This is one shitty catalogue. Doesn't even come with description of the parts...
"I don't remember ordering anything."
Study the box closer, as well as it's content if possible.
Yell at other engineers to get leg actuators for LATRANS.
With a bit of effort, the tightly-fitted top comes off like the lid of a shoebox, albeit one with abnormally thick walls. Inside, is a literal black box, a flat entity with edges sharp enough to count as "user-unfriendly" but blunt enough not to be a credible safety concern. Seemingly in acknowledgement of its container being opened, it activates, its dark screen coming to life with pale white text.
Initially, it spews out a deluge of text, not unlike the booting process of a computer, scrolling down faster than your eyes can keep up with. After a few seconds however, the screen goes to black returning to a rather odd interface.
Grimoire protocols activated
Available networks are:
SOTERIOLOGIST
RED_QUEEN
JUS_AD_BELLUM
SMOTHERED_MATE
MALEBRANCHE
TZINACAN
DECOHERENT
SCHROEDINBUG
Enter a network name, or press ENTER to skip
Wow. Just, wow. That kind of interface is bloody ancient. Archaic. Obsolete, even. You vaguely recall them being referred to as "terminals" or "command lines", never really seen outside of museums and history textbooks. Well, those and the computers of some of the more hardcore (and certifiably insane) members of the electronic warfare division. The ones you normally keep your distance from as they futilely and irritatingly loudly attempt to proselytize each other into worshiping either a supposed saint, or some kind of infernal "beast".
As you examine the peculiar device, you hear one of the engineers shout incoherently, mostly drowned out by the rumble of machinery. Not that you really needed to hear, nor that they really cared if you did. You both knew what it meant - leg actuators have arrived. Within 45 minutes, give or take, the actuators should be installed. Now this is mainly because they have to be bolted on and connected manually, apparently the designers of the chamber didn't really consider their installation, or decided it was too difficult to accommodate. By comparison, attaching the leg armor afterwards will only take 5 minutes since the chamber's arms can actually access the required locations.
Elias Newman
I place the armored helmet and assignment sheet on the side of the chair taking notice of the box.
Oh bloody recruits...always tinkering about and leaving their toys in MY frame.
Pop my head out of the cockpit for a second, checking if anyone is looking to get a reaction out of me then get my ass seated again. I shake the box, listening for any rustling or rumbling and then check if it has any clip/opening mechanism.
No one seems to be paying too much heed to you or your reaction. Actually, several of the soldiers and guides, the more superstitious ones, are actively avoiding your gaze. Of course, they've been doing that routine for quite a while now, ever since the first few deaths and that rumor about the curse. That probably makes them either innocent or good actors.
As for the combat engineers, whilst it is indeed possible for one of them to have slipped it in, if any of them did, they're too distracted to admire their work - a heavily damaged LUPUS just limped back to base, missing the arm its chain-gun would have been attached to along with quite a bit of armor, particularly that near the cockpit. As poor the System League's reputation for weaponry is, they've been throwing enough Armor Frames to compensate.
"Huh? What is that?... Sorcery!!!"
I grab the box and smash it several times against the table, being certain to set aside my food first.
You proceed to mercilessly bludgeon the defenseless table with the heavy package, you monster.
Aside from making a small crater in the table's surface (well, at least it won't be you who'll have to repair that), it doesn't seem to do much aside from generating a nice clanging noise and making a few of your newer colleagues stare and back away slowly.
"Who the hell put this here?"
Examine the box and begin moving my AF out of the hangar.
The box continues being boxy and covered with swirling iridescent patterns. For a moment, you're glad that you pilot something without thrusters, otherwise you would've probably found it embedded in one of them.
Carefully, you put on the helmet and wait until the frame's screen confirms that the neural interface was calibrated. Perhaps it wasn't the most accurate term, seeing as it doesn't act as an interface as much as it just checks your brain signals to ensure that you aren't unconscious and dead.
Next up comes the activation procedure, consisting of pulling a series of levers and flipping a few switches. Of course, it could have all been automated. In fact, it used to be. But, after a few incidents where people accidentally reactivated AFs during cockpit maintenance, and several more cases of drunks and jackasses taking them for joyrides, the system was removed.
After getting confirmation that the three-person squad of soldiers and all the supplies had been securely tethered to the anchor points, you begin to move.
The first step was always the hardest, having to re-familiarize yourself with the controls and the auto-balancing system. It gets easier of course, and it certainly has become second nature to you, but still, this first step was always the most difficult part.
A second step followed, not as hard, but still not too easy. Then a third. Then a fourth. By the time you exit the hanger, you were controlling it like your own body. Well, that is if you were five meters tall, morbidly-obese, missing most of your senses and required a control panel to move.
Miaoko picked up the box, glancing down at the label. '*****'. So informative. He rolled his eyes, tapping on his PDA to order the arms to begin replacing damaged parts first and to pull up a schematic of the engine. He'd like to know thrust, the gimbal's effective range of movement, and cooling system. He examined the box, can it be opened? If so, open it and examine inside.
(Also, do we have radios?)
((No, you have a PDA though.))
Okay, I've gotten this data from Corsair, and I'd like to make the disclaimer that the figures are more for fluff than as actual hard values since this isn't something he's qualified in. Meanwhile I'm even less qualified to talk about their adherence to reality.
According to the schematics, the engine should weigh 190 kilograms and produce 300 kilograms of thrust with each gimbal able to rotate 5 degrees in either direction. Cooling is 536 kilojoules per second.
The current estimate for this unfinished engine is that it produces about 200 kilograms of thrust, and that the gimbals can only rotate 1 degree in either direction. Plus about half the cooling system isn't actually functional right now, so it cools far too slowly at around about 218 kilojoules per second. Now this is all a rough estimate guided by gut feeling and what your PDA says, after all, it hasn't been tested seeing as no one feels too compelled to test a half-finished engine.
As for the box, you manage to open it in the same as Ao and find the same contents which is also making the same prompt.
"Odd, this wasn't mentioned in the assignment sheet."Beirus takes a moment to pick up and look at the box before setting it down next to him.
After putting on his helmet, Beirus runs through the start up procedures for the Pharoah.
The start up procedures for the PHAROAH are nearly identical to that of a LUPUS. Nearly. Aside from checking a different set of weapon systems, that was something else. Something that happens when the interface activates.
Perhaps it's the supposed curse flowing through your veins. Or perhaps it's the knowledge that the frame is equipped with the Dead Hand technology, technology that on their seemingly infantry-exclusive ground combat forces, has still proven capable of tearing apart Armor Frames, now-scaled up and integrated into one of the NEE's famous machines. It's a feeling of power, of being more than a mere human, mixed with the nervous energy knowing that, curse or no curse, this may be the last time you enter the cockpit.
It's wonderful and terrible feeling. The almost-maddening desire to get into battle as soon as possible, to decide your fate within a brief haze of adrenaline rather than to just stand around, fearing death, fearing the unknown, fearing everything under the damn sky and being unable to do anything about it.
Author
Topic: Perplexicon - Down the Foxhole - Raining Mecha (Read 179548 times)