For those not familiar with the Armored Core game series in general, here
is the necessary background information:
In the future, the world got a thorough working over in a war now remembered as 'The Great Devastation,' which left much of the surface irradiated and the survivors rebuilding civilization underground. Corporations now pretty much have the run of things. One of the big technological break throughs of the modern world was Muscle Tracer (or MT) technology, which then lead to the creation of Cores, followed by the Armored Cores Lesser Mecha tend to be called MTs (msucle tracers, or mobile tanks). The Ravens were once the premiere group of AC mercenaries, connected through a network called 'The Raven's Nest.' Lana Nielson was your Nest contact. 'Pluses' were cheats that you could acquire in the game to get around weight restrictions and other limitations to make a truly overpowering core. In story terms, they are modifications that override safeties. Proto units were in the first game, a mysterious bio-mechanical life form that was running amuck.
For those not familiar with Armored Core: Master of Arena, here is the background information needed before reading this fic:
*Excerpt from the game manual*
*** In Isaac City, one of the largest subterranean complexes, two corporations have been waging a war for control. During one of the larger terrorist incidents in the Isaac City complex many innocent civilians were killed, the worst such occurrence the city had known. A survivor of this terrible act, a young man, lost his entire family during the fighting.
A red and black Raven AC, with an emblem resembling a "9 Ball" were the only clues the young man had that pointed to the one responsible. The pilot of this AC was now his mortal enemy.
A few months after the terrorist incident, the young man decided to become a Raven. It was the only way to find the one responsible for killing his family and take revenge. He tracked down a contact that used to be a Raven, but was now in charge of managing new recruits and explained his situation.
And so, another Raven was brought into the fold...this one with a personal vendetta. ***
Nineball was _the_ Raven, and a major factor in the story, and the concluding mission of the game was the final showdown against him.
I hope that this has provided everything that people need to know to appreciate my fic, so without further adieu, I present: Ravenfall.
-------------------------------------------------------
Daveren winced as he climbed out of the cockpit hatch. Restraints notwithstanding, he'd hit the console hard when the Pi went down. He slid down the Core's exterior carefully, trying not to jostle the bruise already spreading across his side. He winced as he hit the ground and stepped back, both from the pain in his side and because he could finally see the extent of the damage to his Core.
The last hit had knocked out the computer, making the visual inspection necessary to assess the damage. The Pi was lying on its side, the right leg completely gone and a good portion of the hip mechanism missing as well. The right arm was a mangled ruin. He hoped that the rifle was lying around somewhere, and not part of that tangled mess. He'd just sunk a few thousand kaseys into getting the cooling system rebuilt.
The Pi's torso armor was peeled back and cracked. He supposed that he was lucky the cockpit hadn't been blown out. He turned a slow circle, surveying the battlefield. Heat flickered past his face from where the last enemy AC burned a few hundred meters away. He'd held still a few seconds too long trying to get a lock, and he'd gotten his warheads off, but so had the other Core and his anti-missile system had been completely depleted. There had been no time to go evasive, and the Pi had taken the full brunt of the missile flight. The other Core ate the full load of his, but it had crashed and burned. At least that much was right with the world.
He sat down on the Pi's remaining foot. This was supposed to have been a simple sit and spin at a Progtech distribution locus. Spend a couple weeks wearing down his leg actuators , and scare off any bandits hoping to make an easy score. The MT pilots that he and the Screaming Eel had shown up to assist had assured them that it had been years since serious trouble had come that way. That alone should have been warning enough.
He limped over to where the Eel lay. He could still see the wide grin of the cartoonish animal on the shoulder insignia, but the rest had been burned away. It hadn't been anything personal. Progtech had been sending something that Chrome had wanted through the locus, so Chrome had been prepared to cut through everything in its way.
He could feel the heat radiating off the wreck from more than ten meters away. The Raccoon had been almost touching the muzzle of the plasma canon when it discharged, and its torso was nothing more than a molten hole. No, there had been nothing personal about any of this. They all just had the bad luck to be stuck in the wrangling between corporations.
He pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from a pocket on his jump suit, taking one out and pressing it against the Raccoon's hull. He watched the tip blacken and burn, ignoring the pain as the skin of his fingers reddened from the heat. He didn't smoke. He was sure that Chaevers would've understood though.
He held the cigarette up watching the white paper subside to ash, watching the three words scrawled on the cylinder burn away.
_Never knows best._
Yeah, Chaevers would've gotten it.
-------------------------------------------------------
Twae paused inside the door, allowing her eyes to adjust. Even by underground standards the place was dim. The flickering of the sign above her cast surreal shadows against the floor. At first glance, it did not make a promising impression, but this was where she wanted to be. This was the Raven's Nest.
"I still don't see the point of this, ma'am. Going over the network, you can take care of everything without having to deal with these people in person."
Twae sighed, sparing a glance for the gorilla standing behind her. He didn't work for her because of his brains. "I've been sorely disappointed by the response I've gotten to the e-posting for this job. I want to meet my pawns in person this time."
Her eyes went around the bar. The establishment was huge, with three levels, although only sparsely populated at this hour, a few people slumped over the bar that ran the length of the first level, small groups occupying a scattering of tables over the other two. She didn't see too many promising prospects, but it was still early. She took a seat near the bar, setting her gorilla to watch the door. It would be obvious what she was here for. All she had to do was wait for someone to get the hint.
While she waited for a bite she took a reading of the people, trying to hunt out those that might be worth her time. One man at the bar caught her eye after a short while. She had dismissed him at first, watching him toss back drink after drink, apparently slumped over his glass. Then she noticed that he was staring down at a datapad, and the bartender was filling his cup from the carbonated tap. She put him onto her potential list along with a couple others, and went back to waiting.
It took a couple of hours before the first person approached her, and the bar had filled up significantly. She started getting looks from one of the tables up on the third level and after a few moments one of its members detached and made his way down to the first. She resisted the urge to dismiss him out of hand. He moved with the kind of jitter that said he was either loaded with cheap wire or had a major neurological disorder. Bits of chrome glittered on his face and fingers and his hair was swept back form his head in gelled spikes. All flash she concluded as he arrived at her table.
"Hey bei-bee," he said, doing nothing to dispel her opinion. "Yew looking to hire yoself som action?" His chin bounced down against his shoulder and then back up again.
Twae resisted the impulse to tell him off. Core jockeys could be a touchy lot, and this one looked like the kind who would hold a grudge.
He took her silence for acquiesce. "'m Dirk Durandel, hardest Core jockey yo aver going ta hire." He spoke neo with a horrendously nasal accent. "DnD's my Core's name 's well. Death and Destruction. You need it blown up, I've got the Core ta do it."
"And what if I don't need it blown up?" Twae asked sweetly, interrupting the next part of his spiel
He blinked and stuttered for a second, trying to find his place. "Well, 'm good at thet too," he said uncertainly, then found his stride. "'ell, 'm good for whatever you want, Core jockeying or otherwise." He gave her a self-confident leer and a suggestive gesture, the look ruined as his cheek began to spasm.
"You," Twae called out, getting the attention of the prospect at the bar. He gave her a guarded glance. "What's your Core's name?" she asked.
He look confused for a moment, then his eyes briefly shifting to Dirk, he gave a self-conscious grin. "Cherry Pi," he answered with s slightly embarrassed shrug, returning his eyes to his datapad.
"I think that I've found who I'm looking for," Twae said sweetly, using this as an opportunity to approach the other pilot. She rose to her feet and brushed past Dirk. He stuttered as he turned to look after her, a tic starting in his cheek and progressing down his left arm.
The other pilot looked up cautiously as she approached, shutting as his datapad as she pulled up a stool next to hers. Before the screen blanked out, she was reassured to see what looked like a contract/bounty list. Some Jockeys, she knew, only used the pad to look professionally occupied, when all they were doing was burning time on porn sites. "I need a reliable Jockey," she opened, "you for hire?"
His eyes flicked over her head to her bodyguard. "I'm not consigned," he answered. Politik for being in-between jobs.
Twae found his demeanor reassuring. Not too eager at the offer of work, and an even attitude. If it turned out that there were brains beneath all that, she'd think that she hit the jackpot. His Core's name was mildly reassuring too. The first jockey she'd hired had piloted 'X-C-cutioner 666' and his ineptitude would have been hilarious, if it hadn't ended so gruesomely. Since then she'd noticed a tendency for handles to reflect a certain amount of compensation "Twae Koerbie," she said, holding out her hand.
"Daveren O'Connell." The hesitant way in which he hooked his fingers to hers didn't speak much for him, but Twae had learned not to place too much on the handshake. "What kind of contract were you hoping to hire-?"
A hand closed on Daveren's shoulder and spun him around on his stool. "'scuse mie, but ah du bahleve the chicky was talking to mi," Dirk scowled in Daveren's face. Anger made his voice almost unintelligible.
Daveren blinked, then glanced over his shoulder at Twae. "Did you 'print anything to this wirehead?" When she shook her head he turned his eyes back to Dirk. "Sorry chum, looks like this is a free 'tract. Better luck next time." He delivered the line in an even tone, but his tensed slightly, obviously expecting trouble.
Instead, Dirk took a step around Daveren, thrusting himself into Twae's face. "Lissen baybe, yu don't mess wit DnD. At's a good way ta get hurt. Naw I think we were discussing a 'tract-."
A threatening rumble rolled forth from the direction of her bodyguard. "My employer might be too polite to say so, but I'm not. Shove off." He started to step forward, but Twae held up a restraining hand. Dirk looked from the bodyguard to Twae to Daveren then back up to the table from which he'd come, where every eye was fastened on him. "Fine then," he said with a lot more bravado then he probablyly felt. "'ll churn you up in the 'rena 'n after burning out yoh pussy lil Cherry Pi I'll be taking the contract."
Daveren's jaw tensed, but he looked relieved that there wasn't going to be a fight then and there. "Is that acceptable?" He asked Twae. She gave Dirk a slightly condescending look, then nodded to Daveren. "All right," he said, turning back to Dirk. "Whaddya want?"
A self-confident sneer crossed Dirk's face. "High nooner, tommorrow. Alamos."
"Acceptable," Daveren replied, entering a few commands on his datapad, then presenting it to Dirk. "Print up hotshot, and we'll have ourselves a showdown."
Dirk was momentarily taken aback by the speed of the other man's response, then seemed to regain his nerve. He jammed his thumb against the pad's sensor and then threw it back to Daveren. "Hope you had a nice life, 'cause it's ending tahmara," he declared, and then strutted off.
Daveren followed him with a hard stare, then seemed to slightly collapse in on himself, sighing and picking the pad up form his lap. "That was a lot more impulsive than I usually prefer to act. I hope that I'm not going to regret it."
"I'm sure that you won't. You shouldn't have any trouble with that little flit, not unless I grossly misread the both of you, and if that's the case, I'll eat my hat."
"You're not wearing a hat," he pointed out.
"And thus you can't make me eat it if I'm wrong."
"I think that I'd better make sure to read the fine print if I get that contract." He paused reflectively for a moment. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to underwrite my arena costs?"
Twae's cheery smile disappeared. "Not a chance."
Daveren leaned back with a heavy sigh. "Then I don't suppose that you could give me any information on precisely what I'm putting my ass on the line for?"
With an expression of mock severity, Twae quoted, "After the acceptance of an arena duel, it would be a severe violation of protocol to divulge information unequally to the participants."
"You could always call the wirehead back down here so that he can hear it too."
"Are you that eager to listen to him again?"
"Right," Daveren said, throwing his hands up in defeat. "In that case I'll message you once the matter is concluded."
"Oh that won't be necessary. I'll be watching on-site."
Daveren lifted an eyebrow. "That's your call. Just remember to bring your rad cream. It's hot out there."
Twae's smiled, although her eyes had a hard edge to them. "I know."
-------------------------------------------------------
"Wake up Cherry," Daveren said as he struggled with the main switch for the garage's power grid. He finally threw it with an audible 'thunk' and watched as the light's flickered to life overhead.
"Good morning Dave," a pleasant contralto voice answered. "Would you like to play a game?"
"Cut it out. And don't call me Dave."
"Pookie?"
Daveren glanced at one of the wall mounted pickups. "I can take the humor module out just as easily as I put it in."
The voice was suddenly all business. "Very well Dav. What kind of mess have you gotten us into this time?"
"I think that I might've landed us a real plum of a contract, but we're going to have to wade through an arena match to get it."
"If we have to fight for the contract, then you really haven't landed it, have you?"
"Take a look at our opponent and then tell me that. Pull up anything you can find on Pilot: Dirk Durandel, and Core: Death and Destruction."
While he spoke Dav activated the maintenance terminal and was greeted by the image of a chesty brunette sitting sidesaddle on a rocket in flight. "Whatever you say, Dav," she said, giving him a wink. "I don't suppose that you got this fight underwritten?"
"Not a chance."
"Need I remind you that our current account balance is-"
"All we're going to need to get through this one is armor, and that comes cheap."
"Confident now, aren't we?"
"You haven't met this guy. He's full of hot wire and I bet his core is as well. It wouldn't surprise me to learn his system is plus'd too."
The brunette sniffed. "No AI worth her silicon would let a pilot do that."
"Hey, humor modules aren't the only thing that can get pulled from a personality. Not everyone treats their system as well as I do you."
The image on the screen blushed, then vanished, replaced by text and pictures. "Here's what I've come up with for our boy. You're right, he doesn't look like much, but he's got corporate funding. It looks like Murakumo gets enough revenue out of his arena matches to leave him in the black, even after damages. He's running a bit behind the curve though; forty-two percent win ratio."
"What about contract standing?"
The brunette made a face. "Terrible. He's run fifteen contracts, and he's only gotten one good report out of the lot, for a crash and burn. So, how long do we prepare for this hotshot?"
"Just under twenty-three hours. And we're going to Alamos. How's the paint holding up?"
"It's down to a few million rads of absorption. A long battle in Alamos and you're not going to have to worry about night lighting." She rested her chin in her hands. "You realize that we have less than four hours to assemble the battle configuration?"
Daveren waved a hand. "I already had a setup in mind. What you told me just confirmed my hunch. Don't worry." He flashed her a rakish grin. "Have I ever done you wrong?"
-------------------------------------------------------
*Author's Notes*
Yes, I took that 'Never Knows Best' from FLCL. I always loved the image, and thought that it fit the character rather well.
In the future, the world got a thorough working over in a war now remembered as 'The Great Devastation,' which left much of the surface irradiated and the survivors rebuilding civilization underground. Corporations now pretty much have the run of things. One of the big technological break throughs of the modern world was Muscle Tracer (or MT) technology, which then lead to the creation of Cores, followed by the Armored Cores Lesser Mecha tend to be called MTs (msucle tracers, or mobile tanks). The Ravens were once the premiere group of AC mercenaries, connected through a network called 'The Raven's Nest.' Lana Nielson was your Nest contact. 'Pluses' were cheats that you could acquire in the game to get around weight restrictions and other limitations to make a truly overpowering core. In story terms, they are modifications that override safeties. Proto units were in the first game, a mysterious bio-mechanical life form that was running amuck.
For those not familiar with Armored Core: Master of Arena, here is the background information needed before reading this fic:
*Excerpt from the game manual*
*** In Isaac City, one of the largest subterranean complexes, two corporations have been waging a war for control. During one of the larger terrorist incidents in the Isaac City complex many innocent civilians were killed, the worst such occurrence the city had known. A survivor of this terrible act, a young man, lost his entire family during the fighting.
A red and black Raven AC, with an emblem resembling a "9 Ball" were the only clues the young man had that pointed to the one responsible. The pilot of this AC was now his mortal enemy.
A few months after the terrorist incident, the young man decided to become a Raven. It was the only way to find the one responsible for killing his family and take revenge. He tracked down a contact that used to be a Raven, but was now in charge of managing new recruits and explained his situation.
And so, another Raven was brought into the fold...this one with a personal vendetta. ***
Nineball was _the_ Raven, and a major factor in the story, and the concluding mission of the game was the final showdown against him.
I hope that this has provided everything that people need to know to appreciate my fic, so without further adieu, I present: Ravenfall.
-------------------------------------------------------
Daveren winced as he climbed out of the cockpit hatch. Restraints notwithstanding, he'd hit the console hard when the Pi went down. He slid down the Core's exterior carefully, trying not to jostle the bruise already spreading across his side. He winced as he hit the ground and stepped back, both from the pain in his side and because he could finally see the extent of the damage to his Core.
The last hit had knocked out the computer, making the visual inspection necessary to assess the damage. The Pi was lying on its side, the right leg completely gone and a good portion of the hip mechanism missing as well. The right arm was a mangled ruin. He hoped that the rifle was lying around somewhere, and not part of that tangled mess. He'd just sunk a few thousand kaseys into getting the cooling system rebuilt.
The Pi's torso armor was peeled back and cracked. He supposed that he was lucky the cockpit hadn't been blown out. He turned a slow circle, surveying the battlefield. Heat flickered past his face from where the last enemy AC burned a few hundred meters away. He'd held still a few seconds too long trying to get a lock, and he'd gotten his warheads off, but so had the other Core and his anti-missile system had been completely depleted. There had been no time to go evasive, and the Pi had taken the full brunt of the missile flight. The other Core ate the full load of his, but it had crashed and burned. At least that much was right with the world.
He sat down on the Pi's remaining foot. This was supposed to have been a simple sit and spin at a Progtech distribution locus. Spend a couple weeks wearing down his leg actuators , and scare off any bandits hoping to make an easy score. The MT pilots that he and the Screaming Eel had shown up to assist had assured them that it had been years since serious trouble had come that way. That alone should have been warning enough.
He limped over to where the Eel lay. He could still see the wide grin of the cartoonish animal on the shoulder insignia, but the rest had been burned away. It hadn't been anything personal. Progtech had been sending something that Chrome had wanted through the locus, so Chrome had been prepared to cut through everything in its way.
He could feel the heat radiating off the wreck from more than ten meters away. The Raccoon had been almost touching the muzzle of the plasma canon when it discharged, and its torso was nothing more than a molten hole. No, there had been nothing personal about any of this. They all just had the bad luck to be stuck in the wrangling between corporations.
He pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from a pocket on his jump suit, taking one out and pressing it against the Raccoon's hull. He watched the tip blacken and burn, ignoring the pain as the skin of his fingers reddened from the heat. He didn't smoke. He was sure that Chaevers would've understood though.
He held the cigarette up watching the white paper subside to ash, watching the three words scrawled on the cylinder burn away.
_Never knows best._
Yeah, Chaevers would've gotten it.
-------------------------------------------------------
Twae paused inside the door, allowing her eyes to adjust. Even by underground standards the place was dim. The flickering of the sign above her cast surreal shadows against the floor. At first glance, it did not make a promising impression, but this was where she wanted to be. This was the Raven's Nest.
"I still don't see the point of this, ma'am. Going over the network, you can take care of everything without having to deal with these people in person."
Twae sighed, sparing a glance for the gorilla standing behind her. He didn't work for her because of his brains. "I've been sorely disappointed by the response I've gotten to the e-posting for this job. I want to meet my pawns in person this time."
Her eyes went around the bar. The establishment was huge, with three levels, although only sparsely populated at this hour, a few people slumped over the bar that ran the length of the first level, small groups occupying a scattering of tables over the other two. She didn't see too many promising prospects, but it was still early. She took a seat near the bar, setting her gorilla to watch the door. It would be obvious what she was here for. All she had to do was wait for someone to get the hint.
While she waited for a bite she took a reading of the people, trying to hunt out those that might be worth her time. One man at the bar caught her eye after a short while. She had dismissed him at first, watching him toss back drink after drink, apparently slumped over his glass. Then she noticed that he was staring down at a datapad, and the bartender was filling his cup from the carbonated tap. She put him onto her potential list along with a couple others, and went back to waiting.
It took a couple of hours before the first person approached her, and the bar had filled up significantly. She started getting looks from one of the tables up on the third level and after a few moments one of its members detached and made his way down to the first. She resisted the urge to dismiss him out of hand. He moved with the kind of jitter that said he was either loaded with cheap wire or had a major neurological disorder. Bits of chrome glittered on his face and fingers and his hair was swept back form his head in gelled spikes. All flash she concluded as he arrived at her table.
"Hey bei-bee," he said, doing nothing to dispel her opinion. "Yew looking to hire yoself som action?" His chin bounced down against his shoulder and then back up again.
Twae resisted the impulse to tell him off. Core jockeys could be a touchy lot, and this one looked like the kind who would hold a grudge.
He took her silence for acquiesce. "'m Dirk Durandel, hardest Core jockey yo aver going ta hire." He spoke neo with a horrendously nasal accent. "DnD's my Core's name 's well. Death and Destruction. You need it blown up, I've got the Core ta do it."
"And what if I don't need it blown up?" Twae asked sweetly, interrupting the next part of his spiel
He blinked and stuttered for a second, trying to find his place. "Well, 'm good at thet too," he said uncertainly, then found his stride. "'ell, 'm good for whatever you want, Core jockeying or otherwise." He gave her a self-confident leer and a suggestive gesture, the look ruined as his cheek began to spasm.
"You," Twae called out, getting the attention of the prospect at the bar. He gave her a guarded glance. "What's your Core's name?" she asked.
He look confused for a moment, then his eyes briefly shifting to Dirk, he gave a self-conscious grin. "Cherry Pi," he answered with s slightly embarrassed shrug, returning his eyes to his datapad.
"I think that I've found who I'm looking for," Twae said sweetly, using this as an opportunity to approach the other pilot. She rose to her feet and brushed past Dirk. He stuttered as he turned to look after her, a tic starting in his cheek and progressing down his left arm.
The other pilot looked up cautiously as she approached, shutting as his datapad as she pulled up a stool next to hers. Before the screen blanked out, she was reassured to see what looked like a contract/bounty list. Some Jockeys, she knew, only used the pad to look professionally occupied, when all they were doing was burning time on porn sites. "I need a reliable Jockey," she opened, "you for hire?"
His eyes flicked over her head to her bodyguard. "I'm not consigned," he answered. Politik for being in-between jobs.
Twae found his demeanor reassuring. Not too eager at the offer of work, and an even attitude. If it turned out that there were brains beneath all that, she'd think that she hit the jackpot. His Core's name was mildly reassuring too. The first jockey she'd hired had piloted 'X-C-cutioner 666' and his ineptitude would have been hilarious, if it hadn't ended so gruesomely. Since then she'd noticed a tendency for handles to reflect a certain amount of compensation "Twae Koerbie," she said, holding out her hand.
"Daveren O'Connell." The hesitant way in which he hooked his fingers to hers didn't speak much for him, but Twae had learned not to place too much on the handshake. "What kind of contract were you hoping to hire-?"
A hand closed on Daveren's shoulder and spun him around on his stool. "'scuse mie, but ah du bahleve the chicky was talking to mi," Dirk scowled in Daveren's face. Anger made his voice almost unintelligible.
Daveren blinked, then glanced over his shoulder at Twae. "Did you 'print anything to this wirehead?" When she shook her head he turned his eyes back to Dirk. "Sorry chum, looks like this is a free 'tract. Better luck next time." He delivered the line in an even tone, but his tensed slightly, obviously expecting trouble.
Instead, Dirk took a step around Daveren, thrusting himself into Twae's face. "Lissen baybe, yu don't mess wit DnD. At's a good way ta get hurt. Naw I think we were discussing a 'tract-."
A threatening rumble rolled forth from the direction of her bodyguard. "My employer might be too polite to say so, but I'm not. Shove off." He started to step forward, but Twae held up a restraining hand. Dirk looked from the bodyguard to Twae to Daveren then back up to the table from which he'd come, where every eye was fastened on him. "Fine then," he said with a lot more bravado then he probablyly felt. "'ll churn you up in the 'rena 'n after burning out yoh pussy lil Cherry Pi I'll be taking the contract."
Daveren's jaw tensed, but he looked relieved that there wasn't going to be a fight then and there. "Is that acceptable?" He asked Twae. She gave Dirk a slightly condescending look, then nodded to Daveren. "All right," he said, turning back to Dirk. "Whaddya want?"
A self-confident sneer crossed Dirk's face. "High nooner, tommorrow. Alamos."
"Acceptable," Daveren replied, entering a few commands on his datapad, then presenting it to Dirk. "Print up hotshot, and we'll have ourselves a showdown."
Dirk was momentarily taken aback by the speed of the other man's response, then seemed to regain his nerve. He jammed his thumb against the pad's sensor and then threw it back to Daveren. "Hope you had a nice life, 'cause it's ending tahmara," he declared, and then strutted off.
Daveren followed him with a hard stare, then seemed to slightly collapse in on himself, sighing and picking the pad up form his lap. "That was a lot more impulsive than I usually prefer to act. I hope that I'm not going to regret it."
"I'm sure that you won't. You shouldn't have any trouble with that little flit, not unless I grossly misread the both of you, and if that's the case, I'll eat my hat."
"You're not wearing a hat," he pointed out.
"And thus you can't make me eat it if I'm wrong."
"I think that I'd better make sure to read the fine print if I get that contract." He paused reflectively for a moment. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to underwrite my arena costs?"
Twae's cheery smile disappeared. "Not a chance."
Daveren leaned back with a heavy sigh. "Then I don't suppose that you could give me any information on precisely what I'm putting my ass on the line for?"
With an expression of mock severity, Twae quoted, "After the acceptance of an arena duel, it would be a severe violation of protocol to divulge information unequally to the participants."
"You could always call the wirehead back down here so that he can hear it too."
"Are you that eager to listen to him again?"
"Right," Daveren said, throwing his hands up in defeat. "In that case I'll message you once the matter is concluded."
"Oh that won't be necessary. I'll be watching on-site."
Daveren lifted an eyebrow. "That's your call. Just remember to bring your rad cream. It's hot out there."
Twae's smiled, although her eyes had a hard edge to them. "I know."
-------------------------------------------------------
"Wake up Cherry," Daveren said as he struggled with the main switch for the garage's power grid. He finally threw it with an audible 'thunk' and watched as the light's flickered to life overhead.
"Good morning Dave," a pleasant contralto voice answered. "Would you like to play a game?"
"Cut it out. And don't call me Dave."
"Pookie?"
Daveren glanced at one of the wall mounted pickups. "I can take the humor module out just as easily as I put it in."
The voice was suddenly all business. "Very well Dav. What kind of mess have you gotten us into this time?"
"I think that I might've landed us a real plum of a contract, but we're going to have to wade through an arena match to get it."
"If we have to fight for the contract, then you really haven't landed it, have you?"
"Take a look at our opponent and then tell me that. Pull up anything you can find on Pilot: Dirk Durandel, and Core: Death and Destruction."
While he spoke Dav activated the maintenance terminal and was greeted by the image of a chesty brunette sitting sidesaddle on a rocket in flight. "Whatever you say, Dav," she said, giving him a wink. "I don't suppose that you got this fight underwritten?"
"Not a chance."
"Need I remind you that our current account balance is-"
"All we're going to need to get through this one is armor, and that comes cheap."
"Confident now, aren't we?"
"You haven't met this guy. He's full of hot wire and I bet his core is as well. It wouldn't surprise me to learn his system is plus'd too."
The brunette sniffed. "No AI worth her silicon would let a pilot do that."
"Hey, humor modules aren't the only thing that can get pulled from a personality. Not everyone treats their system as well as I do you."
The image on the screen blushed, then vanished, replaced by text and pictures. "Here's what I've come up with for our boy. You're right, he doesn't look like much, but he's got corporate funding. It looks like Murakumo gets enough revenue out of his arena matches to leave him in the black, even after damages. He's running a bit behind the curve though; forty-two percent win ratio."
"What about contract standing?"
The brunette made a face. "Terrible. He's run fifteen contracts, and he's only gotten one good report out of the lot, for a crash and burn. So, how long do we prepare for this hotshot?"
"Just under twenty-three hours. And we're going to Alamos. How's the paint holding up?"
"It's down to a few million rads of absorption. A long battle in Alamos and you're not going to have to worry about night lighting." She rested her chin in her hands. "You realize that we have less than four hours to assemble the battle configuration?"
Daveren waved a hand. "I already had a setup in mind. What you told me just confirmed my hunch. Don't worry." He flashed her a rakish grin. "Have I ever done you wrong?"
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*Author's Notes*
Yes, I took that 'Never Knows Best' from FLCL. I always loved the image, and thought that it fit the character rather well.
