Ryan wasted no time, firing most of his clip into the middle area of the ghost's barely visible
frame. Under the explosions that rocked the silent figure, he could roughly make out more of the
abomination's shape. It was turning around to face its attacker.
Ryan aimed at the empty space where he guessed the ghost's head might be, unleashing the rest
of his gyrojet-sped shells at almost point blank range in an uninterrupted rain of metal and fire.
The ghost fell backwards. It's head opened up, exposing metal and a human face in agony. The
person inside had been terribly burned, and the sight caught Ryan by surprise. He was not used
to seeing his fallen opponents up close, not when his was the life of a Mechwarrior.
The cloaking effect had been rendered obsolete on the head portion of the armored body, and
there would be no protecting the suit's operator anymore. With a quick recovery and realization
of his present situation, Ryan jumped forward onto the machine's form and smashed the butt of
his rifle into the operator's face. He was thrown off. He quickly recovered to his feet. The suit's
operator did not.
It was a Purifier suit, a model of battle armor fielded by the Strikers themselves. He was still
unsure if it was one of their own, or rather it had infiltrated the base. Things seemed worse than
expected. This armored machine was a signature of the Word of Blake and House Marik.
Ryan knew in his gut that the Strikers' arch enemies had struck again. The Blakists of Wasat had
not forgotten the battles from years past. Got to be them again.
Firing into the shuddering armor, whose operating systems were suffering extreme electrical
interference from the damage sustained, Ryan sought to render it's chameleon effect
nonoperational. It was now relatively destroyed, but he needed to be able to make out the
markings on the suit. Targeting the chest section, he fired another clip into a concentrated area in
several blasts. The suit soon bore another hole, and this time its cloaking device failed
completely. Ryan could make out the suit design and other damage it had sustained. It was
marked with the Denouncement Sect insignia on its left shoulder, an unmistakable Comstar
sword dripping blood into a pool of water. Through his seething anger and sudden revelation,
Ryan spat onto his dying enemy.
Before he could continue towards the barracks, automatic gunfire burst out in the distance. Ryan
guessed he was under attack. Spinning onto his left side, he dropped down to the ground and
tried firing towards the sound. He'd forgotten his fresh clip had already been used up. He only
had one left. Instead of reloading, he crawled forward to shield himself behind the destroyed
Purifier suit.
The flicker of a defective light overhead put a gloomy haze over his field of vision. It had
apparently been damaged in his battle with the Purifier. Ryan put in his last clip as he decided
what to do next.
Just as he got himself off the ground and into a crouch, Ryan could see a fellow command
company teammate running from yet another unseen attacker. He watched in pain as Andrew
Allen sprinted alongside one of the other nearby buildings, all the time firing bullets madly behind
him. The young Mechwarrior seemed to have no idea how to ward off his attackers, and the
Blakists must have decided that playing cat and mouse with him would be fun. Sons of bitches.
Ryan's lips curled back as he took aim on the area behind the young man, firing out several shells
in the hope of catching the enemy's attention. But none of the shells connected. He had no way
to tell exactly where the trooper might be.
Follow on foot. Ryan was reminded of the fourth rule in Mark Pike's training seminar on
catching a superior infantry foe off-guard. He bound into a run, feeling his left knee crack
inside as he took longer and longer strides towards his retreating teammate and the invisible
assailant. He did not fire. He had no intention of hitting his friend or wasting any shells at this
point. Faster. Faster you idiot.
Andrew Allen was running for his life. He couldn't believe Jim Davis had just been shot
hundreds of times. The command company's assault lance pilot had been with Andrew shortly
after the two met while exiting their buildings during the emergency alarm several minutes ago.
The deadly barrage of gunfire had come from somewhere in the darkness. It was an ambush
that had robbed the older man of everything and left Andrew untouched. Andrew had simply
fled the scene, trying to get as far away as possible. He was still wondering why he was alive,
continuing to fire blindly at the phantom chasing behind him. He could only hear the machine's
feet crunching on the dry summer soil some distance behind him.
Andrew made his way wildly to the nearest Mech shed, a small patrol outpost housing a
single 30-ton Spider. He doubted the building could offer him much help. He prayed to God
that his lancemate Marc Lucas was manning the Mech and preparing it for battle. It might be the
command company's only remaining hope.
Marc Lucas had cold-started the Spider's fusion engine. Though Longinus armored foes were
covering his 30-ton Mech's red and orange speckled hide, the makeshift Mechbay's supports
had held. He only needed to get free now. The problem lie in the structures that had saved him
up to now; they were paralyzing the Mech and keeping it from making any sudden movements.
Marc pushed the throttle up to full, straining the Mechs legs and partially bending one of the
lower supports. He felt completely hopeless, unable to tell how much progress he was making.
The Longinus foes would soon be on his cockpit. Their lasers would eat their way to him
through the ferroglass protection. He could wait no longer. He fired the Spider's eight jump jets
simultaneously.
The supports not only gave way, but the sudden upward acceleration shattered the metal
restraints that bound the Spider's giant wrists. His feet lifted from the ground. The back draft
from the jets threw two of the Longinus enemies to the ground.
Marc opened communications frequencies as he switched off his jump jets. He needed to
contact someone, anyone else, to share information about the attack. The Spider stopped its
ascent, just beginning to lose altitude as it returned back to the ferrocrete floor of the shed. It left
no imprint on the hardened floor but had managed to partially pin an enemy underfoot.
With skill and the help of the Mech's gyro, Marc centered the Spider's weight and swung its left
leg out in a sweeping kick. The kick ended abruptly with a stop that jerked the injured Longinus
armor off of his foot and ankle. The enemy trooper careened into one of the many lighting
fixtures along the north wall of the shed. Marc apologized to the technicians for the damage even
though no one could hear him. He hoped to live long enough to tell them in-person.
