Here is a first draft of a little thing I whipped up today. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar errors. I hate editing my own stuff. I'll probably read through it and correct any errors in a day or two, when I do a follow up post containing the specs for the custom mechs mentioned later in the story.
Sir.
Attached in a complete copy of a communication sent from the journalist you requested we observe. We copied the transmission when she sent it from the field to her publishers office. It appears to be notes for an article she was researching, kept in a journal format. The entries are not dated, and several days seem to be missing, but they are in chronological order. It is likely that the missing days contained no information regarding her story, and were left out to save transmission costs.
We stand ready for any further orders, and will continue our observations until notified otherwise.
Doko City
Undisclosed Planet
Sian Commonality
Capellan Confederation
Entry 1:
I can't believe I struck out so bad on my first day. Normally spaceport workers on ridiculous little backwaters like this one are just dying to tell stories about mercenary units that come through, but something is keeping these guys quiet. They know something, that much, at least, is obvious. The day I can't tell when a working man is hiding something is the day I'll give up on investigative journalism and start writing “human interest” stories.
Or shoot myself.
I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe the morning shift guys will be a little more talkative. If that doesn't work, I'll do a little clothes shopping for a new top about two sizes too small and see if I can find which watering hole they frequent. If they won't tell a reporter over a microphone, maybe they'll tell a woman over beers.
Entry 2:
Almost 12 hours in a spaceport detention cell. Not the first time it's happened to me, but it's the first time it's happened over something so trivial.
The morning crew wasn't any more talkative than the swing shift crew I talked to yesterday. When I took a break for lunch, I came back to a pair of armed guards who “requested” I follow them. I'm pretty sure they left me in that holding cell for so long just to try to scare me.
They must not read my articles much if they think that's going to work.
At about midnight I was awakened by the commander of the spaceport guards. His message was simple. No mercenaries have been on this planet in years. Nobody under his command will talk to me about the mercenaries (I assume he meant the ones who don't exist.), and I should stop asking questions about them, or he'll have to report me to higher authorities who apparently look down on asking questions about people who were never here.
I give him a 9 for effort, but only a 2 for creativity, and 3 for talent.
Seriously, if your going to try to strong-arm a journalist, don't send an unarmed, fat, bald old man who's obviously never dealt with the press before. I've been more scared of a 3 legged chihuahua.
Entry 3:
Somebody has watched too many spy movies. When I woke up this morning there was a note on the floor of my hotel room. Somebody must of slipped in under the door while I was sleeping.
So, obviously, I hacked the hotel security system and accessed the camera records for last night. Low-and-behold, there is one of my more friendly spaceport workers from the morning shift (the one who seemed to really appreciate my light blue V-neck sweater) looking very nervous as he slides a piece of paper under my door.
Fat lot of help it is though, all that's written on the note is the word “Trashcan”. It looks like I'll have to do some leg work. I don't think the spaceport officials will appreciate me stopping by to ask their employee what this is supposed to mean.
Entry 4:
I must be getting soft. It shouldn't have taken me that many days to sort out that clue.
“Trashcan” is the name of a bar.
An unlisted bar.
On the backside of a warehouse.
With no sign.
Ok, so maybe I'm not getting soft, but I am getting tired. I got enough a peek inside the place to see what the clientele is like. I'll have to dress down tomorrow and check it out. I've already been strong armed once, so I figure it'll be best to keep a low profile and just observe for a couple of days.
Entry 5:
What a dive.
I'd love to be able to toot my own horn and say I slipped into the Trashcan and remained unnoticed, utilizing my skills to blend into the crowd and observe them.
The truth however, is that as an attractive young woman I all ready had 3 strikes against me.
Nobody in the Trashcan is what would commonly be called “attractive”. Rugged, battered, broken and scarred are all adjectives that come to mind much more rapidly. I'm also certain the youngest guy in there was the bartender and he had to of been in his mid to late fifties. The only other women in the place were posters on the wall, and while they were very attractive, I think they might have been a bit chilly in those outfits.
I'll just have to keep coming around until they get used to me, then try to strike up a conversation. If it works on wild apes, it should work on those guys.
Entry 6:
A couple more weeks lost, and not much to show for it. The gag order seems to be planet wide, not just at the spaceport. Everywhere I go people clam right up as soon as they figure out what I'm interested in. All I've managed to do is confirm that there was a battle here, most likely a raid, in the abandoned industrial sector along east side of the lake between the spaceport and the city. What the battle was about, and where the mercenaries went is still a mystery.
I'm still not even sure that it's the unit I'm looking for, but I think all this mystery is a good sign.
It matches their MO.
Entry 7:
I've been stopping into the Trashcan every few days, whenever I don't have anything more important to look into. Last night I finally decided to approach the bartender and ask some questions.
All my other leads had dried up, so it was a desperation play on my part.
Apparently the clientele is mostly retired military and police. While they don't actually prohibit women from entering, most of them are there drinking to get away from their wives. On a hunch I showed them my credentials as a war corespondent and they warmed up instantly. There was a fair amount of money that then changed hands (mostly heading in the direction of the bartender). When I inquired, they told me that they had been taking bets on why I was stopping by so frequently. The top two theories were that I was a private investigator hired by somebody's wife to catch a wayward husband, or that I was somebody's bastard daughter coming to find her dad.
Once the bets were settled, it was like a damn broke. I was washed away by a flood of stories about their respective careers and all the exploits they each had over the years. It was all the kind of stories I've heard dozens of times before on dozens of different worlds, but I made some friends and got some free drinks, so all in all I'm calling it a good night.
Entry 8:
Last night my new drinking buddies introduced me to the traditions that seems to be the source of the Trashcan's name. Behind the bar on a shelf is an aluminum trashcan into which the patrons are encouraged to pour whatever bottle of liquor they feel most represents themselves. After the bottle has been poured in, the trashcan is stirred, and the resulting drink is served to those brave enough to try it.
The bartender seems to place a lot of stock in this ritual, and implied that I might have an easier time on this planet if I gave it a try.
I'll have to look around for an appropriate bottle.
Entry 9:
Today started out bad, but ended with a major breakthrough. I got a tip this morning that there were a couple of guys who had been squatting in that abandoned industrial area where the battle took place. It seemed likely that they had witnessed the fight, and might be willing share their stories with me for a little “consideration”. So, I stocked up on some food, general supplies and liquor and set off to buy a story.
The two men were fairly easy to find. They were burning trash for heat, and the smoke visible as soon as I got in the area. My luck stopped there though. The first man was willing to take anything I handed him (oddly enough, he wasn't interested in the booze), but seemed only willing to speak with the stuffed duck he had tied to the top of his head. The second man seemed to follow everything I said, but when he opened his mouth the only words that would come out were “Buggerit!! Millennium hand and shrimp.” I don't know what that was supposed to mean, but it did sound oddly familiar.
Seeing that this was going nowhere fast, I grabbed the one bottle I had set aside, left everything else for those sorry sods and proceeded to the Trashcan where I promptly struck pay-dirt.
When I got to the Trashcan, I pulled the bottle of Bulvik brand vodka out of my bag and showed it to the bartender. When he asked me why I thought that bottle was a good representation of myself, I was ready with a prepared line.
“Because it's strong, while still being smooth and elegant, and at two hundred C-Bills a bottle it's anything but cheap.”
This got me the expected laughs, and the bottle was quickly up-ended into the trashcan with drinks being poured from the spigot at the bottom. It seemed like I was finally considered “one of the gang” and nearly everybody paid for a shot or two after giving me a hearty handshake or slap on the back. Once things died down the bartender slid me a note saying that if I came back tomorrow morning a few hours before the bar opens up, I'd find what I wanted.
I can't wait to find out what I came for and get off this rock.
Entry 10:
I got it! I was right! It was them, they were here, and there was a battle!
When I got to the Trashcan the door was wide open. The bartender was inside, watching a small hand-held screen. He told me Craig was not his real name, and that not only did he know about the mercenaries I was looking for, he was one of the raiders who had attacked him. He told me that he had been thinking it over for the last couple of weeks and finally decided to share his story, and would show me where it all went down on the condition that I don't publish his name, or likeness.
Furthermore he informed me that if I was willing to listen to his story, and agree to his conditions he would provide me with the battle ROM recording of the event, with only the audio changed in order to protect the identities of himself and his friends.
Needless to say, I accepted.
We then got in his vehicle and drove out to a hill outside of the industrial district along the lake between the spaceport and city. When we arrived I showed him my Autoscribe, and told him that it would record anything we said and transcribe it for a written record, saving me the hassle taking so many notes. He agreed to be recorded in this manner, since it would conceal his voice and thus his identity. He then reiterated to me that there were to be no pictures or descriptions of him used in anyway, and that he wanted his identity kept a secret.
Begin Transcription:
Me: “So, Craig, first I've got to ask, why did you make me participate in that little tradition of your before you were willing to tell me your story?”
Craig: “Oh that? No big deal really, I was gonna tell ya anyway, but every bar needs a gimmick right? That's mine. Make up some hokey tradition and not only do you have a way of selling off the bottles nobody wants to buy, you can get your customers to buy their own, and then charge them for serving it to them. Met me a bartender once who did the same thing over in Marik space, and I always like the idea.”
Me: “I'll have to remember that if I ever open up a bar. Now, what can you tell me about yourself?”
Craig: “Not much really, I've been around the innersphere a couple of times, and I made some enemies along the way. I'd rather not let them know that I've retired to tend bar without any hardware to defend myself with. I will say this much though, until recently I was a member of a pretty decent mercenary unit working for somebody who wasn't the Capellans.”
Me: “Well Craig, that's a start. What can you tell me about how a mercenary for a different house ended up retiring on a backwater world in Capellan Confederation territory?”
Craig: “That I can tell you about plenty. My unit was on a contract for a combination of garrison and raiding work. Word came down from both our units intelligence and our employers intelligence that the Cappies were going to be putting something valuable in the hands of a group of mercenaries right here on this rock for a few months.”
Me: “Are you telling me that your unit had intelligence assets that could gather that sort of information this far into Capellan space? That makes it sound like your unit was a bit more than “pretty decent”.
Craig: “It's not really. This was kind of a fluke. The Commander had made a few friends along the years. One of them just happened to be in Draconis Combine intelligence. He would pass along information that didn't affect his current employer, and in exchange the Snakes would share intel that they either couldn't or wouldn't do anything with. In this case, the information just happened to be about the Cappies having something they wanted stored in secret. Since the Snake knew who we were working for, he figured we might want to raid it. All he wanted in exchange for his information was a report on what we found.”
Me: “Sounds to me like a set up. Snakes using you to raid Cappies for information with no guarantee of finding anything valuable?”
Craig: “That's what the Commander said too at first, but then word came down from our employers that they wanted us to check this place out, and see what was going on. With two independent sources stating that something valuable was going to be here, the Commander figured it was worth checking out. So, he got some papers together and sent our top scout over here undercover to see what he could dig up.”
Me: “Two independent intelligence agencies giving him info and he still sends his own guy to check it out? Sounds like a pretty experience mercenary commander to me.”
Craig: “Ya, he knows what he's doing. To bad he didn't lead this one personally, then maybe it would have turned out better. I'm getting ahead of myself though. Don't get me sidetracked or I'll never get this whole thing out.”
Me: “Sorry, please continue.”
Craig: “Right. So after a few days on planet we get a message from our guy saying that he's located the mercs, and spotted some large crates that clearly contained mech parts and weapon systems. Further more, he gets a good look at the defenders. They've got themselves bunked down in those warehouses you can see over there. A standard company of mechs piloted by youngsters with a few veterans in command. No infantry or vehicle support at all.”
Me: “That seems a little odd.”
Craig: “Well, you see, we'd already heard that these guys were dropped off by a Union dropship, and whatever they were doing was being kept a secret from the local garrison. The numbers matched the Union, and the lack of support units just confirmed the intel we'd had form both the Snakes and our employer.”
Me: “If the Capellans were keeping it secret from their own forces, it must have been something important.”
Craig: “That's what we all figured too. Now, the Commander was trying to come up with a plan of attack when the Snakes came in and saved the day. It turns out that they had managed to get the transponder information from the Capellan dropship that was coming to pick them back up after they had finished whatever they came to do.”
Me: “Did you ever find out what they were there for?”
Craig: “Not until it was all over. At the time we figured it was some sort of weapons deal with some pirates or maybe the Magistracy of Canopus.”
Me: “That would explain the location.”
Craig: “Exactly. So, the good news was we had the transponder codes for the Cappy Dropship. The bad news was it was for another Union. To further complicate things, out employer wants us to go in covertly. So our Commander is left trying to put together a force of no more than 12 mechs that can pass for pirate raiders. Unfortunately for me, I was cooling my jets in an old school Whitworth after having had my shiny new 7M Trebuchet shot out from under me on a previous raid.”
Me: “If you wanted to pass for pirates that must mean you weren't bringing along any mechs with recovered technology on them?”
Craig: “You got it, the Commander stuck to picking older rides like my Whitworth.”
Me: “Wouldn't that make it a bit chancy to launch a raid against an equal number of opponents with only older designs?”
Craig: “We weren't to worried about that. You see, all of our intel said the same thing. Their entire company was nothing but light mechs. Now we may have be equal in numbers, but we had a very significant tonnage advantage over them. We were coming in with a fairly even mix of lights, mediums and heavies.”
Me: “I see. So what was the plan of attack?”
Craig: “The plan was pretty simple really. The terrain didn't give us many options. To the west there we've got that lake. It's pretty deep with a muddy bottom. Assault dropping into that would have been suicide. To the north we've got the spaceport. Dropping near the AA defenses there would make the lake seem like a bright idea. South is the city, dropping into buildings is better than the lake or AA fire, but still not a good idea.”
Me: “So that leave the east?”
Craig: “Unless we wanted to drop right on top of them, ya. Nobody was too keen on that option. The dropship would have to be moving fairly fast to avoid enemy fighters, so drop accuracy would suffer. Besides, the dropship would have to put down a click or two out for us to load up anyway.
So, the brass decided the best course of action was to come in from the south, hook a right over the lake, and then drop on this nice flat ground you see just to the east of where we are now. They figured this would make the locals hesitate before sending help, since they wouldn't be able to tell for sure if we had dropped mechs over the city or the lake on the way.”
Me: “Makes sense. So what went wrong?”
Craig: “A couple things. Biggest of them being that the whole thing was a big trap.”
Me: “A trap? But I thought you had it all checked out?”
Craig: “We did, and everything we found out was true, it just wasn't the whole truth. When we landed our plan was pretty simple. We'd split into two groups and do a basic pincer move. The heavier force would cut a bit north, and use those woods there as cover for their approach. The lighter element would circle around the south side of this hill we're sitting on here. Our fire support units would hold back and fire from those trees up there, and the trees here where all these burnt and blasted stumps are now.
There would be 3 mechs in each pincer attack, with 3 mechs doing fire support from each location. The south pincer would be a diversion. The faster light mechs on that flank would rush up, then get in the industrial park and scatter. If the defenders left their line to hunt them down, the rest of us would advance and have them surrounded. If not, then they'd make for the warehouse and grab what they could.
The light pincer was a Commando, Javelin and Hermes II combination with my little Whitworth backing them up with fire support along with a Valkyrie and a Crusader.
To the north, the slower pincer was timed to hit the lines after the diversion. Our hope was that they would turn to deal with the lights that had flown past their lines, leaving their backs open to our hard-hitters coming in from the north. Those guys went in with a Hunchback, Exterminator, and Quickdraw while an Archer, Panther and Centurion backed them up.
Me: “That's a fair bit of fire power just to smash some lights.”
Craig: “We all thought the same thing. Heck, we knew what they were piloting and we all though we were going in too heavy. We were more worried about having room for our haul than we were about taking hits. That turned out to be part of the problem though.”
Me: “How so?”
Craig: “Well, a couple of the guys, namely our Hunchback and Exterminator pilots were worried that the long range fire and the light pincer attack would finish off most of the defense before the could make it around the woods and score some kills for themselves.
So, those two glory hounds cut around those woods there on the south side instead of the north. The decided to trade cover for speed.”
Me: “What happened to them?”
Craig: “Well, for starters about a dozen PPC shots came out of those buildings and trimmed the Hunchback down by a couple legs.”
Me: “A dozen PPCs from a company of lights? All of them Panthers or something?”
Craig: “Nope, according to out intel the shouldn't have had a single Panther, or anything toting a PPC at all for that matter. Now, a split second after the Hunch went down, while I was trying to figure out what went wrong, my console starting making all sorts of crazy noises, and the Exterminator went up in a giant ball of fire that had me wondering if his reactor had cooked off somehow.”
Me: “That only happens in holovids.”
Craig: “I know that, I said I thought it, I didn't say it actually happened. Once I figured out why my console was making noise, it all made sense. Now, in my defense I hadn't had much time to get used to this Whitworth, and those alarms weren't one I was familiar with. Turns out they were warning signals for TAG gear.”
Me: “Target Acquisition Gear?”
Craig: “Yup, lots of it. The reason my console was going bat-crap crazy was that at least 8 different people were trying to light that Exterminator up for incoming Arrow IV rounds. 4 of those beasts hit him dead on, at least one of them got to some ammunition storage and that's all there was to it.”
Me: “Arrow IV rounds, TAG gear and a dozen PPCs? Sounds like you were up against more than a company of lights to me.”
Craig: “You'd think it wouldn't ya? I imagine that's what our Captain was thinking too, but we'll never know. He was trying to move through those trees there to someplace he could get a decent shot with his Archer when that all went down. Before he could sort things out for himself he was taking fire from those Arrows IV's. This time I was looking for it, and I managed to see they were being launched from just behind that second row of buildings over there. Practically point blank for a weapon like that.
Amazingly enough the Captain's archer made it though the first volley. The Commando wasn't so lucky though. You ever see what PPCs do to light mechs? Well I figure about six or seven of them scored hits on that poor guy and down he went. A couple of other guys must not have had a clear shot at him, 'cause they blasted the Panther up by the Captains Archer over there. He took it kinda hard and fell flat on his back.
Now, right about here I started to get real worried. My targeting computer had identified those PPC shots as coming from six different units fortes up inside that first row of buildings. That means that each of those guys was sporting two PPCs each. I'm not familiar with every new mech that's coming out these days, but I had never heard of any light that carried a pair of guns that big.
Me: “Sounds like a good time to cut your loses and run.”
Craig “Damn straight. The thing you've got to remember though is all this happened in less time than it takes me to tell it. Nobody had called for a retreat yet, so we were still on plan.
Too bad for the Javelin pilot too, cause he was the next to drop. Just as he was getting close to that drainage pond over there he caught some more of those PPCs, a couple of them burnt his left leg right off and he slid right on his face into the corner of that building there. One second later I see a leg come out that wall and cave the cockpit right in.
Now the Captain comes over the radio asking for a report. I found out later that he had hit his head when those Arrow IV rounds knocked his mech over, and he thought he had been out of it for longer than he had. Before the LT could sort him back out though, the rest of those PPCs cored the Captains Archer and he went flying on his ejector seat into the trees.
I swear the LT was just about to call us off when those damned Arrows fell from the sky and blew the head of his Crusader into chaff.
Me: “Damn, sounds like a nightmare. Archer, Exterminator, Crusader, Hunchback, Javelin and Commando all taken out that quick, with the Panther knocked down.”
Craig: “And to make things worse our first and second in command are either dead our ejected. That put a green Second Lieutenant running the show in his Hermes II. Not for long though.”
Me “Why's that?”
Craig: “He got past where the Javelin bought it when I heard the unmistakeable sound of a class 20 Autocannon blowing his right leg clean off at the hip. He fell into that drainage, sank to the bottom and had to be rescued after the fight.
While that was happening I guess a similar fate was befalling our Quickdraw pilot on the north side. I couldn't see all that from here though. Some AC/20 rounds and a bunch of PPCs tore his armor up pretty bad though. Amazingly enough he stayed upright through all that.
Now, our Centurion had moved up to where the Panther went down. Those two were buddies and I think he was worried. Wasn't a smart move though, since two mechs that close together was an invitation for disaster in the form of more Arrow rounds. This time they shot off some air burst rounds which, along with a few PPCs that didn't go after the Quickdraw, cored his gyro and left him prone and unconscious while simultaneously chewing both arms off the Panther.”
Me: “That doesn't leave your side with much left.”
Craig: “That's the truth. Honestly I was just about to bug out, orders or no orders when I saw that crazy Quickdraw pilot hit his jumpjets and clear the first row of buildings. Now, I know I haven't mentioned it, but this entire time all of us have been unloading as much firepower as we could at those guys. I found out later that they had prepared themselves some firing positions by bulldozing a few buildings and hauling the material inside to toughen up the buildings they were hiding inside of.”
Me: “That must have made them pretty hard to dig out of there.”
Craig: “That's an understatement. The real problem was that as soon as we dropped one section of building down on their heads, and got ourselves a clear shot, they would just scoot over to the next firing position. I'm getting off on a tangent here though. As I said, I was ready to bail out, there were only 4 of us left running, and both the Quickdraw and Panther were hurting pretty bad. I just wanted to fire off one last salvo to cover the Quickdraw. It looked like he was going to actually make it past their defenses. If he did that then he could at least get into the warehouse and see what our guys had died for. That wouldn't bring anybody back, but it would earn us a small paycheck from both our employers and the Snakes.
Then the Arrows came again.
Our Valkyrie was just behind me and to my right. Ya, where that crater is. This whole area used to be covered in trees. Well, those Arrow rounds took care of that. I hear the locals came and hauled what was left of the trees off to a paper mill, and what was left of that Valkyrie to paperclip plant. They would've had to use glue though, I don't think there was any bits that big left.
Unfortunately for me, that Valkyrie was just behind and to my right, standing pretty close. That means I was hit from behind by some of the blasts and shook up pretty bad. I banged my head pretty hard when one side of my seat was hit by a chunk of shrapnel.
In a daze I hit my jumpjets looking to put the hill between me and them. I was done. The Panther was already legging it out of the area at full speed and I'd lost sight of the Quickdraw when he cleared the first row of buildings.”
Me: “So what happened? Why are you still here? Didn't you make your extraction point?”
Craig: “I didn't even make it to the ground. Turns out those Arrows had not only battered me around, they'd damaged my engine shielding and vaporized my life support coolant. When I hit those jets I was already running a bit hot, trying like hell to lay down enough covering fire to make a difference. With all that damage the temp in my cockpit skyrocketed just like my mech, and with the bump on my head I blacked out. When I came to I was in a bed.”
Me: “What about the rest of your unit?”
Craig: “Well, the Panther almost made it out, but the Dropship turned chicken and ran before he could get there. The Quickdraw did us all proud. He ran and jumped like a maniac through that complex and made it to the warehouse. Wanna take a guess what he found when he got there?”
Me: “New 100 ton LAM prototypes?”
Craig: “HA! I wish, that would have made it worth while. No, he found nothing. Not a single thing.”
Me: “So it was all just a set up? A trap?”
Craig: “Yeah, in a way, but in a way it was all also true.”
Me: “I don't follow.”
Craig: “Honestly, I'm not sure I do either. Turns out that once the fighting was over the other guys were really friendly. Sure, I was a bit sore at them for killing my friends. Especially the guy who stomped on the Javelins cockpit, but business is business. They did the best they could to provide those of us who were injured with medical care. Then they offered to give us each enough cash to make it back to our units.
They kept our mechs of course. Or, at least, what was left of them.
I decided to stay. I had enough. I took what they gave me, and what I had on account with Comstar and opened my bar. I've been serving drinks ever since. I suits me, but I think I'll do it on another planet. Once this story gets out people might come here looking for me, and I'd rather retire in peace.”
Me: “But what about the crates? The defenders? You've told me practically nothing about them.”
Craig: “Relax, it's not really a secret. The locals keep quiet about it because they believe the story their commander spread about the Cappies opening a training base here if they proved themselves 'loyal' by keeping it quiet. And for me, well, I'm really just embarased.
You see, every bit of intel we got was true. There was valuables in those crates at one time. Specifically 12 shiny new prototype chassis built out of that new EndoSteel stuff, and covered with FeroFibrous armor. Not to mention a pile of PPCs, some Arrow IV's and a couple AC/20s.
Those 12 light mechs that were defending them? Well, it turns out those guys stripped the guts out of them and got those prototypes running, piled on those weapons and used them to wipe the floor with us.
You see, this whole thing was set up to be a combination live fire test and sales pitch for those prototypes. They told me the Snakes knew it all along. They wanted to see how well the prototypes did. Heck, I'd suspect our own employers if they had bothered to secure any of our battle ROMS before they took off.
Me: “So what about these prototypes? What can you tell me about them?”
Craig: “That's the embarassing part. All 12 of them really were light mechs. In fact, they were all the same chassis, just different variations.
Me: “Well? What were they? Something new? A tech-upgrade of an existing model?”
Craig: “Not new, that's for sure. This is why I want my identity kept out of it. I'd never have a minutes peace if people found out I'd lost out to a bunch of Urbanmechs.”
