on his right. She waved, held up a finger, then waggled her hand and pointed forward. One klik to their front. Perfect. "Numbers?" he said into the mic'. "...at least 20, Boss." she replied. The mic' crackled dead. He smiled. They'd take out two, three on initial contact, before the slavers could get their sh*t together and mount a defense. The mic' went live, again. "They've got two tractors...so, ballistics. Six pickups...and I'm pretty sure I saw heads bobbing around. So they got lucky. Probably some dumb-ass kids partying out around the lakes. Families won't even miss them until breakfast." Fking slavers. He picked up his mic'. "Alright crew...FLMH. You know what we're up against. These bloodthirsty fks won't give up. So pick your targets...call 'em out. Let your squadmates know what you're shooting at. Let's double up on the rocket platforms; you know the drill. Looks like they've got captives in the pickups, so watch your shots. Concentrate on the cabs...make 'em regret coming onto our turf." They crested a rise and there they were. He could see dust starting to come up off their tires, so they'd been creeping, waiting until the run past the Gates. They weren't but 100-or-so meters in front of the Slaughterhouse crew. He keyed the mic'. "THEY'RE IN OUR HOUSE! SLAUGHTER 'EM!" Almost immediately he heard the high-pitched CRACK! of HCRs being lit off. The Buzzers to his right sent high-velocity greetings to the slavers. Smith saw three hits, sparks from turned-molten armor sloughing off the slavers' rides as 20mm rounds tried to find a point of entry to say "HI!" One of the rides slewed hard right and slammed into one of the pickups. It veered hard left and spun. Santos thought he saw a body fly out of the bed. There wasn't time to verify. All around him AP rounds were streaking out from the heavy guns of Slaughterhouse's combat rigs, arcing across the decreasing space between his crew and the FLMH. More sparks. The slavers were in a panic. His crew had caught them more worried about the run past the Gates than watching to see if anyone might be coming for them. They wouldn't stay that way. They'd get it together. He took a quick look to his rear. He saw the ballistic-carriers slinging around, throwing up rooster-tails of dust. It was like watching a ballet. He returned his gaze forward. His crew was in range and he felt, then heard, the CRs belch out rounds. Two hits! "STAND IN PLACE!" he yelled over the comms' and slammed on the brakes. FLMH was 85 meters to their front and trying to turn. He saw two flares to his right and looked up just in time to see a Pho' get ripped apart. It rolled to a stop halfway through its turn. "FIRST BLOOD!" he heard over the comms. "BONUS TIME!" ...and then laughter and again, the sharp report of the big HCRs. It was Ed "Potato" Davenport, one of their veteran Gunners. Unfortunately for the pair of tractors at the end of the FLMH formation, while they tried to turn those ungainly beasts around to bring their ballistic weapons to bear; they crossed every LOS his crew was drawing against the slavers. Round after round of HMG, CR and HCR bounced off the pair of farm machines turned combat (?) vehicles. And then, to add insult to injury, Santos heard the unmistakable sound of ordnance being fired off behind him. The bombards had got themselves turned and on-target before FLMH could even get halfway through theirs. He watched the ground around and among FLMH light up with blazing flames as the trio of Nape Guns impacted into their formation. One of the slavers had the unfortunate chance of meeting a round directly on his windscreen and was alight immediately. It made for a great target and the flanking Landys and their CRs drew beads on the Antagonist and it was torn asunder in seconds; its crew bailed into a flaming landscape. One of them was turned into a running beacon as its clothes caught fire in the intense heat of the napalm. The other was cut down by CR fire, torn in half by the large caliber rounds. They let the human candle burn. Fk 'em. Paint clouds erupted to their front. One. Two...three? There was a ballistic pickup out there somewhere. Santos grabbed the mic' and barked orders: "Sanguino! Finish that damned tractor and find that 'Masher!" He didn't need an elusive, speedy target running around the whole fight mucking up their windshields with that pink sh*t. "Copy that." came the terse reply from Carrol "Accosted" LaCoste, the Buzzer's wheel jockey. The HCR blazed in tandem, the tractor lurched and stopped as its tiny front wheels collapsed in a puddle of napalm, the crew decimated and nothing more than pink mist from the horrendous impact of the big HCR rounds. Santos watched an arm arc through the air and splat to the ground. Fk 'em. The second furrow-maker was being systematically torn apart. Its paint and CGL had stopped firing. It was turning circles trying to get an intact side of armor facing the second HCR Buzzer, the "Semyaza." And then it was dead as a pair of high-velocity rounds cut across the distance and impacted with a massive explosion, shredding the tractor. The unfortunate sedans flanking it took the brunt of the exploding Anti-Tank Gun rounds full on their sides. Already under a barrage of HMG fire, a Sir Rocket flipped, turtling on the hard-packed roadway. A teammate slewed his pickup sideways to avoid the dual RL sedan and slammed into the now-dead Wurtz'...catching fire as its exposed engine sprung a fuel leak. He watched all this as he brought his weapon to bear on enemy after enemy. He and his co' continually calling out instructions to his driver. Their weapons had some range of motion but couldn't cover more than a 60-degree arc to their front. So, occasionally they needed the driver to relocate, speed up, slow down, turn to allow them to get their guns on target. "Back 5, left. Hold. ...firing." The front end of the Landy would light up as the CRs slung hot death across the expanse between the battling crews. He and his co' tried to coordinate their fire, calling out new targets even as they were killing another. Ever on the lookout for new targets, "Screech" kept up comms' with his crew. "Marauder 10 0'clock moving West to East." "Got it. Targeting." "Copy Marauder. Targeting," called out his co-Gunner, Warren. "Let's light him up!" Santos hated rockets. None of his combat vehicles used them. So when a rocket-boat showed up, be it a Marauder pickup or a Sir Rocket sedan, it got "special treatment." "110 and locked." Warren called out. "85 and locked! FIRE!" Smith yelled. That sucker was moving! Their rounds impacted the front end of the truck, driving its nose into the ground. It swerved, looking like it wanted to go left, but then cut back right, towards their line. "RAIN FIRE!" It was making a run for the ballistic-vans behind their line. Their CR rounds were sparking off armor, sending bits and pieces flying as they tore into the metal. A sharp crew, looking for targets, would see it and join in, if they were looking for something new to smoke. Smith heard the comms' crackling on and off as crews called out targets or called "dibs" on certain enemy rigs. "Whoever's shredding that Marauder making a run, pull off and look for something else...we've got him." It took Santos a second before he recognized the voice. Duval. The Scout turned stick, in the "Hatoitademon" Apache...one of the rookies. A rook' calling his crew off? Ballsy. A second later he caught the staccato bark of a pair of HMGs opening up and watched the Marauder flounder in its charge as the .50 rounds stitched along its right side. The "Hataitodemon" was anchoring the left flank. They were there to do exactly what they were doing. Let the main body concentrate on the enemy while they caught anybody trying to flank the center. The pickup tried, Smith had to give its driver that...as it swerved violently left, then slung itself back to the right. The kid driving might have been a rookie, but the gunners weren't. They gave it that move, then, as it veered back towards them, thumbed their triggers and let it rain steel death onto the Marauder. It lived for another two seconds before the .50s tore into the cab, shattered the windscreen and pulped the crew. A double kill! "Nice work 'demon," he called. "All in a day's work," came the reply. Smith smiled. His crew had just 'lit up' a Skeggox that had torn through the curtain of napalm his bombard crews had been raining down in the no-man's land between the crews. It fired off a rocket which slammed into the front of his Landy. He gritted his teeth as the big SUV rocked from the impact. He watched the left front tire blow, sending the Chomper variant sliding to the right. It fired again, but this time its rocket slammed into the side of one of its own, a Phoenix, ablaze, sliding 45 meters to the front of his Landy. The rocket sent it up onto its side...unfortunate for the crew, as he heard the big 'WHOOMP!' as the "Baalxanth's" ATGs slammed into its roof. The exploding ordnance glared bright, silhouetting its crew for a millisecond before they were eviscerated by the molten metal of the exploding shells. The hulk was slung sideways, into the Skeggox. The resulting collision set the Chomper ablaze. Its crew bailed. CRs barked. "PED!" came the call. Bang bang dead. Santos could see no fewer than a dozen vehicles in varying states of dead strewn across his field of vision. FLMH, it seemed, had lost the will to fight. What fire there was now coming from the remaining vehicles was sporadic and rarely on-target. The Napalm Guns picked up and shut down a late charge from their left. Smith kept seeing a massive flare of light behind the enemy again and again. "What the hell?" he was wondering to himself and then, through the smoke and flames of the smoldering liquid napalm covering the battlefield, the ugly nose of their resident BPU came screaming out of the waning darkness in hot pursuit of another Sir Rocket, who, obviously, was more worried about what was behind it than what lay to its front. The BPU was, of course, slewing sideways...weren't they always? ...barely missing the puddled napalm the 'Rocket wasn't even trying to avoid. And a second later it was clear why. The night turned to day and the BPU's dual HFTs roared like a dragon, its super-heated conflagration enveloping the fleeing Chevalier. Flame poured from out of the armored sides and Smith could imagine the horror of the occupants as their flesh was roasted to the bone and their lungs filled with fire as they died. Fk 'em. The BPU continued its slide...as if it could do anything but...and with a twitch of the wheel the beast had bracketed one of the Chompers the FLMH were running. Its already-shredded armor did not bode well. It was no more than 20 meters away and he could see the fear etched across the driver's face as he stared into the twin muzzles of the BPU. A second later...flared light...flickering orange and black...and the Chomper, its driver flailing at itself, trying to put out the all-comsuming flames, rudderless, caught a rock and flipped, slid across the dirt and came to a blazing stop. One of its crew crawled out through a shattered gunner's hatch, miraculously untouched. Then his view was blocked by the sliding BPU...the gunner facing him had his face plastered to the armored window, blowing his cheeks out. He fell back, laughing maniacally...and then was gone. Again the flaming tongues of death arced out...this time, to catch the fleeing crew member from the dead Chomper. ...and then it passed out of his sight. So caught up in the spectacle, Smith hadn't heard the other crews yelling at the crazed BPU crew as it slid across LOS after LOS, forcing the crews to break contact as they worked at mopping up the remaining FLMH. He saw the HFTs fire again, this time catching an unlucky Phoenix as it tried to turn tail and break contact. Then Santos lost both in the sun as it crested the small hills along the Eastern side of the town. He covered his eyes, then looked back to the battle. Several vehicles had broken from the firing line and were chasing down stragglers. One of the FLMH had tried to seek cover in a ravine. The Mortar crew had seen the move and were burying the pickup with high-explosive rounds. The ballistic crews were using their Nape Guns now as weapons; targeting fleeing enemy vehicles who were more worried about getting out alive than combat maneuvering. The Nape' slammed down on them, setting two alight, causing one crew to bail. They were cut down almost immediately by the CRs on the right flank. Five seconds later, it was over. The sole remaining enemy, the elusive Mutant Masher, drove directly into the LOS of the twin-ATGs "Baalxanth." It opened up from less than 30 meters. The Masher all but evaporated. End of the day, Slaughterhouse collected up 16 of 24 enemy as loot cars, including the Wurzels, which went for nearly 100K by themselves. They'd probably have snagged a couple more, but the crazed BPU crew of the "Hurenflamme" had roasted, literally, four of them. Heck of a day for their crew. Arizona's was happy to get wholly non-shot-up salvage, as not a single enemy had more than one breached armor side...and they paid for it. Slaughterhouse was back in the black after just a couple weeks after having returned to Elms' from GW. After repairs, Smith figured, they'd clear about a quarter mil'. And, if they were lucky, the parents of the kids that had survived the encounter would maybe cook them up some BBQ or let their daughters come to the hangar to...uh...'thank' some of his crew. Life was good.