From one of Cpl_Facehugger's posts to Entry With A Bang on Spacebattles.com:
Anton Greene was not having a good day. His platoon's Javelins weren't doing much more than pissing off that monstrous mech, and its machine guns were
doing decidedly more than just pissing off his platoon in return.
He looked at his rifle and put it down. People it could kill, but giant killer robots? Not happening.
He looked at his pack, set aside by a particularly sturdy-looking support column. Or at least it had been particularly sturdy-looking, before that mech's
machine guns had thoroughly perforated it.
A role of duct tape was clipped to it, and his leather notebook lay next to the pack. Anton always tried to keep a notebook with him. He hoped that maybe once
his stint in the army was over, he'd be able to publish his drabbles as something worthwhile.
He smiled a cracked, shark-like smile. The first of many rather unhinged grins he'd go through before the day was done. Before the shift, he'd had a
preference for writing science-fiction. He'd written scores of pages of sci-fi war. But now, with mechs roaming the streets and lasers and working fusion
reactors, perhaps he wasn't writing sci-fi so much as modern war fiction.
The mech had turned and stopped, its cockpit facing him. With a good leap he could probably jump and reach it. He almost got the impression it was talking to
someone.
Probably on a radio, or whatever the hell these things used.
And then, a thought struck him. That thing had an awfully huge cockpit. If the pilot was smart, he'd be worried if someone stuck explosives to it.
Ants' grin fell. He didn't have any explosives handy. The javelins had already shown they couldn't dent-
-His eyes fell upon a case of MREs in the corner. His platoon had brought them up because they didn't know how long they were going to stay here.
Another crazy idea made its way across his cerebral matter. Crazy, sure, but it was a damn sight better then getting machine-gunned when that mech finally
noticed him.
"-Alright, I'm on my way back now," Natalie replied. "Brox, Tyron, fall back to the dropper. See if we can't pick up Janet on the way
back. I - WHAT THE HELL."
"Boss?" Tyron asked.
A native man, clad in grey and black urban combat fatigues, had leapt from the nearby structure and onto Old Melville's cockpit, to which he now
clung.
Natalie almost moved her mech's arm up to squash him like a roach, only to halt when she noticed what else he was wearing.
The man had a half dozen brown packages taped to his chest, with thin red and green wiring going between the packages and a small device in his hand.
He was wired to blow.
For the first time in her career as a mechwarrior, Natalie froze. A look of shock plastered itself all over her face.
The native grinned a wide, manic grin, and then pointed to a small notebook he held with his other hand.
It was open to a page which read: "SURRENDER OR DIE!"
Natalie blinked. Was this guy bluffing, or just insane?
Then, still clutching the detonator, the man seemed to peer even closer at her through the mech's transparent armored canopy.
He brought the notebook down and rested it on a precariously balanced knee, then, with his free arm, he hastily scrawled something else onto the notebook's
page and held it up.
"P.S. YOU'RE CUTE! WANT TO GO OUT?"
-----
Will the transhumanist future have catgirls? Does Japan still exist? Well, there is your answer.
Anton Greene was not having a good day. His platoon's Javelins weren't doing much more than pissing off that monstrous mech, and its machine guns were
doing decidedly more than just pissing off his platoon in return.
He looked at his rifle and put it down. People it could kill, but giant killer robots? Not happening.
He looked at his pack, set aside by a particularly sturdy-looking support column. Or at least it had been particularly sturdy-looking, before that mech's
machine guns had thoroughly perforated it.
A role of duct tape was clipped to it, and his leather notebook lay next to the pack. Anton always tried to keep a notebook with him. He hoped that maybe once
his stint in the army was over, he'd be able to publish his drabbles as something worthwhile.
He smiled a cracked, shark-like smile. The first of many rather unhinged grins he'd go through before the day was done. Before the shift, he'd had a
preference for writing science-fiction. He'd written scores of pages of sci-fi war. But now, with mechs roaming the streets and lasers and working fusion
reactors, perhaps he wasn't writing sci-fi so much as modern war fiction.
The mech had turned and stopped, its cockpit facing him. With a good leap he could probably jump and reach it. He almost got the impression it was talking to
someone.
Probably on a radio, or whatever the hell these things used.
And then, a thought struck him. That thing had an awfully huge cockpit. If the pilot was smart, he'd be worried if someone stuck explosives to it.
Ants' grin fell. He didn't have any explosives handy. The javelins had already shown they couldn't dent-
-His eyes fell upon a case of MREs in the corner. His platoon had brought them up because they didn't know how long they were going to stay here.
Another crazy idea made its way across his cerebral matter. Crazy, sure, but it was a damn sight better then getting machine-gunned when that mech finally
noticed him.
"-Alright, I'm on my way back now," Natalie replied. "Brox, Tyron, fall back to the dropper. See if we can't pick up Janet on the way
back. I - WHAT THE HELL."
"Boss?" Tyron asked.
A native man, clad in grey and black urban combat fatigues, had leapt from the nearby structure and onto Old Melville's cockpit, to which he now
clung.
Natalie almost moved her mech's arm up to squash him like a roach, only to halt when she noticed what else he was wearing.
The man had a half dozen brown packages taped to his chest, with thin red and green wiring going between the packages and a small device in his hand.
He was wired to blow.
For the first time in her career as a mechwarrior, Natalie froze. A look of shock plastered itself all over her face.
The native grinned a wide, manic grin, and then pointed to a small notebook he held with his other hand.
It was open to a page which read: "SURRENDER OR DIE!"
Natalie blinked. Was this guy bluffing, or just insane?
Then, still clutching the detonator, the man seemed to peer even closer at her through the mech's transparent armored canopy.
He brought the notebook down and rested it on a precariously balanced knee, then, with his free arm, he hastily scrawled something else onto the notebook's
page and held it up.
"P.S. YOU'RE CUTE! WANT TO GO OUT?"
-----
Will the transhumanist future have catgirls? Does Japan still exist? Well, there is your answer.