my mechposting sideblog with all that entails, main is @feelmadinc
call me thou or anything else its fine
a lot of stuff in this genre is catered to transfems so i figured id be the change i want to see in this world and (maybe) make content that is for me (transmasc, male preference).... if i ever get to it
mostly ac6 but ive played ace combat and read/watched nge and stuff like 86, cyberpunk, etc...
PERSONNEL INFORMATION FILE C1-010
NAME: ████████
CALLSIGN: "Thou"
AGE: ██ (major)
TEMPERAMENT: Prone to minor mood swings, stable emotional foundation, docile
COMBAT UNIT NAME: "RESURRECT"
COMBAT UNIT MODEL: Mid-weight bipedal
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Its acknowledgment of authority increases with age, a holdover of its upbringing. Magnetic cuffs are not needed, but preferred.
DESIGNATED HANDLER: N/A
anyone is welcome to message me ya... and i usually follow back..... (dividers by @/pixopix)
*Holding out my hand in a peace sign* You can't spell execute without cute! *In my other hand drags a long gnarled blade scraping loudly against the stone*
The best way to help a hound overcome stim addictions is to put them in a straitjacket and lock them in an isolation room. This is critical to the healing process, and the gag strategic noise dampening device is completely normal.
I suppose most people are more familiar with pet dogs than with falconry and therefore calling a dehumanized mech pilot a "hound" is more immediately evocative than calling it a "hawk," but you gotta admit the vibe of the handler as falconer and the pilots as their birds of prey absolutely slaps. If anyone ever does something like mechsploitation but with scifi fighter jets instead of giant robots, pleeeease call the pilots hawks
The number of unregistered mercenary companies with any sanctioned warzone is generally quite small, and the Hjkor conflict is no exception. Of these, the majority deploy traditional armored groups either chasing their own ends or in the service of under-the-table agreements with major players. A very tiny minority of these groups—rarely more than four or five in any active warzone—furnish gravity mechs.
Due to the galactic improbability of actually encountering one, few mercenary companies waste time training or equipping their units to fight against Remnant Walkers; no doctrine or equipment to do so meaningfully exists. The only tactic that has widely spread among boots-on-the-ground soldiers, carried by word of mouth rather than official protocol, is to run as fast as you can.
. . .
“Argos Extractors,” Captain Anders began, resting his hands on the digitable, “has a convoy leaving one of their refineries at 0800. The contract is a simple armored escort: you’ll be walking the dogs about a hundred kilometers to the local security point. Terrain is mostly flat, visibility is expected to be clear. We don’t expect contact, but Argos is concerned a rival outfit might try and boost their cargo if they don’t have a walker element for deterrence.”
The two cavalry pilots standing opposite the Captain at the briefing table nodded along silently, staring down at the survey map of the planet they’d be descending upon.
“The cargo’s highly radioactive. You’ll want to keep your distance from the payload. It shouldn’t interfere with your hull, but the liaison was insistent I warn you about it.”
With his pointer, he drew a red circle around the largest of the flatbed trucks.
“Who are they worried about snatching it, then? Corp ore ain’t worth squat to pirates, and I can’t imagine the other mercs are too hungry for dirty rock.”
Corporal Hendricks was the first to speak up, shifting the cortohelm he cradled between his arms. The Captain simply shrugged.
“Didn’t say. You’ll be prepped for armored contact, but between the three of us, I’d be surprised if you see so much as a footprint in the sand. At a light jog, that’s a three hour trip. We'll have a light freighter waiting to collect the two of you at the security point.”
. . .
Rovsky’s eyes narrowed as she watched a weak radar pulse slowly inch outwards across her monitor. The arc expanded, clearing through empty space, occasionally lighting up small bits of debris or rock, finally petering out just shy of sixty kilometers from the Red Phoenix’s hull. Every fifth or sixth sweep, a tiny dot at the very edge of the scan range indicated the possibility of something non-natural on scope, but any more than the potential presence of some object was impossible to discern. Even with scan focus directed towards the Phoenix’s flank, the contact remained just out of reach.
“It’s still there, boss.” Rovsky reported as the sound of heavy footfalls passed by her station. The owner of those feet paused, before turning to approach behind her chair.
“Has Argos said anything?” Anders had a gravelly, intimidating cadence, but despite his position as the captain of the Red Phoenix, his tolerance for the unknown was remarkably high.
“Nothing. Liaison said we’re the only crew on the job, they’re consulting KORPSHIRN for more.”
“Pin the unknown and swap focus back to the ground. Send the line to me, prep the away team for contact.”
Rovsky gave a silent nod, sliding herself leftwards a foot or so to pull up her communications link to the company walkers she was managing planetside. To her side, Anders stepped up to the radar terminal, thoughtfully eying the faint marker just to the edge of the scanner’s perspective. Argos Extractions was usually quite forthcoming with their contractors when it came to matters of hiring extra support or truces with roving marauder groups, which made the presence of a dead quiet ghost ship on the edge of scan range even more unsettling. The idle tone of the hyperley line Rovsky transferred to his linkup joined Anders’ racing thoughts, although he hardly noticed its presence until it was interrupted by the reconstructed voice of the Argos mercenary liaison rejoining him from the other end of spacetime.
As the commander stepped away to consult with his employer, Rovsky opened a new shortband line to the company armor currently attending to the ground escort.
. . .
Phoenix-308 strode confidently through the white sand, linear driver hung casually across its shoulder. To its left, Phoenix-214 let its twin-linked autocannons hang so low their barrels almost scraped against the ground.
Falchion Mekwerks KrD-91s would likely be United Earths standard issue if their manufacturer hadn’t lost the contract over design quibbles. Staring down at the datashare MFD just above his knee, Hendricks couldn’t imagine why the army didn’t want toys as sweet as these. Tri-layer ablative stealth armor provided a perfect combination of radar-beating diffusion and all-angle protection from the sort of walkerbusting shells typically lofted by ground contacts, and between 308’s future-predictive combat system and 214’s ground-air radar suite (both of which constantly feed each other streams of information), there weren’t many light-to-medium intensity scenarios a pair of two couldn’t hold their ground in. Networked ground forces such as these were intended to be the future of warfare, but as far as Hendricks knew the story, the UE’s decision to play it safe was what blessed the open market with such lethal weaponry.
Painted into one of the crossbars framing Hendricks’ digital cockpit display, tallies totaling fifty-some armored kills might lead a more timid man to wonder if such advanced weapons should even be available to those beyond the government’s direct control. Ten of those tallies, painted in the same dark blue as the United Earths standard livery, might lead a geriatric lawmaker to wonder the same.
The sway of his walker’s footfalls was almost enough to lull him to sleep. Given another few minutes, he probably would have ended up taking a nap and let the planned route complete itself—if not for the rude interruption of his radio chiming.
“……eam…way te…m..espond.”
Hendricks sat a little more upright in his seat, and pressed one hand to the side of his helmet.
“308 here, go ahead.”
“…..re seeing an u….own ship at the edge of the op…..ational area. Argos says it isn’t t….eirs. Standby for more.”
“308 copies.”
After a moment of thought, Hendricks keyed the radio once again.
“We saw a light cargo skiff climbing fast maybe half an hour ago. Too small to be a dropship. Could be related.”
“…opy….andby….”
Hendricks glanced down at the datashare, and was reassured by the absence of any pings on 214’s ground-air radar sweeps. Even if there was some loitering command ship up in the black, neither his linear driver nor 214’s pair of surface to air missiles would be able to reach it from here. Theoretically, the same applied in reverse.
“Think we oughta clue in the convoy?”
Lizard sounded as though he’d been a few minutes ahead of Hendricks in visiting the sandman. Behind his voice, Hendricks could hear the other pilot adjusting himself in his seat.
“No point. It’s probably nothing.”
Hendricks glanced down to check the datashare display. When he looked back up, the first thing he saw was a salt-petrified tree. Horizontal. Moving inches from the cockpit camera. Flashing past his display and gone within fractions of a second.
The sound of the projectile impacting—and penetrating—the hull of the walker just beside him reached his ears before he could turn his head to see it.
Hendricks whipped around, the radio traffic from the convoy suddenly lighting up with alarm as 214 crumpled to the ground. His driver was already charging for its first shot as he slung it off 308’s shoulders and towards where his FPCS anticipated the enemy was attacking from. He squeezed the trigger before even looking. When he did finish spinning, all he saw was a glassy sheen surrounding his projectile’s entry into the empty dune.
The entire convoy was slowing to a stop to prepare for a defensive encounter. Hendricks stared over the heat mirage off the barrel of his linear driver, panning the horizon for any sign of an ambushing force. Anything large enough to heft a tree out of the ground and throw it that fast had to be hundreds of feet tall—much too large to hide on a flat tundra.
In an instant, Hendricks’ stomach began to turn. Not because of anything he saw or came to realize, but quite literally because it was turning. His entire body felt weightless, as though he was suddenly falling, but his walker hadn’t lost its balance or stepped into some sort of sinkhole. The weightless lift made him nauseous and dizzy in a way he had never felt before, even in space. His FPCS had no advice. There wasn’t anything to see. It was as though nothing was attacking them at all. He reached for th
. . .
Amanda slammed on the brakes when she saw one of the escort walkers suddenly collapse, thrown sideways by some impact she heard the deafening crash of moments following. Her head turned out the window quickly enough to look towards the other escort.
She was about to reach for the radio to hail her protector when, as though snatched away by a ghost, the thing vanished with another harsh sonic crack. Only when she craned her neck could she see where it went.
Embedded in the center of a perfectly uniform cylindrical crater, no deeper than a foot, was a flattened smudge of a dozen mixed alloys surrounded by glistening, boiling salt-sand.
. . .
Anders turned back to the communications console after conferring with Rovsky. He had been away for no more than a minute.
“Away team, Anders. Argos says the craft may have been theirs—they have a refinery over that way. Ground imaging isn’t showing anything to worry about. For now, carry on as planned.”
Very normal handler: "Yes high command, I absolutely must find the hottest pilots we have, and pump so many drugs into their system that they cum from humping my boots. Yes, yes it's very important for our military, I am very trustworthy."
need my Handler to kick me in the nose while im licking his boots and have me clean up the blood with my tongue.... off the floor, off the hand i used to try and cup the blood....... drawing a lil heart on the floor with my blood only for him to crush that hand under his sole
the new hound is getting prepped for surgery. Handler didnt really tell them what it was gonna be about, but apparently they signed a contract that waived that right away when they first started military school, so it worked out
i dont really remember what this one is supposed to do
Procedure 01-AG73H aims to reduce aggressiveness and rebellion in hounds while improving efficiency and combat strength by removing unnecessary limbs and replacing them with combat prosthetics of the Handler's choice.
Sustenance needs are greatly reduced with the removal of arms and legs, which allows for longer and farther deployments without compromising on hounds' health, and sleeping quarters can be compressed to service more hounds with the same amount of space.
Handlers hold the killswitch for their hounds' prosthetic limbs and can thus defuse or deescalate a situation — for example, a fight between two pilots — without causing undue stress or injury, while also increasing their hounds' dependency on them. Maintenance of the prosthetics is a way to remind hounds of their powerlessness and increase their sense of vulnerability, thus leading to less chances of rebellion or defection.
Moreover, the psychological impact of amputation renders the mind brittle and more susceptible to further conditioning, and non-human prosthetics have been traditionally favored to remind hounds of their lost personhood. Other adjacent procedures include ablation of the voicebox.
Available prosthetics are human, canine, or hybrid, with reverse-jointed options for the legs. For any requests outside of these categories (such as prosthetic modeled on the hound's mech), please fill out form 01-4LRR-1 at least 7 business days ahead of time and submit it to the Engineering Services.
the new hound is getting prepped for surgery. Handler didnt really tell them what it was gonna be about, but apparently they signed a contract that waived that right away when they first started military school, so it worked out
i dont really remember what this one is supposed to do
the new hound pulled on my collar during a fight today and the prongs dug holes into my neck. it's okay cuz Handler burned them shut by putting his cigarette out on them... and then he reopened by yanking me down by my leash to lick his boot as a way to show my gratitude
i was gonna cry because i thought the burn marks wouldnt scar over properly, but Handler stroked my head for doing well in helping the new hound adapt properly, so i guess its fine.....
[shaky camera footage of a mech cockpit] WHAT'S UP hounds i stole this camera [camera turns around to a closeup of the hound's face] hi :3 [camera turns back to the cockpit] today i'm here to show you my epic gamer setup be sure to LIKE AND SUBSCRI- *loud shock collar noises*
Handler brought me to a military school to pick out the one with the most potential today and now he's expecting me to help train it since i'm the "first dog"
all i can do is beat them up in the training simulation and then beat them up in real life to give them the same injuries as their mech did, sorry...
the only difference between reward and punishment is how hard your Handler pulls on the leash. walking with him and having to match his pace exactly because he's got the leash wrapped around his fist and walking faster or slower means the metal prongs digging into the soft skin of your neck
and this kind of restraint being reflected in your mech, too... getting sent on a mission and having a boundary hard coded into your system so it causes you pain if you go past it, or being caused pain if you try to fight without their permission....... you might be in a war machine, be a war machine, but the only power you get is what your Handler allows
getting a hound hooked on the high of a kill as part of its conditioning
its Handler's voice in its ear, guiding it over and over in simulations against a particularly skilled enemy or out of nasty situations after one, three, ten deaths so the final victory tastes even sweeter, until the hound learns to associate his voice to safety but, more importantly, the euphoric moment when all its efforts are realised
eventually, you'll get skilled, obedient hounds that'll start killing for a chance to hear their Handler's voice, unable to feel good without it
