#firelock 198x

[teskastektli]

possible homebrew mercenary faction for firelock 198x visual... drawn in exchange for a bunch of battle brothers dlc

[swedebeast]

Close Combat, by Rifle Infantry.

[super--trooper]

One of my persistent hyper fixations right now is Firelock 198X by Rifle Infantry.

Here's the artist and writer over on Twitter.

[ross-hollander]

It's how personal they are that gets me.

Artillery, airstrikes, these things pass. You'll just wait them out. Even a humble shell scrape and basic flaks will absorb serious punishment. A good foxhole won't get rooted out by anything but the best aim or bomb.

The tracks and legs are personal. Armor rumbles into the city with their escorting soldiers, making smart turns with optics like baleful eyes sweeping back and forth. We catch them in crossfires and lay into them from the front, but they come through wreathed in fire and little more. Those who lose their nerve and run from the ambushes choke the streets. Those who keep the faith and stay put torn from their positions by the guns.

Gamble with blood. Blast the sides and tops with manpack weapons. Roll field guns into alleyways and ration them a few bursts for the largebore. Wait until they're right on top of you and then shout a prayer. Maybe you'll be answered with a miracle.

(inspired by a bit from Firelock)

Something changes inside every bootborne trooper the first time they have to face down armor. From the very first soldiers, the ones who stared down their rifles at something boxy and metallic rolling over no-man's-land to those who watch through thermal scopes with a trembling thumb on the detonator, it's been so.

Your rifle will do nothing. Your grenades will probably also do nothing. Your knife will absolutely do nothing. In contrast, the smallest weapon that thing carries can cut you in half with a brief stammer. It's not "helplessness", really, that's any part of war- it's the imminent feeling of it, how close, close enough to feel the ground shake under your boots. You're not "taking cover" anymore, you are hiding.

[ahuilnemac]

autism be damned, my boys can tow a howitzer!

[stresshyperdeath]

Haha, I have claimed the objective, surely nothing will happen to my infantry.

Oh, what? Bioweapons deployed by my opponent? I just need to open fire with my Depredador MGs and--

OH NO!

[judithchopsley]

A round pings off of the armor of the G1/80 I have taken shelter behind. The steel behemoth has served its purpose, but I am still reluctant to leave its protective shadow. I relax my left hand and the radio receiver that I held in a death grip just a moment ago slips between my fingers and softly impacts the grass. I do not need it anymore. The call has been made.

The G1/80's turret spins left and belches fire, and all at once I am deaf. I reel for a moment, suddenly dizzy, and only barely manage to avoid a face full of mud. The only thing my ears can perceive is a loud, constant ring, which drowns out the voices of my comrades. Despite this I can still feel the air pressure shifting as a clumsy, unguided rocket rushes just over the tank, just over my head, only missing by a hair. It is too much and I almost collapse from despair.

But the call has been made. We do not need to repel the enemy. We just need to live, for a few moments more. It will be here soon.

With a heavy breath, my will is steeled. I stand from my kneeling position and glance at the Lieutenant residing a few meters away in a hasty foxhole, her face equal parts expectant and uncertain. I nod, and her uncertainty is gone in an instant, replaced with a look as solid as stone. Immediately, her mouth opens and she begins issuing orders. I cannot hear them, but I interpret the practiced hand signals well enough.

I shoulder my rifle and with one step lean out from behind the shadow of the tank. The pintle gun atop its turret arcs tracers toward the enemy, and following their guiding light, my eyes land on the garish yellows and greens of the aggressing Baronic troops less than a klick away. My rifle sight quickly matches my gaze and I squeeze my finger on the trigger, one, two, three times. None of my shots hit but they are enough to scare, sending a militiaman diving onto his stomach.

Around me, flashes of light from my squadmates' muzzles emit in time with my own. We blanket them in fire, and though they outnumber us greatly, our trigger discipline amplifies our force. Soon the entire enemy advance goes the way of that militiaman, halting in its tracks.

We do not relent, and they do not move. When one of us needs to reload, another takes their place in the wall of lead. One of the militiamen occasionally works up the nerve to send a stray round our way, but they do not land near us. We have enough ammunition to keep this standoff going for at least another few minutes.

That thought is shattered as the unmistakable form of heavy armor rolls over the hill behind the enemy infantry. A bright, multicolored tank, flying heraldic banners. My optic is older but the scant bit of magnification lets me just barely make out the form of a figure standing atop it. From the sheer adornment of his armor, and the way he belts orders into a large megaphone, accentuating each one with a flourish of his saber, I think this can be no other than the Baron himself.

The way his men react cements my assumption. As the Baron rolls past standing proud on his steel steed, the militiamen raise themselves tall, likely fearing his punishment more than our bullets. They renew their charge, and I see my comrades falter. The G1/80 has used its final HEAT round repelling the last advance attempt of enemy armor, and our RPGs don't stand a chance at piercing that shell, at least not from the front.

Our suppressive fire ceases, and out of the corner of my eye I see my squadmates begin to panic, dropping rifles, turning to run, or ducking back behind whatever cover or concealment they have available. I feel my arms go slack with the weight of my own weapon and I almost join them.

But the ringing in my ears has stopped. It has been replaced by the hiss of static. With a limp motion I bend down and grab the radio receiver I had carelessly discarded, and bring it to my ear. I am greeted with the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. The voice of an Angel tears out through the distortion, calm, light, and focused.

"Hold position. Strike craft inbound. Standby for Close Air Support."

I stand in awe at the words. I cannot turn and run. I will bear witness to divine retribution.

The ground shakes and dust is flung meters into the air in a line raking across the entirety of the enemy advance as the Angel unleashes its fury.

I do not hear the Angel's roar until the destruction has already been wrought. It echoes as if from all directions, a long, low drilling sound, and it fills me with admiration and fear in equal measure.

Once the last echoes of its battle cry dissipate, I finally see the Angel's shadow. I am too enraptured in the carnage to glance up at its solid form, but the dark shape of its wings racing across the ground, following the path of its devastation, I will never forget.

The Angel soars away as the dust begins to settle. I can no longer hear its scorching engines by the time I can see the remains of the enemy force. The infantry have been reduced to nothing but scraps of cloth and red earth. The Baron's proud steed sits a burnt husk, filled with holes, its banners ragged and torn, with no sign that any proud, noble man has ever stood on its hull.

My hand falls slack and I drop the receiver once more. I begin to laugh. My comrades join me.

[gort-grundlekin]

MC.20-01C “Rocinante”, ubiquitous fighter of the Atom Barons of Santagria. Small conversion from a Trumpeter 1/144 A37 Viggen, modified the nose, intakes, exhaust and payload.

Heres a side by side of the official potrait, not exact but close enough for wil ol me. Not certain what jet it was actually based on.