Hourly Challenge: Skells
a/n: Vandham encourages new skell weaponry. The result is NOT what he asked for. They are not what ANYONE asked for.
Alcohol, under edited, not nearly enough Alexa. Inaccurate descriptions.
All the good things belong to Monolith Soft, except for Rosalee the OC.
Vandham drifted into his office unexpectedly late that Friday evening. He'd spent a few enjoyable hours, watching Nagi and an unnamed Interceptor do their best to out-drink the combined efforts of a visiting delegation of Wrothians, to general success. Vandham had added his slight contribution for the cause, but he reckoned he was clear-headed enough to finish off the stack of paperwork he knew was lurking on his desk.
It went pretty fast, and the next morning he was proud of the clear desktop, until he ran a quick review of what he'd done. Something something Ma-non something pizza, the ECP didn't have that in their budget this quarter. Worse, assigning a team of Mediators on a tyrant hunt, that could get people hurt. He rattled through all his hard work from the night before. To his relief, there were only a few clunkers, quickly corrected, and a few that were amusing enough to leave standing. He was curious to see what Phog and H.B. managed on a trade negotiation with the Nopon.
Unfortunately, he missed the research request for skell weaponry that he'd originally approved with enthusiasm.
xcxcxcxcxc
The first attack was barely noticeable. A ping on the window, like hail. Vandham only noticed it because honestly he'd notice anything that might distract him from paperwork. The ping was followed by another, then another, a string of four in all, in exact sequence.
Vandham frowned at his small window. The sky was blue and cloudless. Not even a skell was seen zipping off to a mission.
The next blast was strong enough to make the window bow slightly with the impact. A cascade of bangs with a deeper blow underneath, repeatedly and overlapping. But again there was a strange exactness, as if the attack was a single shot made of separate interwoven parts.
Vandham pelted down the corridor and launched himself into the stairwell leading to the ground floor. It was a short trip; he wasn't one for an upper floor and fabulous view. The attack hadn't stopped when he burst through the door of BLADE tower, but it hadn't intensified. Small explosions, in sequence, a few sharper and metallic and others following upon them with a deeper tone. Then it stopped as suddenly as it began. Vandham judged that it hadn't been three minutes since the opening salvo.
He looked around the plaza in front of BLADE tower. Soldiers were rushing around, getting into position; skells were prepping for takeoff. The few skells were already winging towards Noctilum, and if his eyes weren't mistaken, Secretary Nagi had hitched a ride on one, poised neatly on the foot of one of the forward skells. Vandham didn't spare more time to admire the efforts. He had a situation room to get back to, reports to review. People knew their business; his job right now was to make sure any gaps were filled and to get assessments to the right ears in the field.
But he did look over his shoulder to make sure that that first group of skells had crossed the city wall. A bit of superstition, he had to admit, waiting an extra second to see that they got off okay. Which is why he was watching when they dropped into the Industrial Sector. It was a controlled landing, which was a relief, but to think that the threat was inside the city was concerning to say the least. He didn't have time to get back to the situation room. He slapped open his comm device to see what info there was already.
He couldn't make out what he was seeing, but there was one thing that was clear. The threat, if it was one, was strictly human, weirdly familiar, and more rage-inducing than terrifying. He ran toward the transport plane parked in front of BLADE tower. Sometimes the best response to a dangerous situation was a good dope slap.
xcxcxcxcxcx
The street leading to the Outfitters' hangar was crowded with BLADEs, support staff, xenos, a few civilians who had left their patio lunches at the Repenta. Vamdham pushed his way through, insensitive to the smaller residents that were launched as he passed. The throng stopped right before the parking area, as neatly if it were fenced off. Vandham didn't stop, marching into that clearing and planting his oversized boots firmly on the tarmac. He crossed his mighty arms and glowered at what he saw waiting there.
Eight skells, varied models but with matching navy blue paint jobs, varied weaponry but again matching metallic gold highlights. The weapons were novel, nothing he'd seen approved for field use. He didn't want to speculate on their design, although he had a sinking feeling he would be correct if he did hazard a guess. A vague memory from that Friday night whispered in the back of his brain. "Alexa, front and center!" he bellowed.
The pilot's capsule of the leading right skell slid open and a young woman jumped out. She marched up to Vandham, head high. Dull grey skell gear, hair in a fierce bun, eyes snapping. It wasn't Alexa, but Vandham recognized her as an Interceptor, one of the ones that teamed with Akulov regularly.
"You gonna give me a ...," Vandham hesitated. Nagi had also made his way to the clearing and was watching coolly. Time to straighten up his vocabulary. "... a freaking explanation, soldier?"
"Drumline, sir."
Yeah, that would have been the guess he hadn't wanted to make. Every weapon was cylindrical, hanging slightly off-center, riding on the equivalent of the hip of the skell, and each mech held a short baton in each hand. Drums and drumsticks. The vague memory was starting to clarify itself. "You were supposed to be developing sonic weapons, not dance bands. And since when have you been an Outfitter?"
"Introductions are in order, perhaps," Nagi said quietly.
Vandham nodded. The young woman stood even more proudly. "Sir, Lopez, Interceptor, sir." She did a snap of her head and shoulders that was almost a challenge. "Center snare, New LA Drumline."
Vandham searched the sky for patience, and finding none, responded to this explanation with a shout. "What in the name of small fishes is this about?" Something about his tone or his glare, or maybe the penetrating gaze from the Secretary of Defense at his side, broke through the woman's cool. Some of her hardness slipped.
"The original weapons weren't working out," she said quickly. "You can ask Alexa for the details. She's on bass, the left Amdusias." Vandham scanned the group. Two Amdusias skells stood at the back, heavy and broad, holding enormous upright drums slung from their shoulders. "When she told me, I had a suggestion before the materials were scrapped at the Recycling Center."
"And your suggestion was to break every window in NLA with your noise."
"Sir, nothing broken, sir. We ran full tests inside the hanger before marching outside."
"How long have you been at this?"
"Two weeks, sir. Most of the members have experience, both as BLADE teams and as musicians. It wasn't hard to build a double team."
Vandham glared down at her. Then he smiled, small, tight, but a smile nonetheless. "Do another round." A wink of a surprise flashed on Lopez's face before she whipped around to sprint back to the skells.
xcxcxcxc
Rosalee forced herself back into a march when she reached the group. She cast a critical eye on the spacing. She reached up to slap the knee of a Verus that was crowding the front line, then nodded to the slender Formula at the far edge. It maneuvered in front of the first line at her direction, facing the snare drum skells. Rosalee swung into her own ride.
She rasped into her mic, set to be heard by every pilot. "3 minutes. Alright!" She didn't need to say more, a relief because frankly her voice was threatening to squeak. They hadn't practiced this set as much, but if this was going to be their last performance, they might as well try everything.
She tapped out the rhythm on her own drum, one, two, three, four, then fell into the beat. Her row, then the back, then the bass, so hard upon each other that it felt immediate. The snares paused, just a breath, before continuing. Same for the other sections, so that soon the rhythm was rolling through them like a wave, never crashing, always rising.
Rosalee spun her stick on a high lift, and the Formula, waiting so patiently, swung its drum over its shoulder, to replace it with two wide cymbals. It spun the flashing brass disks soundlessly as the wave continued, then sent them smashing together. The band stopped dead, only for a moment. Silence never felt so brutal. The beat returned, a single banging of stick on metal, as the re-positioned Verus tapped out the rhythm on the Formula's cymbal.
The line exploded in response. Rosalee twirled her sticks over her skell's head between beats. One by one, the entire line added this flourish. The beat remained loud and aggressive, almost monotonous. Then the front line dipped as one, into to a lunge, swinging their drums low, then high into the air with a bounce. The beat never faltered.
Skells can't dance, although many the BLADE has attempted it. Not enough lateral movement. But they can march, and if a team has practiced enough, they can march in formation. The drumline did this now. Dip, swing, a hesitating step backward to raise the drums even higher. A step, a pause to spin their sticks, another step. Their strides were limited to a shuffle. There wasn't much space to move before they ran out of parking lot, but they didn't need much space to do a lot of show.
The front line of snares split off to each side, an awkward repositioning that they managed to make look territorial. Behind them, the bass turned to face each other in a slow plodding rotation. The smaller drums fell silent, marking time with ticking snaps against the edges of their drums. The two largest drums, worn by the heaviest skells the EPC ever created, went absolutely wild. They may have provided the steady background for most of the performance, but for a moment they showed that their pilots were every bit as aggressive and quick as the smaller instruments.
The group reassembled smartly. Rosalee would have loved to reposition that Verus again, but there were only a few moments left. The tempo slowed imperceptibly, then again, each section confirming the change in turn, until each round was built from distinct beats surrounded by silence. The last three beats were Rosalee's alone. The pause hung for what felt a moment too long, then the drumline crashed into the full rhythm for ten glorious seconds. When it ended, the drummers stopped in unison, their sticks crossed in perfect X's over their skells' heads as the mechs powered down.
It couldn't be possible, but the crowd did its best to cheer louder than the drumline.
a/n: For a good time, search for videos of "John Muir drum section". I did not do them justice. No one can do them justice.
Longer than an hour but I had to listen to a lot of videos FOR RESEARCH! Whoooooooo!