Weippe:0720
Above the skies of Weippe, a predator waited.
The Enchantress coasted in geosynchronous orbit, her hull still bearing the scars from an orbital defense barrage less than an hour ago. Some hits bruised her ego. Others carved deep, scarring her near-perfect armor. Around her swarmed an escort: troop carriers, jump ships, dropships, all orbiting like a metallic swarm.
Ten squadrons of aerospace fighters patrolled nearby—heavy interceptors and nimble bombers dancing in loose formations.
Lieutenant Commander Emma Welks adjusted her gloves, her eyes fixed on the HUD. The threat detection meter, once maxed out, now hovered at thirty-two percent. Acceptable.
Infantry's doing their job, she thought, steadying her grip on the throttle and maneuver controls.
"Freak One-One to Enchantress—grids gone cold. I see prime real estate for graffiti. How copy? Requesting clearance to engage."
Targets lit up on her HUD—bombing runs, strafing paths, enemy armor ready to be tagged.
"Copy that, Freak. Clearance granted. Go spray some paint," the comms controller replied, voice crackling.
Emma smirked. "Alright, ladies—let's tag some metal."
She spun her fighter upside down and dove. The wings folded in, the craft narrowing into a red-hot spear tearing through the upper atmosphere.
The hull groaned. Bolts rattled. The cockpit shrank around her as blast shields snapped shut. Her HUD read altitude and oxygen levels, the mask feeding her a cocktail of air and light sedatives.
Two minutes.
She inhaled slowly. Calm. Focused.
One-thirty-six.
Flexed fingers. Tight grip.
Forty seconds.
A cherry-sweet scent hit her mask. Stimulants. Her pupils dilated. The world sharpened—colors, edges, intent.
Twenty.
She filled her lungs, bracing for the crushing G-force. Eyes locked on the pulsing red button.
Ten.
The light blinked faster.
Five.
Throttle easing back. Wings opening—like talons breaking the fall.
Three.
Blast shields lifted. Daylight roared in. A smoking cityscape lay ahead—fires raging, a czar-class dropship torn apart on the ground.
One.
The light turned green. She slammed the button.
The fighter jolted hard, her body whipped forward into the harness. Speed dropped, air brakes screamed. Her HUD lit up with target markers.
"Freak to all callsigns—take your targets. Freaky Squad, on me. Let's go paint some bogeys."
Acknowledgements rolled through her comms. She dove, lining up a strafing run on TDF-marked APCs. The autogun rattled, vibrating through her bones. Tracers stitched the ground, tearing armor apart. Smoke bloomed behind her like dark flowers.
She pulled up to climb.
-BEEEEEEP-
Flatline.
Her HUD flashed red. Freak 1-4—Sam—gone.
Her chest tightened. The voice came through, shaky with rage:
"Sam's down! Repeat—Sam's down!"
Another channel broke in: "Wasp One Actual—red tags popping up everywhere. TDF fighters inbound."
Emma's fingers tightened on the stick.
"Freaky Squad, break off. Evasive maneuvers—now." Her voice was ice. Inside, fury and grief boiled.
She rolled into a hard bank, pulling away from the kill zone.
Then—motion.
A shadow moved through the fire below. Not debris. It was walking. Purposeful. Armored.
A shell the size of her wing screamed past. Her HUD tagged it.
Medium-class mech.
Boxy. Heavy plating. Shoulder-mounted autocannon.
Hunchback.
Her blood ran cold.
This wasn't an occupation.
It wasn't a territory reclamation effort anymore.
This was war.
....
"TARGET PAINTED—FIRE AT WILL!" Sergeant Richter's voice thundered through the comms.
His voice was nothing compared to what followed.
The enemy 'mech fired—its shoulder-mounted cannon unleashed a thunderclap that rattled Dale's bones, and a plume of dust shot up like a geyser as the shockwave tore across the concrete.
Dale's ears rang like bells. He winced, steadying himself, and yanked the trigger on his shoulder-mounted laser. The weapon kicked—not a violent shove, but enough to throw his aim. The red beam raked across the 'mech's thigh joint before locking onto the hip. The metal glowed—red, angry—but held firm.
"Minimal effect on target, sir!" Dale shouted, as the laser whined and shut down, venting steam and heat for another charge cycle.
"All units, focus fire on its knees!" Richter barked.
The cannon fired again.
This time the blast hurled Dale off his feet. He landed hard, dazed, lungs empty, dust choking his throat. He lay there, stunned—terrified. Then instinct kicked in. He grabbed the weapon and crawled back into position.
"Alliance coming up our rear!" Riley's voice cracked across the channel—desperate, choked—followed by the unmistakable rhythm of automatic gunfire and wet, raw screaming.
Dale turned, eyes wide.
The hallway behind them strobed with gunfire. The glow of muzzle flashes, shadows darting. He could only hope the sentry guns could hold them off.
He rose, pulled himself back into position. To his left, four crimson beams were locked onto the mech's knee. To his right, only two. The others—gone. Vaporized or left as lumps of scorched, stinking flesh.
He sighted in.
The same spot. The knee joint. Glowing like a forge.
He squeezed the trigger.
The laser carved into the joint—adding to the burning metal.
And then, with a crack of rending steel, the knee gave out.
The 'mech groaned, its balance lost. It began to collapse.
Not flailing. Not thrashing.
Just falling—slowly, terribly—like a skyscraper tipping over in a storm.
Dale stared, frozen.
And then he turned to run—only to stop dead.
Three silhouettes blocked the corridor ahead.
TDF.
The Taurian Defense Force.
Their armor was a brutalist answer to the Inner Sphere's elegance—all function, no flourish. Forged from layered ablative plates and reinforced polymers, it was deep oxblood red beneath streaks of ash and grime. The matte finish ate the light. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Their gear looked heavy—like it could shrug off a frag round and keep moving.
Power cables coiled under their arms and around their backs into fusion-fed exopacks that hummed low and steady. Their rifles were blocky and angular—Taurus-manufactured repeater carbines, designed for sustained fire over finesse.
Their helmets were ram-headed visors—distinctive and unmistakable. A split down the center suggested reinforced shielding, while twin slits glowed faint amber under the brow. No faces. No emotion. Just the silver Taurian bull stamped above the left brow, like a warning.
One stepped forward and leveled his weapon.
Another casually tossed a grenade underhand—no rush, no panic.
Professional. Relentless. Deadly.
Dale's gut twisted.
Behind him, the 'mech came down—steel shrieking against concrete as it collapsed.
Ahead, the TDF opened fire.
Dale saw the flashes—felt the rounds hit—sensed the grenade's pressure wave before the pain.
Then came the heat.
And after that—
Oblivion.
…
First Lieutenant Rees heard himself before he realized he'd shouted the order.
"FIRE!"
He locked his micro-missile launcher onto the falling Hunchback.
The room around him compressed with the pressure of ten micro-missile launchers firing at once. He glared at the falling machine. Each missile shed its outer casing mid-flight, revealing the long, explosive rods within. They pierced the red-hot hull of the Hunchback and detonated deep inside.
"Reload!" he barked, already hearing the loader teams slotting in the last missiles they had.
They'd done real damage—but not enough. The thing was still operational. All it had to do was stand.
Rees felt every ounce of desperation clawing at him. Fear scratched at the edge of his very being—but he concealed it well.
"Fire!" he bellowed again.
Backblast rocked the chamber once more, but this time the volley was rushed. Only two missiles struck true, and even those weren't enough to take the Hunchback offline.
Its fall would crush the laser team. Twenty good men—and Sergeant Richter—would die there. Rees had sent them.
"All ammo spent?" he muttered. It wasn't a question, just a realization. He tossed his empty launcher aside and stood.
"Move out," he ordered, taking point and leading the way down the stairwell and out of the building.
Outside, they saw them—men in brutal armor, sharp and thick, with helmets that covered their faces. Bull-like horns curled from their brows.
"Alto!" one of them shouted, raising his gun.
Rees didn't hesitate. There was no time to. He unlatched a grenade from his belt, pressed the activation stud, and tossed it mid-motion as he dove for cover.
"Contact!" he roared.
His men stacked against the walls—two crouched, two standing—on each side of the entryway. The ensuing chaos was brief but brutal. Two, then three, then six Taurian soldiers dropped under the withering response Rees's squad unleashed.
A small victory. But that's how wars are won.
"Spread out and move. Rally point Lima," he ordered. His voice echoed in his own head, sounding calm—far calmer than he felt.
"Sir, what about the AA guns?" one of his men asked.
"We restock and radio the Enchantress at Lima. Then we hit the emplacement," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the emotion burning inside him.
Move out.
That was the only order that made sense to Rees now. Staying meant death. Attacking the Hunchback was pointless. Even downed, it sure as hell wasn't out of the fight.
They crawled and fought their way through smoke and midge, skirmish after skirmish, until they finally loaded up what was left of the unit into the LIVs. Those who didn't fit hung onto the sides.
They drove for some time, narrowly avoiding further pointless engagements—until the tremors began.
Rees felt them through the floor of the vehicle.
Too fast for tank tracks.
Too light for a heavy mech.
But close.
"Convoy, all stop," Rees ordered as he popped the passenger hatch and raised a monocular to his eye.
There it was—just a glint in the volcanic haze. A light mech, circling the supply cache at the rally point.
Its colors didn't match the larger one they'd fought before.
"Radio—are we clear for comms?" he asked, turning to a young soldier finishing a quick patch job on the long-range set.
"Aye, sir. Though it won't be secure, and it'll be spotty," the young man replied, hands trembling.
Rees hissed sharply through his teeth, weighing his options. It'll have to do.
"Everyone ready yourselves for a fight. Light mechs are a hell of a lot easier to deal with. Aim your—"
The realization hit him like a punch to the chest.
They were out of missiles.
Completely.
"Give me that radio," he ordered.
He didn't take his eyes off the spec circling the rally point as he spoke into the set.
"Ground One-One to Freak. Requesting close air support on my marker. Light mech inbound—repeat, light mech inbound—requesting immediate CAS."
"Copy that, Ground One. You're going to have to wait—we're dealing with our own problems up here. Over."
The radio crackled in his hand. He hadn't noticed at first, but the background was full of lock-on warnings and the high-pitched scream of G-force alarms.
"Ground One, over and out."
He switched frequencies.
"Ground One-One to Enchantress. Heavy mech resistance confirmed. Air wing is engaged, cannot provide support. Requesting orbital support—half a kilometer north of my marker. No word from Czar One-Two, but it's safe to assume they encountered similar resistance."
His voice was clipped, hurried. Panic was starting to show now.
What the hell could he do?
This wasn't in any war room scenario.
He waited.
The light mech in the distance slowed.
It tilted.
It was… listening.
"Orbital support—denied—too far to—get an accurate—half a—"
The reply was garbled. Clipped.
Rees's heart dropped.
Then he saw it.
That thing.
It had stopped circling.
Its head shifted.
It wasn't scanning the convoy.
It was looking at him.
It had found its prey.