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  • 📅 May and June 2024 are YE 46.4 in the RP.

(Open RP)Street Sweepers

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Commissar Farzi

🎖️ Game Master
RP Date
YE 45.5
RP Location
Funky City
Location: Downtown Funky City, Easter Slums

Gunshots rang out in the distance; granted when it came to Nepleslia gunfire was common no matter where you went. And Yeoman Sergeant Olaf knew this as he sat in the cupola of his Stumpy armored car, Natasha-stenciled on the side of the vehicle, as passersby glared at him and his men; a full squad plus his own crew as they made their way down the street. The vehicle in question was little more than a refit STV, the Aether Powerplant was pulled and replaced with a combustion engine and then up-armored all to Hel. Not that he minded; while Aether offered nigh unlimited range, they required extensive maintenance, and while Command wasn't willing to shell out the marks for the tech to refit it with a Fusion plant it would run on almost anything-that and the armor, while not fancy would at least stop most civilian and some anti-armor weapons. Subconsciously he found himself thumbing the safety of the Mauler as a particularly large man showed off what seemed to be some kind of triple-barreled cannon-the 4cm autocannon had been loaded with canister and HE munitions, meant to sweep aside anyone foolish enough to engage them...

It was a fleeting comfort, knowing that you could blast an enemy into so much cold meat-in some ways, it made him think of home; stupid as that sounded. A short ping on his comms brought him out of his musings. "Olaf here." He answered in accented trade, making sure to keep an eye on his surroundings. ("Sergeant; Employer's on the speaksie-wants an update.") Ancestor's Bollocks, now? ("Patch em' through-I'll take it through coupla comms.") Grabbing the transceiver of the radio, he signaled a halt as he flipped the switch. "Yeamon Sergeant Olaf here, Over." A burst of static followed by a gruff, cigar-roughened voice. "Sergeant; this is Major Fitz-we've got report of a gang mixing it up with some muties-six blocks from your position," Lovely; least they wouldn't be bored. "Coming out of an old waste canal; see if you can't break it up; Over." So a civil dispute then. "Surprised you're having us break up a domestic-figured you'd have your boys put a stop to it, Over." He replied, watching as a man came stumbling out of a building covered in obnoxious light-signs and promptly collapsed after vomiting. Likely he'd drown in his own sick before long. Olaf's reply was met with a brief silence as he watched to see if the man would pick himself up, followed by a burst of laughter. "Never heard of fighting mutants as being referred to as a Domestic; gonna use that in the future." The drunkard managed to roll himself over, but likely wouldn't be getting up on anytime soon. Turning from the scene as Fitz continued.

"Our nearest guys are at least 40 minutes out, so for now-you're it-Fitz over and out." Placing the handset back in its mount, he sighed. ("Alright boys,") He called, looking to the squad, ("We've got order's to break up a Domsestic between a gang and some muties-likely just a property dispute-six blocks over-move it out and keep it tight-this ain't Valhalla-no heroes today.") He signaled the advance, the Stumpy's exhast bellowing darkened smoke as it accelerated. Olaf lurched backwards-his back slamming against the edge-his hardsuit taking the brunt of it as at the sudden change. ("Oi ya Thruok Fuckers! Watch what yer doin'!") He shouted angerly, looking down into the drivers cab-bloody bastards were gonna end up throwing the gearbox, ("And see if you can get a few of the other units on the speaksie; try to get this wrapped up as soon as possible.") When it came to gangers he normally wouldn't bother as they usually folded under an organized assault, but that kind of thinking could get you killed here. Too many of them were Ex-Military, and mutants were something you didn't take chances with.

With any luck they'd wrap this up before dinner.
 
As they made their way along the all-too-wide street, Olaf growled as they hit a particularly nasty bump; the Stumpy's cupola while offering good vision even when closed, comfortable it was not. Shaking off the latest abuse that had been heaped on his back, he checked the Mauler's ammo feed-good-the sudden movement hadn't caused a kink in the belt. Satisfied that nothing was going to cause a malfunction once combat was joined. The Yeoman Sergeant scanned his surroundings; from what he could see, it was the usual motley assortment of individuals; muscular idiots with more guns than sense(not that they had room to talk), heavily augmented cyborgs, half-breeds, and the like coming and going-or in some case stumbling-from establishment to establishment under the harsh neon lights even as scantily-clad individuals attempted to woo members of the crowd into indulging in their questionable wares.

He honestly wondered how many of their clientele wound up with missing belongings when they woke upon the morn-if they woke up at all.

Clearing his head of such thoughts, he called down into the cab: ("How long til we make contact?") The crowd made room parting like waves upon the ocean with some of them staring with no small degree of appreciation at the rather large weapons they carried-a mix of Thunderers and Knuckleheads(a stupid name, but most knew better than to argue with that alien witch), with their weapon specialists carrying heavy duty grenade launchers. Others made obscene gestures and taunted them, laughing as they postured, showing off their gear. These, Olaf found, often didn't last long-usually perishing in petty disputes or some other such thing. Still, even more, paid them no more than a glance, if that-as if something like this was such a common occurrence as to be trivialized. ("Uh...we're about two minutes out-made contact with Hollenhammer and Vulcan, they and their squads are inbound from the south and west-Arriving in ten.") So...they'd need to hold for eight minutes. As the sounds of combat drew near, the Yeoman Sargent began to formulate a plan. ("Alright, form it up!") He called to his men as he flicked the Mauler's safety off, ("Stay with the armored car, stick to cover as best able-Thunderers up front with Pulsers supporting-grenadiers load HE and incendiary-stay towards the back and provide fire support.") Toggling his helmet comms as he lowed himself as much as possible into the turret in an attempt to minimize his silhouette, he continued, ("I don't want any heroes today-we're here to break up a domestic...not re-enact the Craethel War.") A few mutters, along with one man's complaint of ("It's just gangers ain't it?") as he slammed a magazine into his grenade launcher and chambered a round.

("Gangers and mutants.") Olaf corrected him; just once he'd like someone with brains, ("Now get yer damned fool head out of yer arse and into position; this may not be the Expanse or Valhalla, but threats here are just as real.") The man remained silent as they neared-the fighting was actually taking place near an old canal by the looks of it. He didn't have a good view, but from what he could see-local structures consisted of shacks and a few run-down shops, with an overpass overlooking it. There was a crowd of onlookers-some huddled up in their dwellings, others on the overpass and structures it connected to-watching the fighting with interest-likely either betting on it or debating joining in. Great, a bunch of town idiots with the survival instincts of a Gribbly hopped up on whatever the hell it was they smoked. Did Gribblies smoke?

A question for another time. They were nearly in position-and he could see it clearly-the gangers were holed up around a series of vehicles concentrated around a couple of the larger-less rundown buildings in the area; likely their headquarters. The muties were a mixed assortment-some looked closer to human than not, while others...well the less said the better. They seemed to be armed with random weaponry, proper and improvised. The gangers were maintaining strict trigger discipline, calling targets, and not falling apart under the onslaught. The Mutants themselves for the most part seemed to be almost haphazard in cohesion-some showing the same if not greater coordination than the gangers, while others surged forward-a chaotic mass of gunfire and grotesque bodies forming a seemingly unstoppable wave. Stray shots and muzzleflashes from some of the alleys and buildings of the shanty town indicated isolated battles from the greater conflict; though the victors were unclear at the moment-if there were victors as at all.

A part of Olaf wanted to let this play out and save some ammo by letting them kill each other and mop up after-but the risk of this spilling out into even greater conflict if it wasn't contained was already high. ("Prepare to engage...wait for my mark.") He sighted what seemed to be the strong point for the Ganger's resistance-at least if that's what the cluster of mutants trying to claw their towards it was anything to go by.

("Engage.") The order, delivered in a calm tone was given, and their own weapons joined the roaring staccato music of conflict...
 
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