BOAF, Chapter Thirteen: Quoth the Raven (Patreon)

Birds of a Feather, Hot Drop Together

Battletech x (modified) ToF Avali OC/insert

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Chapter Thirteen:Quoth the Raven

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Vesox Endoiris

The Icebox, Weldry

Deep Periphery

February 25th, 3025

I had the barest inkling of an idea on what we’d find here.I thought I had prepared myself for it.

I was wrong.

Our battlenet was filled with cursing, retching, and desperately muttered prayers to higher powers as my men uncovered more and more of Espinosa’s prisoners. The images cast upon my screens by their helmet cams revealed the waking nightmare buried deep under the permafrost. 

Men and women, reduced to little more than the living dead–walking skeletons flinching away from the hands reaching out to them. Ribs showing clear through the threadbare rags they had been forced into. Their emaciated bodies riddled with scars both old and fresh. Dried blood and matted human waste scoured the bare concrete floors of their cells. The poor bastards were forced to sit in their own filth as their arms were chained above their heads. Many of them were already dead, their rotting corpses lying side by side with the living. 

With every new horror uncovered by my teams, I felt my claws digging deeper into the pads of my paws–my fists closing tighter and tighter into white-knuckled balls of rage. This was supposed to be a PR-friendly milk run. I’d pop in, free the prisoners, and more importantly, get the footage of us freeing the prisoners.

In one fell swoop I’d paint X-COM as benevolent heroes, liberators of the oppressed! Along with the goodwill of those we rescued–who’d ideally go on to either join up and pad out our forces with unwavering zealots; Or else make their way back to their home worlds to start the type of grassroots political campaigns we’d need to take control after Espinosa is dead.

Instead, I had broken open a death camp, and my prize was nothing but its traumatized victims. There was no way any of these people were fit to even feed themselves, let alone hold a gun or pilot a battlemech. It would take years to recover from their injuries, and a lifetime to recover from the mental scarring they received at the hands of Santiago’s most skilled state-sanctioned psychopaths.

I had been operating under the impression that rushing Den Mother into service so early might have been overkill, but it seems that was horribly naive of me.

Already, everyone in X-COM who had even a passing familiarity with first aid had been press-ganged into service; Triaging the Icebox’s victims as they’re brought to the surface. Many of whom could only do so for mere minutes at a time before having to flee back into the relative safety of The Bad Egg.

Not that that shielded them from what was happening for very long.

The absolute worst cases were being airlifted to Den Mother via the Leopard we had commandeered from the spaceport; The ship piloted by its former crew with gun barrels pressed tightly to the backs of their heads.

The rest were ferried back to The Bad Egg inside whatever vehicles my men could scrounge up, and straight into the awaiting arms of my very overtaxed infirmary. Patients were spilling out into the corridors, lying on nothing but tarps and scavenged bedsheets while awaiting aid that might not arrive in time.

It was a shitshow of unimaginable proportions.

But I was at the helm of it, now–by no one else’s fault but my own. Whether it was just the naive but genuine belief that I, a lone little alien, could help save the Inner Sphere from itself; Or by sheer fucking arrogance–I had decided to bear the mantle of Grand Protector, leader of the new Protectorate.

Either way, I refused to stumble–for my Protectorate to falter–at our first real obstacle.

“Second squad–take a lance of Goblins and head for the nearest town, I need you to commandeer whatever medical supplies they have. Whether or not they volunteer those supplies themselves makes no difference to me, just bring it back here.”

“Copy that, commander, I’ll get it done.”

“Good, Third squad, round up our captives and get them to cough up where they stashed their med supplies. I do not care how you get them talking, just get them talking, am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir. We’ll make 'em squeal.”

I reached out with a mental command to shunt their helmet recordings into a separate folder from the rest, before moving on. “First squad, pull perimeter around the camp. Don’t let anyone near, and especially do not let anyone leave. Fourth squad, support the medical team–but keep your eyes on our prisoners, we don't want any of them to ditch their uniform and try to blend in with rest."

"-Aye aye, sir."

"-We'll watch them real close, sir."

I was just about to switch over to the battlemech command circuit when a video call came in on a direct line–one of The Bad Egg's senior medics was on the other end, Grigori Antonov, according to the ID; His ODST gear painted white with red diamonds accenting the shoulder pads.

With a mental shrug, I queued up the Spokesman’s face and answered. “Go for command, Staff Sergeant.”

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we have a patient here demanding to speak to you directly. He’s been refusing aid, and his behavior is upsetting the others… He claims he’s a member of House Arano’s Royal Guard.”

I let the moment hang, glad that my voice changer hid the incredulity in my voice when I answered. “Very well, put him on.” The medic ducked out of frame, before the camera panned over to a man laid out in a hospital bed. Hovering somewhere around a late fifties or early sixties, the swarthy man’s face was more scar tissue than unmarred flesh. Much of the damage was older, clearly earned from bygone days of war–shrapnel cuts, lichtenberg burns, and what could have only been defensive knife wounds. All old, and all told their own stories.

But… not all of it was old.

Freshly-made cuts made with a surgeon's steady hand gently wept blood down his face, both of his eyes were ringed with bone-deep bruising–one of which had fully swollen shut, and his nose had clearly been broken recently with no attempts made to reset it.

His silver-grey hair was matted flat with grease, a veritable rat’s nest literally writhing with lice. And as he tilted his head to the side, regarding me as I did him, I finally noticed that one of his ears had been messily ripped off, leaving nothing but a lump of gnarled scar tissue behind. Feeling my eyes widening, I traced the rest of his body–and found that he had not just undergone torture, but mutilation. His body, once stocky and solidly built rather than the wiry leanness common with MechWarriors, was now but a skeletal shadow of its former self.

However, not so much as a single hint of the unbelievable agony he must be suffering at this moment could be found in the steely-eyed glare of dogged determination directed at Spokesman.

The moment of silence stretched between us, filled only with his rasping heaves of breath, before the man cracked a rictus grin of broken, rotted teeth. “One of those types, huh? Well, then, I’d offer to shake your hand, but I know you spooks don’t care for niceties like that. Raju Montgomery, at your service. Former MechWarrior, and former Captain of the Royal Guard. Now, who the fuck are you, and what the hell are you doing in my country?"

Holy shit. I didn't recognize him immediately, not under all the filth and wounds. But now that he had introduced himself, I couldn't not see the resemblance to the cell-shaded drawing from the game I played so long ago.

Raju 'Mastiff' Montgomery, the narrator of the tutorial and general 'mentor' figure to the player. Condemned to die by the narrative at the very beginning of the game to kick-start the hero's journey.

Though, it would later turn out that he survived the coup–only to be tortured to death over the intervening years. Dying mere hours before he could be saved.

Seems like I got to him just in time.

"Your country?" I asked, tilting the Spokesman’s head just so to convey condescending faux confusion, if for no other reason than to buy time to gather my thoughts. "We were under the impression that this was the Aurigan Directorate, mister Mastiff."

He grunted, his already squinted eyes narrowing further. "So you know who I am, then?"

Not really, nothing beyond the few lore tidbits I just so happened to recall. But he doesn't have to know that.

The Spokesman nodded slowly. "A former mercenary turned captain. A man so loyal to the house he served that he got saddled with the call sign 'Mastiff'. Though, our Intel has you listed as KIA, mister Montgomery; Murdered by your own protégé as you fought a delaying action against Espinosa’s ambush. Care to explain the discrepancy?"

His already severe frown twisted further in disgust. "You've done your homework, at least… Well, an ammo-bin explosion cooked off my auto eject, and I landed right at the feet of those traitors. If you want to know why they listed me as dead, then you'd have to ask them. But my guess-" he lifted his hand up into frame, revealing that only his pinky and ring finger remained, the rest having been torn off. "-is that they wanted to have their fun first.

Now that I've answered your question, you answer mine–who are you, and why are you attacking the Reach?"

I let the Spokesman’s stoney stare do some heavy lifting for a moment, carefully taking the time to weigh my words. “Who I am is immaterial, but if you insist on having a name, then you can call me The Handler. And my company, X-COM PMC, is currently administering… humanitarian aid to the oppressed people of the Reach. We are attacking Santiago Espinosa's rebel forces, not the Reach itself. And while I do understand your concerns, captain, there is no reason for our relationship to be adversarial. The enemy of my enemy, as they say.”

Raju rolled his sole good eye. “‘Humanitarian aide’ my hairy ass. Do you really think that I wouldn’t recognize the fucking Mongooses you have stomping around out there? Or how about the stuff I don’t recognize, like your man’s armor over here? No, seriously–tell me who you are and who you’re working for, or so help me God I-I’ll!-” He suddenly rolled to the side and started coughing his lungs out. 

Antonov was by his side in a moment, a steadying hand on his shoulder and an oxygen mask at the ready. When Raju pulled his hand away from his mouth, it was covered in specks of blood.

“We’ll talk more after you’ve been treated.” I said with a sigh as the medic gently, if forcibly, pushed his patient back into the bed. “Just know, Raju, that we aren’t your enemies. You can take it from here, Staff Sergeant.”Grigori gave the camera a firm nod, and the line cut out.

Left alone once more, I shook my head. I guess that’s canon well and truly cooked–not that I’m all too broken up about it. Either way, I better get back to it.

“Rook, I need a sitrep, how is Beta team doing on armor and ammo?”

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Vesox Endoiris

The Icebox, Weldry

Deep Periphery

March 4th, 3025

A week passed in a hazy fugue of non-stop action. Our infirmaries turned into the fiercest of battlegrounds; Where Death himself was fought with unyielding determination. And thanks to the skill and dedication of our healers, we won more often than we lost.

Though, those losses were still great.

The final death toll was currently hovering at around five hundred, with still more being found behind every locked door and with every new seismic scan. Leaving us with well over a thousand traumatized victims to care for.

My plan to secure a ready-made army of vengeful freedom fighters had, quite spectacularly, blown up in my face. Leaving my men and I scrambling to keep the ones we had managed to save from never seeing the inside of a bodybag. 

The only saving grace to this whole cluster fuck was the ridiculous amount of Metal we nabbed for practically free, as X-COM came out of the fight without a single casualty–save for the pilot of one of the Sentinels. He was currently laid up under concussion protocols for that rough hit he took. 

In terms of salvage, we netted a whole score of battlemechs of varying levels of damage, though by far the creme de la creme of the lot was the JagerMech. The rest of them being your standard Periphery fare–Commandos, Locusts, Wasps–Light trash that you can slap any old Joe into and send at your enemies en masse.

Those we were rendering down for spare parts and weapons, as there was no way in hell I was sacrificing gantry slots on Locusts. The JagerMech, though, was currently hanging limp in the Marauders old spot. The machine crawled with astechs cataloging the damage.

But the real prizes were the two DropShips. 

A bog standard Union, still in its classical configuration. Squat and fat, the spheroid ship sat on the tarmac–its aging frame teeming with well-worn weapons and lightly rusted armor. Unfortunately, it was empty by the time my marines stormed it, her crew scattered to the four winds. I had to call in even more of Farah’s team to pilot it, which will no doubt slow down work on Den Mother.

Beside it was the Leopard, the flying brick's hull still warm to the touch even hours after returning from delivering more food and medical supplies to Doyles’ team. 

Her crew we actually managed to capture alive. And while her captain was currently sitting alone in the Egg's brig, awaiting his fate, the rest of the bridge crew continued to work under the careful watch of Max's marines.

In one fell swoop we had doubled the size of our fleet, while also doubling the sheer pain in my fluffy ass it was to keep all of this organized. Trying to coordinate all the separate branches was becoming impossible for one person; I'd need to start looking at making a real command structure soon, rather than continue on trying to pretend to be one all by myself. Overnight, I increased our firepower to levels that took most PMC’s decades to reach, if not centuries. X-COM had officially grown past being just an ‘idle curiosity’ for the powers of the Inner Sphere and could now be called a legitimate threat to even the heavily defended worlds of a Great House. 

Our only saving grace being that no one besides the people trapped on Weldry knew this.

My original plan was to take my newly freed MechWarriors and head straight for Artru–where I’d take my sweet time plundering the SLDF outpost there. Securing both the war matériel, and the ship-killing computer virus stored there.

From Artru, I’d take my newly upgraded army and drop right onto Coromodir–while simultaneously broadcasting the fact that all of the Icebox’s hostages had been freed. No need for a protracted, years long rebellion spent sculking in shadows and skirting around systems–no, just drop several hundred thousand pounds of Metal onto Espinosa’s head and watch the Directorate crumple in on itself as everyone who had been forced to fight for the Directorate to save their family members would be free to turn on their oppressors.

From there, I would cash in the good-will liberating Weldry bought me to direct the formation of a new state out of the ashes of the Directorate, with the Protectorate being its military arm. 

A neat, clean start to my new Protectorate. Putting us in the position to expand outwards as benevolent, ‘mercenary’ peacekeepers.

But… without the manpower of the Icebox at my back, that plan had officially gone up in smoke. Even if I secured the Castle at Artru, without the men to pilot those ‘Mechs, then it would all just become several thousand tons of liability floating around my cargo bays.

I’d need a new plan, and I’ll need one fast. Though, as I’m staring at the Leopard still painted in Directorate green though The Bad Egg’s camera, a new scheme started to take shape in my mind’s eye.

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Vesox Endoiris

Zenith Point, Weldry System

Deep Periphery

March 18th, 3025

Max’s ‘enhanced interrogation’ techniques had finally borne fruit, and we learned of Weldry’s resupply schedule. So, without delay, everyone crammed back aboard The Bad Egg, and all three DropShips blasted off to race towards the Jump Point. Halfway up, the Union breaks formation to join up with Den Mother and rendezvous with Escape Clause.

The Bad Egg along with the Leopard arrive with only half a day to spare. And, right on schedule, the space around the system’s zenith point twists in on itself in a mind-warping display of rolling space-time and ionizing radiation visible to the naked eye. A corona of electric-blue light flashes into being, flowing in rippling waves across the starry night of space in a mesmerizing display.

The light show lasts a full hour, when suddenly a brilliant flash erupts at the center of the anomaly–pure actinic white that washes out all my cameras with the fury of a new-born star.

And there it is.

The last of the radiation is flung outwards into the void, and in its place a JumpShip materializes, instant and absolute. No gradual fade in, no sliding into existence–it just was, as if it had always been there, and we had just failed to see it.

An Invader-class, the ever ubiquitous workhorse of the Inner Sphere, loomed in the distance. A half-kilometre long behemoth, spindly and skeletal–its spider-legged K-F booms were already unfolding to catch the solar tides.

The JumpShip wasn’t even allowed to get its bearings before I hailed them on an open channel. It gave her crew just enough time to realize they were surrounded by two very large and very hostile DropShips brimming with righteous fury and loaded guns to answer.

When I heard the line connect, I didn’t even give them a chance to speak–the husky growl of the Spokesman went out over the air. “Welcome to Weldry, gentlemen. Stand by to be boarded.”

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Sorry for the late and shorter chapter, after a reread i decided to cut the next step of the operation and just make the next chapter extra long. Hopefully I can actually get that one out on time lol