Mech Pilot who stole their first Mech off a farm, out of a barn, out from under a sheet.
UMS DEBRIEF TRANSCRIPT
OPERATION CODE: COIN 38-93
MISSION PARAMETERS: INVESTIGATE THE DESTRUCTION OF UMS PATROL STATION 21, FORMER FEDERAL TERRITORY OF MISSOURI
RECORDING OFFICER: SSGT. AREVIK DAVTYAN
STAFF IN ATTENDANCE:
SOLUTIONS APPLIANCE SPECIALIST KLAUS "DIESEL" STAPLERFAHRER
RECORDING FOLLOWS
SSGT. DAVTYAN (HENCEFORTH "D") AND KLAUS STAPLERFAHRER (HENCEFORTH "S") TAKE THEIR SEATS.
D: So. Let's start with the obvious.
K: There's a lot that was obvious, Sarge.
D: There sure was, Diesel. We sent you down there with a full squad for a counter-insurgency operation in bum-fuck nowhere. Do you know what happens if we lose the Midwest, Diesel? No more corn, no more meat, no more dairy, no more rations. It's back to fucking liquid feed for the lot of you. So saying "we got our asses kicked by a bunch of jumped-up hicks in tractor-pullers" isn't going to fucking cut it.
K: "Tractor-pullers," huh? Okay. Let's pull up the recording and I'll show you a fucking tractor-pull. We don't see shit until about two hours into the op. The patrol station was burned down, everything smashed or stolen. Locals uncooperative until we flatten a few houses, and then we get pointed to this big-ass ranch about a mile out. Look at this -
DISPLAY FEED BEGINS PLAYING RECORDING OF COIN 38-93 FROM STAPLERFAHRER'S PERSPECTIVE. SQUAD ADVANCES ON A LARGE RANCH, INCLUDING A FARMHOUSE, SEVERAL BARNS, AND A GRAIN SILO.
K: Okay, pause it here.
SSGT. DAVTYAN PAUSES THE RECORDING.
K: What we're looking at is not a civilian habitation. It's a fucking killing field. Those blue tarps by the silo? Hiding a pair of hostiles, each no more than some low-slung cages and a grenade launcher welded to Bulldog legs. The garage in the farmhouse is about to open up for another two hostiles with severely up-gunned Spotters. And the fucking barn?
SA-S STAPLERFAHRER RESUMES THE RECORDING. THE BARN DOORS ARE KICKED DOWN BY A NON-STANDARD SOLUTIONS APPLIANCE. A PICKUP TRUCK CAB, COVERED IN SHEET METAL, SITS ATOP A SET OF GUARDIAN-CLASS LEGS. THE TRUCK APPEARS TO HAVE A PAIR OF BROWNING .50 MACHINE GUNS WELDED TO THE SIDES AND A 105MM CANNON ATTACHED TO THE ROOF, WHICH IS VISIBLY SAGGING DUE TO THE WEIGHT. THE UNIT BEGINS TO EMIT SOUND FROM THE HORN, IDENTIFIED AS THE OPENING STRAINS OF "LA CUCARACHA". COMBAT ENSUES AS SA-S STAPLERFAHRER ADDRESSES SSGT. DAVTYAN.
K: These farm kids have been stealing machines from each other and lashing weapons to them for literal decades. And now that we've stomped their government into the dirt, they have a target that their parents will let them shoot at. Every time we send steel down there, they won't just wreck them and try to rebuild as it was, they'll cannibalize the wrecks to upgun two or three different units with unpredictable armament and no IFF to track. No tracking, no aim assist. No aim assist, no fucking chance for those rookies. The little bastards run circles around them trying to hit something sensitive with grenades while that Frankenmech obliterates our point man in a single blast. I only got out after the cannon sheared off of the truck from overpressure, but you know damn well they'll not only have it fixed up in a few days, they'll also have scavenged the rookies' machines down to the seat leather.
S: I'll pass your concerns to Corporate. Get some rest, Diesel.
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
