The infantrywomen of the UER are all human brains in mass produced identical-within-class machine bodies in order to standardize individual combat capabilities.
When a soldier is "sleeved" into her new body, her original name is stripped for the duration of her tour of duty; replaced by an alphanumeric designation indicating her model type and time of enlistment. It is customary to be given a new name by her fireteam.
It is not uncommon for the women at arms of the UER to identify more strongly with their new forms than their old, and voluntarily re-enlist in order to maintain it.
PMI 086-3-S "Zhuk" and PMI 103-4-C "Mysh" of the 49th Revolutionaries' Line, "The Menagerie."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The soul is a known, measurable force; scholars agree that it is stored in the head.
When a person dies, their soul is temporarily returned to the earth, and then regurgitated with new body in tow at the most recently visited (or if unavailable, nearest) "Rebirth Spring".
A Rebirth Spring is a pool of a naturally forming faintly glowing teal fluid that "rebirths" humans. They are self replenishing, self regulating, and transportable. Whenever a person is rebirthed from a spring, a small amount of natural resources is also returned to the earth; soil nutrients and metals and coal and so on.
The rebirth process feels not unlike waking from a bad dream. A jolt, a sudden gasping of air, and coming to in a comfortable bath. Surrounded by familiar faces, ideally. You are restored to your highest fighting fitness; with the only scars to show being mental.
The process can be intercepted and altered. Most settled regions' springs are equipped with a terminal that detects when a soul is coming up, and edits the body the spring creates for it. Cosmetic alterations, proportions adjustment, skin and hair, those changes are free. More extreme alterations, less so.
A soldier of the Aranyország Royal Army is issued a certain allocation of resources per "life," and part of that allocation can be spent on bodily augmentation. Should a soldier choose to do so, their body will be birthed unfinished and dormant, and subsequently taken to their base's medical wing for installing their chosen equipment.
Conversely, a soldier can voluntarily forgo parts of their body, with the energy that would have gone to remaking them instead being returned directly to the replenishment of natural resources. As thanks for this sacrifice, the soldier is issued simple replacement prosthetics and a stipened to their per life budget.
Because rebirth defaults to restoring a person to a fresh out of bootcamp physique, both age and weight are seen as a sign of prodigious combat prowess. It's hard to put on pounds and years if you're being reset through death regularly.
Trooper Arsenije "Arso" Jokić and mech engineer Dana "Ambrosia" Mathers of the 81st Northeastern Border Division.
Arso traded her legs from the shins down for a high frequency knife, and is armed with a Czifra Ironworks Issued Infantry Rifle Model 5 Revision 2.
An interceptor pilot is kept in a state of high readiness at all times. The soporifics in their system leave them in a half awake daze twenty four hours a day; their bodies and brains doing the reparative work of sleep without ever fully allowing them to rest. All it takes is a change in their drip feed, sedatives traded for stimulants, and they're ready to work.
Practiced and steady hands hold the trembling girl still. Her flight helmet seals around her face in parts. First the visor, blinding her for a moment before the passthrough kicks on. Next the integrated communication gear; bone conduction pads unfurl from the headset and slide around her ears. Then the retention system and shell. Finally, the oxygen mask.
The intubation tube slides down her throat with ease; forking as it reaches the back. One tendril extends into the esophagus, the other, the trachea. The mask pulls itself in to cover her face, locking in to the rest of the helmet with a click. A rubberized bulb inflates in her mouth, ensuring the mask won't be knocked loose no matter how rough the flight.
She gives the bulb an experimental chew. Cherry. Ms. Alia remembered to get her a flavored mask nub like she asked for.
Klaxons wail.
She's lowered in to the cockpit, the opaque canopy hissing shut. The moment she's seated, the armored coffin floods with a rush of force-diffusion fluid. In a bath like this, 40 Gs feels like 20.
It's as dark as the grave in there, at least til her helmet UI finishes its handshake with the jet. Three boops and a beep later she sees through the walls of the craft as though encased in glass. Avionic readouts nibble at the peripheries of her vision, glancing their ways pulls them into focus.
Warning lights on the second deck bay flash.
She speeds through startup with machine precision; battery switched to main power, JFS switch to Start 2, engine rpms revved and observed, sec light out, throttle advanced to idle position, INS knob to stored heading position; on and on until the jet feels as though it's shivering with anticipation. An IAC-98 Estoc fighter yearns to hunt.
Interception window narrows.
Chewed-to-the-tip nailed fingers white knuckle grip the center stick through worn in plugsuit gloves. Every cell in her body screams that they should be in the air by now. She resists the urge to shake out the restless energy with the ailerons as the Estoc and she are lifted up to the launch runway.
At last, after a fifteen second eternity, the communication line crackles to life.
A professional voice, clean and clear as spring water, fills the airwaves. "This is Alia Dawkins of the HRF Horn of Victory, speaking for callsign Spare-Change," - the pilot wiggled in her seat hearing her name - "preparing to launch interception sortie against unidentified intercontinental carrier rocket."
There is no countdown.
"Launching."
The pneumatics of the ship roar to life, pulling the jet with enough force to turn biology into physics as it's hurled down the runway. Spare-Change grins behind her mask, her eyes reflexively watering from the acceleration.
Her Estoc clears the lip of the carrier and she pulls back hard on the stick, wrenching the jet into a rapid ascent. Afterburner plumes tear a trail of haze behind her climb.
Spare-Change barely knows what she's hunting today, and she doesn't care to learn much more than that. All that matters is that by the end of the day, she'll have made a pretty sunset with two suns.
Of the organizations helmed by the Queen of Aranyország's three daughters, the eldest's Department of Patriots has the most direct involvement with the Queendom's armed forces.
The DoP concerns itself primarily with the wellbeing of Her veterans, as well as the promotion of armswomen of note alongside the Department of Media. The stars that shine for Her Majesty the brightest are given additional Requisitions to spend on the most advanced equipment available in exchange for the use of their likenesses in propaganda.
The most popular (and most recommended) piece of equipment for her soldiers superior is the Holistic-Link: Munitions suite, or HLM. An HLM equipped soldier is able to remotely commandeer and direct any combat network enabled weapon, vehicle, or soldier that is under her rank and within her area of influence. She then acts as a mix of targeting designator and commanding officer for the duration of the operation.
Field Marshal Jean Tatton of the 13th Airborne, with and without her helm. She carries a Stallion Armory M26R2 Individual Operations Handgun; a gift from the Queen's youngest daughter Zdeňka as a symbol of her favor. The Princess (as she is called affectionately by the people of Aranyország and disaffectionately by her older sisters) has a habit of both gifting her favorite supersoldiers weapons of her choice, and then throwing impotent tantrums if they are not using them on film.
She has never needed to throw one because of Jean.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
An Estoc's time to climb is unmatched throughout the Imperial Air Corps. With wings as wide as a tennis court and enough thrust to make a strap-on collector blush, it should be.
Still, it takes an agonizing 14 minutes to complete a zoom-climb to the next phase of interception; some 30,000 meters up.
The first leg is a thrill, the roar of the engine, the initial burst of acceleration, watching the sea fall away and the sky rush down to meet you. The feeling is short lived.
At 10,000 meters high, Spare-Change levels out. She throttles up, and for the next eight minutes her Estoc builds speed; flying parallel to the earth.
Spare-Change squirms in her seat. All she can do is wait as the air speed indicator ticks up. She hates waiting.
Her radio crackles to life, and the soft voice of Ms. Alia follows. "Do you read me, Spare-Change?"
The pilot sends five clicks on her keyer back, "five-by-five, reading clear" in mouth occupied pilot speak.
A hum of approval. "Good. We're on a private channel by the way, thought you could use some company."
Spare-Change's eyes lit up at that.
Ms. Alia continues. "We didn't have the time for a full briefing before takeoff, so I thought I'd get you up to speed; while you got up to speed."
The ace tilts her head, confused.
"That was a joke." Ms. Alia sighs into her headset. "Back to the task at hand. You'll be intercepting an unidentified intercontinental carrier rocket. Readings indicate that whatever its payload is, it's non-nuclear; you're clear to engage however you see fit the moment you have radar lock with the bogey."
Spare-Change grins behind her mask, sharpened teeth digging into the bulb. She loves fireworks.
"The rocket was likely launched by the UER, though their state media has already disavowed it. There's a chance it's carrying a spy drone swarm. I've pre-loaded your IFF with the relevant marker values, just in case."
Gloved hands drum on the flightstick in anticipation.
Spare-Change could practically hear the smile creep into Ms. Alia's tone as she added "that means lots of points might be on the table, I know how much you love those."
And she does. Watching the numbers on her hud get bigger when she blows stuff up was probably the third best part of the job, she thinks. She rhythmically flexes her left and right glute, an excited tic she picked up from another pilot who had an emotive tail installed.
"Now, don't have too much fun out there," Ms. Alia gently chides. "You'll be joker fuel shortly after projected interception. Extending the engagement more than necessary means we'll have to fish you out of a rough wet landing. Understood?"
Spare-Change sends back two clicks, a slightly dejected "yes-ma'am."
"Good. You've been very patient, you know that? When you get back to the ship, a treat will be in order."
Spare-Change hasn't gone off mission itinerary to "hunt" in three sorties, and good behavior gets rewarded.
"You should be reaching zoom-climb speed right about now. Put on a show for me, okay?"
The line went silent just as the flightplan panel let out a "ping."
Spare-Change snarls hungrily, pulling back hard on the stick.
The Estoc's nose wrenches skyward and makes a hard turn from level to damn near vertical; hurtling upwards in an unrestricted climb well beyond safe sustained rate. Speed is traded for altitude hand over fist, the cockpit trembles and the pilot quivers as the jet screams into the sky. Fifteen thousand -twenty thousand - twentyfive thousand meters reads the altimeter.
Spare-Change looks out to the side and sees the curvature of the earth, and the boundary between sky and space. An Estoc was never built to slip the bonds of gravity, but moments like these make Spare-Change wonder if it wants to. She glances downward, at the unmarked land masses beneath. She wonders which is Aranyország and which is the UER, or Malvinas or Mei-Guo or Pindorma or any of the other places she learned about growing up. They all seem so small from up here.
Her early warning radar hisses for attention. No time for thoughts like that.
A neat little square appears on her hud, sailing through the thin air like snow on the breeze. The rocket.
She spins the Estoc once in a tight aileron roll, camera drones releasing from the undersides of the wings with a clack-clack-clack. The girls back home love air combat footage, and half of an ace's job is to give it to them.
Years of practice take over as she readies to fire. Air-to-air master to on, BVR missiles selected and in slave mode, FCR set to TWS, master fire switch to on, FCR creates full track file for the bogey, ASI indicates she's at launch speed and ranging carrot indicates she's within range, and finally - holding weapon release switch.
The jet's autocallout system announces "fox 3 - fox 3," as two missiles are loosed from the wings and begin their pursuit.
Spare-Change holds her breath.
And waits.
For fifteen excruciating seconds.
And the sky lights up like EV Day, as the missiles find their mark. The fuselage tears and fuel spills out and ignites, sending a hull full of UAVs - Ms. Alia was right - spilling out into the atmosphere.
Spare-Change doesn't hesitate for a moment, she thumbs over to ARH micromissiles and lets out a volley; trusting their active radars sniff out the signatures Ms. Alia set.
The Estoc stalls, the thin air too little to keep its engines at full burn. Spare-Change smiles as the jet begins to turn back towards the earth, watching the inky black above alight again with violent fireworks as her micromissiles find their targets. Her hud sings, each hit accompanied by the chirping of points being tallied.
Spare-Change exhales, satisfied to let herself fall until the engines can breathe; add some drama to her flight home.
She closes her eyes.
And then a warning light flashes hot red.
Her radio hisses to life again, Ms. Alia calls out "Spare-Change, come in Spare-Change, a secondary unknown craft has emerged from the wreck."
Her eyes shoot open as she whips her head around to look back over her shoulder.
From the waning fireball, a single point of light burns. It flashes, and begins to accelerate. Towards her.
She thumbs her viewport control to look through a camera drone, zooming in as far as it can.
She sees an angular, reverse swept winged jet. An OPS 34 - Hú Dié, a high maneuverability strike craft from the UER. Painted all black. Its tail is marked with four triangles, arranged like teeth.
Her radio crackles.
"Hello, little dog." The voice is low and breathy and flanged, like two vipers harmonizing. "I've come to play. Make this fun for me, won't you?"
