Ep. 1 - You Lose, Good Day Sir! - (Closed)
Feb 13, 2014 17:22:07 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 13, 2014 17:22:07 GMT -5
Where: The open hills north of Las Vegas.
When: Late afternoon, roughly 4pm. Set shortly Before "Close Encounters".
He was a dead mech.
Agent Fowler was going to skin his metal ass.
Cowed, Air Raid flew over the desert at a little over three thousand feet. Insomuch as a jet could slink, he slunk. He shot within a mile of an eastbound Cherokee, whose startled pilot veered out of the way before gawking back at the red and white military jet that was already rapidly disappearing over the horizon.
Oblivious, the Aerialbot moped.
It had not been a good day for him.
Less than an hour ago he had accidentally forayed into the airspace surrounding McCarran International. It had not gone well. That was putting it mildly. It had been a disaster. Air Raid did not know what a 'TCAS corrective advisory' was, but judging by all of the yelling he had had caused a United Airlines Airbus on route to Chicago to take preventative action and deviate from its flight path in order to avoid hitting him. Air traffic control had said many hurtful things at that point.
To be fair, Air Raid had not been trying to hurt anyone. He had simply caught sight of the big airliner flying at his three-o'clock and soared closer to it, curious. Done a scan. Discovered it was full of humans. Bored humans who desperately needed something to spice up their lives. Like getting to watch a fighter jet do a barrel roll just off the left wing of their aircraft!
That was when things had gone wrong.
The Airbus had abruptly pitched up to get away from him, just as Air Raid's radio had erupted into the iciest female voice he had ever heard. She had chewed him out at length for getting near the airliner before demanding to know his call-sign. At that point he had panicked, squawked seven-six-zero-zero, and turned tail and fled for the safety of uncontrolled airspace. There, nobody screamed at him if he few inverted, or did a roll, or buzzed the desert at fifty feet making cactuses explode.
Air Raid wondered when Agent Fowler would be getting the call about an incident between United Airlines and a military jet. Hopefully never, but he knew better than that. His luck was not that good.
To make matters worse he had not seen a glimpse of any MECH helicopters while on patrol. Not a single blip. The broad desert hills to the north of Las Vegas were empty. Either they weren't on the prowl today, or they were getting very good at avoiding radar detection. That was a disturbing thought.
Air Raid heaved a sigh.
It was a shame. After his embarrassing faux pas at McCarran he was spoiling for a fight. For some kind of excitement. Anything.
Gloomily, he brought up his navigation screen. His first patrol waypoint was still over three hundred miles away. He was heading in its general direction. And now that he examined his surroundings a little more carefully, he saw that he was flying over mostly open Vegas desert, with rolling hills lightly skimmed by patches of sage brush and juniper trees. And cactuses. Of the explodable variety.
It looked empty. No humans in sight.
Not a bad spot for a few low-level manoeuvres, really.
The sensible part of Air Raid, the part that saluted and did what it was told because a little hard work never hurt anyone, told him that there would be plenty of time for goofing off later, when his patrol was complete. The rest of him threw up the horns and yelled, DO A BARREL ROLL.
The white F-35 rolled inverted, flashing his white underbelly and the sleek compartments that housed his gear and internal weapons bays at the sun. With glee he aimed his nose downwards and dove for a deep valley, revelling in the sensation of his rapid descent before rolling level again.
His shadow raced him over the hills. At low altitude the landscape roared beneath him at dizzying rate. Scrub trees whipped past his wingtips, little more than long dark speedlines. But the hilly terrain also shielded him from radar, which was partly the reason why Air Raid kept low to hug the ground. Here, the human controllers would not spot him if he accidentally wandered into controlled airspace. The open desert beckoned in front of him, dry and brown and rolling. He could lark through the hills all day and not be seen once, save by some unlucky hikers.
Wait, what was he saying. They'd get to catch an eyeful of an Aerialbot in full splendor. Those lucky sons of bitches!
The valley curved, following a steep gully. Air Raid banked his wings and powered through it, watching in satisfaction when his airspeed dipped briefly on his HUD as the load pressure built up against his wings, weighing him through the turn. With only a hundred feet separating him from the ground he flipped over hard, rolling ninety degrees onto his right wingtip. The lift peeled from his wings and he grunted, applying opposite rudder gingerly to yaw his nose in place before his altitude could dip, along with a little right aileron. The wind battered along his fuselage as he flew at knife edge down the valley, his engine blasting dust.
Air Raid laughed giddily. This was a blast. Like any flier out there the Aerialbot loved to get low and raise some dust now and then. Luckily Fowler seemed wearily resigned to explaining all sightings of military jets engaged in low-level flying as 'training manouevres'. Thank Primus.
He ran through a list of aerobatics in his head. What could he try next. Hm. What about an eight-point hesitation roll going into a Pugachev Cobra? Air Raid didn't know who 'Pugachev' was, but with a name like that you just know he had to have been a crazy badass.
He laughed aloud and nosed up, his ailerons already moving as he launched into the first roll.
Two things happened then.
Air Raid banked through forty-five degrees, his cockpit sparkling beneath the late afternoon sun. As he did, he spotted a tiny puff of smoke rising from the rolling hills to the north.
And then his sensors screamed a warning that a surface-based laser aim had just acquired a lock on him.
The blast hit him an instant later as the warhead of the tracking missile exploded. Like most missiles it did not need to strike him to kill - a lethal storm of shrapnel tore his wing into shreds and ignited his fuel cells. Flaming, trailing smoke and glittering debris behind him, the white jet rolled onto its back and sheared downwards. It slammed into the desert floor inverted. The heat and shockwave from the explosion roared into the air, marking an ugly smudge against the horizon for all to see.
A mile to the north, in the dusty cover of some sage brush and a gnarled juniper tree, a MECH ground operator in sandy fatigues and goggles lowered his shoulder-fired SAM and relaxed his finger on the trigger to disengage the the weapon's target-acquiring laser.
"Well, that was easy," he said his partner, who was already lying prone in the dirt. "Go call for a transport. And then call Silas. He's going to want to hear about this."
When: Late afternoon, roughly 4pm. Set shortly Before "Close Encounters".
He was a dead mech.
Agent Fowler was going to skin his metal ass.
Cowed, Air Raid flew over the desert at a little over three thousand feet. Insomuch as a jet could slink, he slunk. He shot within a mile of an eastbound Cherokee, whose startled pilot veered out of the way before gawking back at the red and white military jet that was already rapidly disappearing over the horizon.
Oblivious, the Aerialbot moped.
It had not been a good day for him.
Less than an hour ago he had accidentally forayed into the airspace surrounding McCarran International. It had not gone well. That was putting it mildly. It had been a disaster. Air Raid did not know what a 'TCAS corrective advisory' was, but judging by all of the yelling he had had caused a United Airlines Airbus on route to Chicago to take preventative action and deviate from its flight path in order to avoid hitting him. Air traffic control had said many hurtful things at that point.
To be fair, Air Raid had not been trying to hurt anyone. He had simply caught sight of the big airliner flying at his three-o'clock and soared closer to it, curious. Done a scan. Discovered it was full of humans. Bored humans who desperately needed something to spice up their lives. Like getting to watch a fighter jet do a barrel roll just off the left wing of their aircraft!
That was when things had gone wrong.
The Airbus had abruptly pitched up to get away from him, just as Air Raid's radio had erupted into the iciest female voice he had ever heard. She had chewed him out at length for getting near the airliner before demanding to know his call-sign. At that point he had panicked, squawked seven-six-zero-zero, and turned tail and fled for the safety of uncontrolled airspace. There, nobody screamed at him if he few inverted, or did a roll, or buzzed the desert at fifty feet making cactuses explode.
Air Raid wondered when Agent Fowler would be getting the call about an incident between United Airlines and a military jet. Hopefully never, but he knew better than that. His luck was not that good.
To make matters worse he had not seen a glimpse of any MECH helicopters while on patrol. Not a single blip. The broad desert hills to the north of Las Vegas were empty. Either they weren't on the prowl today, or they were getting very good at avoiding radar detection. That was a disturbing thought.
Air Raid heaved a sigh.
It was a shame. After his embarrassing faux pas at McCarran he was spoiling for a fight. For some kind of excitement. Anything.
Gloomily, he brought up his navigation screen. His first patrol waypoint was still over three hundred miles away. He was heading in its general direction. And now that he examined his surroundings a little more carefully, he saw that he was flying over mostly open Vegas desert, with rolling hills lightly skimmed by patches of sage brush and juniper trees. And cactuses. Of the explodable variety.
It looked empty. No humans in sight.
Not a bad spot for a few low-level manoeuvres, really.
The sensible part of Air Raid, the part that saluted and did what it was told because a little hard work never hurt anyone, told him that there would be plenty of time for goofing off later, when his patrol was complete. The rest of him threw up the horns and yelled, DO A BARREL ROLL.
The white F-35 rolled inverted, flashing his white underbelly and the sleek compartments that housed his gear and internal weapons bays at the sun. With glee he aimed his nose downwards and dove for a deep valley, revelling in the sensation of his rapid descent before rolling level again.
His shadow raced him over the hills. At low altitude the landscape roared beneath him at dizzying rate. Scrub trees whipped past his wingtips, little more than long dark speedlines. But the hilly terrain also shielded him from radar, which was partly the reason why Air Raid kept low to hug the ground. Here, the human controllers would not spot him if he accidentally wandered into controlled airspace. The open desert beckoned in front of him, dry and brown and rolling. He could lark through the hills all day and not be seen once, save by some unlucky hikers.
Wait, what was he saying. They'd get to catch an eyeful of an Aerialbot in full splendor. Those lucky sons of bitches!
The valley curved, following a steep gully. Air Raid banked his wings and powered through it, watching in satisfaction when his airspeed dipped briefly on his HUD as the load pressure built up against his wings, weighing him through the turn. With only a hundred feet separating him from the ground he flipped over hard, rolling ninety degrees onto his right wingtip. The lift peeled from his wings and he grunted, applying opposite rudder gingerly to yaw his nose in place before his altitude could dip, along with a little right aileron. The wind battered along his fuselage as he flew at knife edge down the valley, his engine blasting dust.
Air Raid laughed giddily. This was a blast. Like any flier out there the Aerialbot loved to get low and raise some dust now and then. Luckily Fowler seemed wearily resigned to explaining all sightings of military jets engaged in low-level flying as 'training manouevres'. Thank Primus.
He ran through a list of aerobatics in his head. What could he try next. Hm. What about an eight-point hesitation roll going into a Pugachev Cobra? Air Raid didn't know who 'Pugachev' was, but with a name like that you just know he had to have been a crazy badass.
He laughed aloud and nosed up, his ailerons already moving as he launched into the first roll.
Two things happened then.
Air Raid banked through forty-five degrees, his cockpit sparkling beneath the late afternoon sun. As he did, he spotted a tiny puff of smoke rising from the rolling hills to the north.
And then his sensors screamed a warning that a surface-based laser aim had just acquired a lock on him.
The blast hit him an instant later as the warhead of the tracking missile exploded. Like most missiles it did not need to strike him to kill - a lethal storm of shrapnel tore his wing into shreds and ignited his fuel cells. Flaming, trailing smoke and glittering debris behind him, the white jet rolled onto its back and sheared downwards. It slammed into the desert floor inverted. The heat and shockwave from the explosion roared into the air, marking an ugly smudge against the horizon for all to see.
A mile to the north, in the dusty cover of some sage brush and a gnarled juniper tree, a MECH ground operator in sandy fatigues and goggles lowered his shoulder-fired SAM and relaxed his finger on the trigger to disengage the the weapon's target-acquiring laser.
"Well, that was easy," he said his partner, who was already lying prone in the dirt. "Go call for a transport. And then call Silas. He's going to want to hear about this."