Champions of the CMBL

Wolfsbane706

Everything's better with figure skaters.
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Online Availability
All fuckin' day.
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Primarily Prefer Female
Genres
Modern, futuristic, magical girl
Okay, so this isn't technically a short story, but the opening section is marked off from the rest of the story, so I figure it should work. Enjoy!

Champions of the CMBL said:
There's three ways of controlling a competition mech, as required by Battle League rules. The first is called “Command Line”. All the pilot has to do is enter in a sequence of preset commands. Drawbacks? Picking out commands is slow, and if the opponent figures out the pilot is using Command Line, overwhelming is easy. Similarly, in order to change things up, the sequence has to be rewritten, which also takes time. Most pilots only use Command Line to get a feel for a new mech or for their opponent, if they use it at all.

The second is called “Manual Indirect” or “Gamer Mode” if you ask some of the pilots. The pilot has full control of the mech, but is safe inside the control room. Just like with Command Line. The main drawback to “Gamer Mode” is that barely noticeable quarter-second response delay. Poor reflexes can mean the difference between blocking a pulse shot and getting a hole blown in your cockpit.

Speaking of cockpits, the third and final method is called “Manual Direct”. The riskiest but most rewarding control method, it places the pilot inside the cockpit where they can directly control the mech. Response time is instantaneous, the HUD feed can't be jammed (as much as the League claims otherwise, feed jamming isn't only possible, it's a common strategy at matches without high security), and the pilot gets to personally thrash their opponent. The main drawback here is the risk of death. Sure, there's an ejection system and a teleporter, but those don't always work as well as they should, especially if something impacts the cockpit directly. Another drawback is motion sickness, but really, if the pilot suffers from motion sickness of all things, they won't be competing for long.

Heaven help the crew that has a pilot with a preference for Manual Direct.

< : : > < : : >​

Angela Christie. Champion CombiMech pilot, upbeat brunette 23-year-old, and right now, as always, my biggest headache. “Why did you even bother entering in an artillery mech when your specialty is close-combat?”

I know her answer before she speaks it, since it's always the same: “Because I wanted to try something different,” Angela says from her terminal in the front. The control room is only big enough to fit a pilot and a tactician; two terminals: one for me as the tactician, one for her as the pilot. There was barely room to move around, but the pilots made do. “Though maybe I should've stuck with close-combat. This is boring.” A quick glance over to her reveals that she's been using Command Line for the whole match, and if Angela's tired gaze is anything to go by, she was rapidly growing tired of the support role.

“Do you want to warp in your close-quarters mech?” I asked, taking in her appearance. Angela wore her hair straight, only tying it up when she wanted to use Manual Direct. Average skintone, red eyes, slender build, it would be difficult to pick her out in a crowd if it wasn't for the eyes. She seemed like the average human, but the red eyes weren't natural.

“Hm, not yet.” She queued up another sequence of commands based on the tactical situation before stretching and yawning. “The others are doing a pretty good job of holding the line. We don't need Bonehead yet.” Angela was always coming up with odd code names for her mechs. “Bonehead” was her close-quarters mech while her artillery mech she liked to call “Nitwit”. I had yet to wrap my head around her naming sense.

There was also a third mech, mid-range, that didn't have a name because it rarely saw use. Angela refused to sell it, despite my insistence that we could always use the extra funds. She claimed that the few victories she'd scored with it made keeping it worth it. Considering that each time she'd fielded the mid-range had resulted in victory, I never could argue that point. Speaking of, “Why don't you like fielding your mid-range mech?” I ask, ignoring the message notice on my own terminal.

“Because then winning would be too easy,” she admits, watching as a few shells impact the dirt around Nitwit's four legs. The field this time is a wasteland. Flat, mostly, with a few plateaus sticking up some places and small craters dotting the landscape. It's used a lot by the League, but outside of that, never sees life.

A warning flashes across my screen just as a bright flash of light flashes across Angela's. This, I can't ignore. “The enemy is using a particle lance,” I explain, probably needlessly. “Extreme range, high heat. Gremlin and Chimera have already been taken out. Pilots are still intact. They won't be reinserting.” I pause to look at Nitwit's status. The mech was practically built around its artillery piece, which has now had its barrel reduced to red-hot slag. “I strongly recommend warping in Bonehead or the mid-range with Manual Indirect if you want to stay in the battle.”

I can't see her face, but I can tell that Angela is very much not happy. “Warp Bonehead in at the front lines,” she says, putting her hair up into a ponytail. “Time the teleport to coincide with a change to Manual Direct. I'm going to take this rat out personally.”

“Angela, that's ill-advised. That particle lance can cut through your armor like it wasn't even there. One direct hit on the cockpit, there won't be anything left to bury. And besides, we don't even know which mech is carrying the particle lance.”

“Particle lances are big and cumbersome on a good day,” she remarks, fidgeting in her seat, waiting for me to activate the teleport. “And to hit an artillery mech from all the way across the battlefield? It takes a pretty hefty power source to maintain that kind of range, and there's only one competition mech I can think of that can handle that power output without totally overloading: Paladin.” She's not wrong. The energy source required to power that strong a particle lance would have to be external, which meant that Paladin, if it really was the sniper, was tethered in place and thus an easy target if Angela could get close enough. At that close range, if Paladin opened fire, it risked over-penetrating and hitting some of its teammates. Some pilots would consider that an acceptable risk. Paladin's wouldn't.

“Alright, fine,” I say, conceding the conversation. “I'm warping Bonehead in with an evasion pack attached, though. If it looks like Paladin is getting ready to fire, you make sure to put one of his buddies between you and him.”

“Gotcha.”

“Bonehead will be on the battlefield in fifteen seconds. Ready for teleport?”

“Ready!”

“Teleporting you to Bonehead's cockpit in three, two, now.” A blue light sparks from under Angela's seat, signifying the start of the teleport. It takes a couple seconds for the teleport to actually work completely, and by that time, Bonehead is at the front lines. The feed on my terminal immediately changes from Nitwit warping back to the shop to Bonehead starting its charge on the enemy sniper. “Make good use of that evasion pack. Particle lances take forever to charge, but those shots travel almost instantaneously. If you think Paladin has a bead on you, evade or get behind one of his buddies.”

I know how to dodge sniper fire,” Angela says over the radio. I know that as well as she does. However, this is a special case. Paladin's not using the typical sniper weapon. She should know that. Still, I can tell by Bonehead's erratic movements that Angela's taken my advice to heart. For once. Along the way, Angela occasionally stops to disable enemy mechs, usually by cutting off their arms and either forcing an ejection or forcing a recall teleport. She could've easily taken one as a shield, but doing so would have promptly earned Angela a major infraction on her record, and someone with her level of attention didn't need that kind of scandal.

And of course, as our luck would have it, by the time Angela got to Paladin, the match was over and Angela legally couldn't take any further action except recall.

Needless to say, she was livid, despite the victory.

I should probably have mentioned this before, but Angela has never been fond of snipers, and she's even less fond of Paladin's pilot, an ex-military CombiMech jockey who's owned Paladin since the end of the Geo Wars. I've never met him, personally, but from what Angela tells me, I should be glad for it.

Regardless of any thoughts about Paladin, once again I was stuck on damage control. Reporters had gathered outside the control room during the match, each one eager to ask questions of the Close Combat Queen. Unfortunately for the reporters (and myself), the Close Combat Queen wasn't nearly as eager to answer those questions. And so, when Angela swiftly and angrily brushes past the reporters, they decide to ask me questions.

I dislike answering questions roughly as much as Angela dislikes fighting snipers.

What's it like strategizing for such a young pilot?

Do you plan on entering the Bailey Road Open?

Is there anything untoward going on between you and your pilot?

Are you keeping Angela out of trouble, as per our contract?” Most of the questions are the typical fare, but the last one catches my attention. I almost write it off as being from another reporter, but on closer examination, I see that Tabitha Christie, Angela's elder sister, has come to rescue me from my cruel fate.

Whether she likes it or not.

“If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with my employer concerning the repairs to one of our mechs,” I say, waving to Tabitha. She politely waves back from under that frustrating parasol of hers. “Your questions will be answered by one of our public relations officers at a later time.” With that said, I duck through the crowd of reporters—who haven't stopped asking questions—and stop at Tabitha's side. “I've never understood why you insist on dressing in a fashion that's been dead for centuries,” I say, recalling what I know about Tabitha.

Angela's elder sister is thirty, at least. She has her younger sister's red eyes and brown hair, but while Angela is small and lithe, Tabitha is tall and buxom. Something else I've never understood: how one mother can produce children of such different statures. Regardless, I refer to Tabitha as “my employer” because that's what she is. She owns Angela's team. She also owns Angela's mechs. As of a year ago and a release from prison, she owns me. That is our contract: I keep Angela out of trouble and infraction free, I stay a free citizen.

My attention returns to Tabitha from my memories of her file, only to end up caught. “Are you listening, Tactician?” she asks, folding her parasol and pointing the tip at me. Somewhere while I wasn't paying attention, we stopped.

Honesty is the best approach. Lying is how I ended up in prison to begin with. “No.”

Tabitha scoffs and unfolds her parasol, returning it to her shoulder. “I expected so,” she says. “Honestly, you can be worse than Angela sometimes.” Tabitha takes a breath and for some reason, I'm fully aware that I'm about to receive a lecture. “Elegance and class have remained the same throughout the centuries, Tactician,” she begins, closing her eyes. “In order to impress the masses, you must look the part before anything else. Angela doesn't understand this. She assumes her skills as a mech pilot are enough to hold her above the rest.” Tabitha sighs here, concerned for her sister's well-being, like always. “For the most part, she's correct. Angela's image is carefully maintained and pruned by the League and myself. However, if Angela does something reckless, as she's wont to do, the media will catch wind and all that pruning is for naught. That, Tactician, is where you come in. Hiring a criminal was already a point of controversy, and in some circles, still is. Prove to me, Tactician, that hiring you was not a mistake. Protect my sister and her image. Do not allow her to tarnish the Christie name with her recklessness.”

Tabitha's concern for her sister sent her into a rambling tangent, but the point is clear to me: keep the media away from Angela when Angela does something stupid. Not that difficult, all things considered. I simply had to make them more interested in me.

So? Tell me what you think!
 
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