The following battle is possibly confusing :x
Some Experience Necessary
1.17
The Zabrefang had moved back and had lain flat on its belly as the noise in the pit increased, the pilot resorting to using radar only to ping out the enemies and avoid the flying shrapnel. There was no point turning on the infra-red or heat signatures, out here it was by far too hot to pick out anything, but through the twisting clouds of smoke and still burning ashes, he could make out the horse zoid that was now propped up against a wall. Its head facing away from the danger and shielded by most of the armour it had left, so hopefully the cadets were still inside and alive. The Fang wasn't registering a core signature, which meant the horse zoid was either deactivated or dead – and judging by the state of it, either way could be true…but said nothing for it's possible 'pilots'…
The pilot focused his attention on the oncoming zoids. There were buildings in the way, but he pulled up the menus for the machine guns and heard the groan of the carapace as they were unlocked and released. He pulsed the shots carefully, nudging the gun as lightly as possible to get the shots where the zoids might be rather than where they were – the results weren't very good over the range, but one command wolf did buckle as a leg was shot out from beneath it. Ha, ha.
It had been a lucky shot. The pilot paused every now and then, the cross-hairs over a cockpit, but jerked the mechanism aside just a little to nick shoulders or gun assemblies. There was a time and place for assassinations, and he preferred a more hands on approach than death by metal slug.
When the group moved out of the way to avoid the worst of the sink hole field, the pilot twitched his zoid back from the edge, head slowly moving from side to side to allow the radar an appropriate picture. There were glimpses of them between the buildings, but not enough for him to make an accurate shot. His only chance was to jump from the frying pan, into the fire. An actual fire come to think of it – the ruins were now truly…ugh…ruined, and while he knew that most of it had been mapped out, and that the old paintings had been copied or lifted from their holdings, and certain parts were covered in chalk insults or old bottles, it was still a shame. It held fond memories.
Like a dog, the Fang raised its hindquarters up quickly, tilting the torso up enough to allow all four paws to take the weight of the zoid instead of the undercarriage. Increasing the torque slowly, the pilot revved the motor units, the Fang starting to sway with each revolution. The AI – uncomplicated and awfully cheerful – seemed to like this idea and was supplying the view screens in the cockpit with all kinds of interesting visual data. Most of it was useless (one or two untranslated, and he cursed himself for not equipping this zoid with a capture program to pick it up – the linguists would go mad with joy even if it was an error message) but he kept an eye on it anyway in case something actually important came up.
Well, he tried to. The Guysack had a longer range than he realized, but thankfully years of experience kicked in and the Fang responded to his light touch with a sideways leap as the shell hit, using the momentum of the swaying to push it further. The Fang turned mid leap, bringing it's forepaws up to its chest and allowing it's hind legs to hit the dirt first on the nearest none-inferno patch of ground, pivoting on the ankle that hit first to change direction. Then the paws came down, talons out, digging into the battered earth. The Fang didn't roar, or howl, but it did gibber excitedly as the pilot drove it into the pit, stretching the zoid out as best he could to reach the first of the low slung buildings that crossed the area sporadically.
The pit had plenty of them, a sunken town with high sides and buildings that rose above it with walls that had long since fallen away to show the bare bones of masonry to the world that could easily survive a bunch of dying zoids and their accompanying explosions. Now the Fang used these pieces to cross the pit of molten slag and rapidly cooling zoid core, the motions quick and sure even if the person making them wasn't – one foot wrong and there would be trouble, so they had to go on, regardless of what happened next, they had to reach the other side. Momentum, yes, that was the key. Speed. He had to get to the other side.
With a rumble the first of the enemy rolled up, two working command wolves, with a third limping in, heads moving back and forth in an effort to find him. They had been scanning the horizon, blind in the heat-haze so they did not see the scarlet paw reach up until it was too late. The closest to the edge screamed horribly as the talons slashed out, catching the zoid by the cabling on its neck. Tendons of steel and cable bunched as the Zabrefang dug its talons deeper into the rock beneath them, one free forepaw and it's teeth working to sever the head from the neck while the hind legs and other forepaw tightened their grip on the stone.
Over the radio the Fang's pilot could hear his opponents, currently in a fierce debate over whether or not to shoot his cockpit. That would never do – you didn't argue about things like this, you shot. Frowning he put them back in his sights again, smirking as the guns swivelled into range and he fired. The bullets ate away armour quickly as the machine guns completed their small arc, crippling the chest and leg areas as they swept back and forth. Within the Fang's jaws the other Wolf moaned in terror, slipping slowly over the side.
Damn. They're lighter than I remember. Suppose they're skimping on parts.
Freeing the paw as the Wolf tried to toss him off again, the pilot coaxed the Fang to do one last awful bite, ripping off the Zoid Central Control panel. The ZCC popped and crackled in his jaw, and the Wolf choked out one last awful cry before it slipped into a freeze and toppled over him.
Just as the other two finally realized to fire.
The pilot released the torque in the Fang's hind legs, springing up in that heart-stopping moment, using the fallen Wolf as his shield. As one of the backed up, he had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach – were any of them equipped with the Ragnarok Fang manoeuvre, and did they have enough balls to use it? – so he shot forward, headbutted one off the cliff, then swiped the other with a horrible left hook to bring it to it's proverbial knees. His armour continued to pockmark with the remaining machine gun fire, but it was nothing serious, not until they aimed at his cockpit. He ducked the Fang's head in frustration, but still felt a shudder of fear as the displays trembled beneath the onslaught.
Command Wolves were strong, but they were not made to handle the weight of the much heavier Zabrefangs. Something crunched beneath him, and casually the pilot's Fang leaned over and chewed off the whirring machine guns.
The Guysack sent him a comm invite. Naturally, he accepted.
"Who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here?" His face wasn't recognizable, and the lack of pips on his uniform showed him as small fry. This was either his whole platoon or a group of idiots. "Hey! Answer me!"
He shot at the ground beneath the Guysack's feet. "Same reason you are. Different outcome."
"We call dibs!"
"Dibs don't mean a thing here." The Fang swayed again as it brought another paw forward, gently sliding it over the Wolf's head. "I got a man in here, or a woman, it doesn't really matter. It doesn't worry me if another Republican soldier bites the dust on Imperial grounds."
"That's murder." The guy looked almost smug. There was a Republican soldier who had a smirk like that, what was his name? Hal-something-or-other. Greasy git. Halford!* That was it!
"We're not playing marbles here, soldier. War tends to have a lot of murder. You have two zoids down below me and-" Wait, weren't there four?
The explosions caught him off guard, but the pilot shimmied the Fang aside, shoulder barging the hapless CommandWolf up and around, tangoing almost as he identified the other Wolf. He'd have to risk it. Slamming the throttle into the Charge! Position, he dived forward and met the Wolf head on – this time the glass cracked under the onslaught of bullets, and he flung up an arm to shield his face as shards peppered his clothing.
Biting back a snarl as the Guysack started firing, the Fang dove forward and unloaded a torso missile at the Wolf in front of him before pouncing on it himself – It went down in a flurry of whining and screams thanks to the distraction of a missile to the chest. He continued forward, rolled the Fang over his opponent, crushing the top weapons and breaking the leg joints as the Wolf he'd been on only moments before went up in a similar ball of fire.
The Fang was lagging. The warnings were getting worse. His gaze darted down to the control panel showing the damage to the zoid and an estimated time to freeze. He needed to end this now. Remove the danger. Go.
Picking up speed he ran towards the Guysack, strafing from side to side on approach, trying not to be predictable as the Fang's front armour was slowly worn away. It took a moment to line up his last two missiles but one scored a direct hit, taking out the Guysack's back section. It scuttled backwards as he reached it, tail quivering as it shot. One of the forelegs finally crashed, but before the Fang could crash he cut the synapse connections and quickly disconnected the leg – as he shot past. The Guysack was not expecting the enemy to use it's own body as a weapon but with a squeak it was trapped beneath the toppling leg, and a moment later the tail winked out of Higgin's readouts as the Fang bit it off.
"Bollocks!"
"…I was going to say you had two of your lot down in the pit, but I think I'm going to let you just dwell on that and get on with your life." The pilot grumbled. His Fang, limping horribly, walked to the edge. The top wasn't popped off, but the onboard cameras did their best to focus on anything moving until the pilot spotted a dark object moving along the edge – dark hair and dark uniform – and relaxed. With the horse zoid much closer he could see that people were now emerging from it. Excellent. People were alive. Slumping back into his chair, the pilot scowled furiously at the controls and radioed the closest scout frequency…
"Hey. Hey! My people are hurt!"
"I know."
"You-"
"I'm radioing a dispatch. You think I'm going to let you walk on this? I've destroyed bases for far less aggravation, you whiny little sod." He quickly jammed the link to mute as Higgins did what he did best, complete with lewd gestures and plenty of spittle, leaving the Zabre pilot rubbing his forehead and grumbling to himself. "It's like he wants them to die."
- To be continued
*Yes, that Halford. The one that got Dan Flyheight killed :/ The self-proclaimed expert on Breakers, because he'd seen it, like, twice. I hate that guy.
