Story 6: Bluffing in the buff
The plumes of smoke, the flicking of the smoldering flames. The stench of burning metal and plastics, mixed with hints of more distributing scents. The feeble cries of the wounded and the crackles of wrecked electronics.
The character of the Eternal Scar would have screamed and raged at the sight, shoot an unlucky flunkie, and jump into her mecha, chasing after the heroes who had dared to raid her lair, kill off some minor characters, and either get ass kicked or the heroes escape by a thread.
But this isn't fiction, and the only things that Alexis Zelyonka had in common with the character she had played all those centuries ago was the face, the body, and the sexual depravity (or rather, adventurous, as she would like to perceive), not that the last part was ever relevant. Certainly she, the actual person, does not possess the callousness necessary in such situations as the present.
It was easy to go off on a script, play the part, and when it's all over, ditch the costumes, bug off the set and enjoy a vaguely civilized life in the nearest city. What happens next being in the good hands of the script and the plot, which was not something she particularly needed to worry about. Some of her fellow actors and actresses at the time were rather emotionally invested in the characters they played but she wasn't really one of them, it did help that villains are rather uncomplicated, especially in their expected behavior and deserved fates.
"Are you alright?" A generic feminine voice besides Zelyonka snapped her out of her wallowing of self loathing.
"No, I'm not." Zelyonka replied candidly, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. "But I don't have that luxury do I?" she asked rhetorically.
"Perhaps it would be better if you-" The gynoid began before being waved off by the ironically self styled warlord.
"We don't have the time." Zelyonka snapped, more to herself than to anyone else. "Get the sat link back up. Round up every operable vehicle. We ride within the hour."
"Acknowledged." The gynoid nodded as she turned, messages and comms already crackling over the airwaves once again, buzzing with activity and purpose.
With one last glance at the ruins Zelyonka turned around and began to make her way to the still undamaged underground hangers, with what passed for determination on her face.
If only she hasn't picked up that damn spam call...
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"Sir, hostile contacts 30km and closing!" Sgt McCollins's voice barked on the comms. Technically the nature of the contacts are unknown, but given their daring raid just prior, it could not be anything friendly.
It was a stroke of luck that the raid so far had been unbelievably lucky: that all the enemy defenses for some inexplicable reasons were powered down or otherwise nonfunctional, and the only real threat when one particular bulky mecha, which was finally despatched after knocking out quite a few of group. Right now they managed to bag and sedate the pilot, who judging by her appearance was probably brainwashed or something.
Poor soul.
"Keep moving. I'll hold them off." Gerut Marshall VII, Heir of the Chosen One, announced crisply with a hint of bravado as his mecha peeled off from the convoy, filled with the slaves they had just freed from the clutches of the lair of the Eternal Scar.
"Acknowledged. Happy fighting." McCollins nodded as he cut the comms. There's no point in dissuading Marshall from such rather risky heroics, nor dragging out the melodrama. It's in his nature, it's his destiny, and he will succeed.
Just like all the heroes before him.
As he powered down the secondary thrusters and coasted to a stop Marshall flipped on all the ECM. Although drawing a lot of power, to the point where it significantly hinders speed in the event of any need to escape, it's worth the cost as it would also blind and fry any guided munitions...
... forcing the fight back to direct visual range, where victory will be determined by skill rather than mathematics and programming.
And he has no intention of escape. That's unbefitting for a hero, not to mention heroes never lose. Die? Perhaps, but good will triumph over evil in the end, and nothing more needs to be said.
As the dust settled around him he gazed through the main viewscreen, at the endless steppes to the horizon. A world where one is lost without technology or instincts, mostly instincts.
Then he saw it, the plumes of dust being kicked up off in the distance, and as they grew menacingly close the figure of a sinister looking mecha, clad in gray and coyote brown. Appearances can be deceiving, but there are certain combinations of shapes and colors that simply scream unwholesome motives. The massive clouds of dust, far larger than something that size should kick up, swirling all around certainly give further credence to its intentions.
He gazed down at his sensor readings, but only the static of jamming greeted him. It was not unexpected, welcoming even. It will be a fight to the knife, without the crutches of guided munitions-
Suddenly a series of impacts rocked him almost out of his crash couch, and every display flared up in the deep red of systems failure. The cracks of the rounds that hit his mecha followed the destruction of its limbs, indicating cannon rounds of the kinetic type. The implications of the accuracy of the rounds wasn't even fully digested in his mind when the crashing of the torso section of his mecha snapped him out of his daze, and he quickly punched in the codes on a nearby panel to open the escape hatch.
As he stumbled out of the crashed remnants of what was once his pride and joy he saw them: the dozens of tanks and other armored vehicles, with their gleaming barrels and growling engines. It was never a fair fight. Behind the tanks was that enemy mecha, now strolling in an almost casual manner, secure in its victory, savoring the taste of the kill. Its thin figure gives it an impression of a massive, metal skeleton, a single blood red eye camera glowing malevolently on that small, misshapen head.
