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A story I had started but never finished.  Started writing it way back in the days KM, Ice and i used to roll on S7 before there was anywhere else worth going:)
Chapter 1:  Bitter
   The forest was eerily quiet in the dark night, without a single chirp from insect or flap of bat wings. The moon hung high in the cloudless sky, a slit in the inky blackness that was the starless espanse that seemed to drift lazily from horizon to horizon. The wind was calm, and not even the leaves upon the forest's ancient trees rustled in the silence, leaving an almost palpable hush strewn across the lush orchards. For miles, nothing seemed to stir, as animal, insect, and even man had made way for nothingness.
   â€œCaptain, I ain't getting any readings out here,” spat a voice over Captain Johannes Kaufmen's headset. Johannes was a tall man in his late thirties with thinning, shoulder length blond hair. He looked like the kind of man who has seen it all, and wasn't impressed then. He sighed softly, the scars criss-crossing his face drawing fine white lines in his tanned skin. He sat in his cockpit for a moment, and finally keyed his comm.
   â€œOkay sergeant, bring your lance around to coordinates One-Three-Nine, repeat.  One-Three-Nine.”
   â€œGot it Cap,” came the reply from sergeant Rollins.
   Rollins was a lithely built man with dark hair and bright, crystaline blue eyes. Young and energetic, he always preferred recon work to open firefights. Dashing, in a wiry sort of way, he has always been a ladies' man, and that has earned him a rather unique callsign within his unit, Widowlayer. He chuckled softly and keyed the comm to his lance.
   â€œWidowlayer to Regal Lance, move to position One-Three-Nine. Keep close and watch those sensors people, I don't like being caught by surprise.”
   With that, there was movement in the forest once more. A lance of four light battlemechs began walking casually along to their next waypoint, checking the forest for signs of threats. The 'mechs all gleamed brightly against the small amount of light chasing them from the slit of a moon in the sky. Widowlayer's 'mech, a scarred, loyal old Commando, lead the lance on it's errand with true form. Behind the commando came a Locust, a tried and true recon 'mech, who's pod shaped body made it distinct on the battlefield. And following the two of them came a pair of battered Stingers. All four 'mechs had seen their share of combat.
   â€œHey 'Layer, whatever happened between you and that aristo chick back on Carver?” came a buzz over Rollins' headset.
   â€œWell, Leer, nothing really. I was going to make a stop by her parent's mansion and then we were tossed off base and shipped out here with the Roughriders.”
   â€œDamn, sometimes the life of a mercenary ain't all it's cracked up to be, Sarge” came a voice who's origin was the battered Locust traveling behind Rollins' Commando.
   â€œI know, I know,” Rollins replied with a sigh.  “Well Deuce, we signed on for this for the booty and the money, not for glory. And the Roughriders have treated us fair enough.”
   There was a chuckle over the comms.  “ Last I checked, Sarge, We're always workin' fer the money, and yer getting' all the booty”
   Marcus could not help but chuckle himself at the comment from his fourth, Mechwarrior John Jeffries in one of the battered Stingers trailing behind the Locust and Commando.  “All right gents, cut the chatter, we're supposed to be on a scouting mission here, and we're making more noise than the wildlife.”   
   â€œCopy that Sarge, “ Came his reply.
Then Rollins' sensor display lit up. “Oh shit!” he screamed as he banked his little commando hard to his left, barely dodging a stream of short range missiles that seemed to erupt from nowhere.  “This is Regal One, we have enemy contact!” he screamed as he watched the missiles he dodged slam into the Locust behind him, ripping armor loose from the tiny 'mech's torso. “Two, with me, Three and Four circle right!”
   Without hesitation, his lance split up. The two Stingers lanced to the right, and the battered Locust and his commando streaking left. It was a moment before he realized what was going on.  His sensors taking a moment to adjust to the surrounding forest and give him proper readouts. He smiled softly, and watched with dismay as he saw the number of enemy contacts before him growing. He didn't even have to switch to his communications gear to know that he wasn't going to reach HQ. He was doomed, and so was his lance, unless he could think fast.
   â€œTwo, you're the fastest. Get clear and try to make it back to base, I'll hold these bastards as long as I can. MOVE MECHWARRIOR!”
   Without a response the scarred Locust veered off and disappeared int the forest just before another missile volley punched through the woods, barely missing the running commando. Rollins kissed the cross that hung around his neck, and let out a battle cry as he charged the first enemy he saw. He smiled, though this time it had no humor in it, and slammed his throttle forward, the gyro creaking in defiance of moving faster as the fusion engine churned more power to meet the growing need. Heat seeped slowly into the little Commando's cockpit as a Javelin loomed in Rollins' sight.
   Heat blasted into the cockpit of the commando as the Widowlayer triggered his fire controls and watched dispassionately as a streak of short range missiles and a medium laser blast struck home on the Javelin's left torso. The Javelin rocked backwards slightly before regaining it's footing just to have another missile volley strike it dead in the chest. Rollins punched his controls forward again as the Javelin let loose a deadly volley of short range missiles in return.
   The missiles impacted all around the small commando, jarring Rollins in his charge. He nearly lost his footing as two missiles struck simultaneously, crumpling the armor on his 'mech's left leg. His smile widened more as he triggered his laser and missiles once again, determined to take at least one of the enemy 'mechs with him. The laser scored a direct hit on the left side of the Javelin like the volley before, punching through armor and blowing a hole out the back of the metallic beast.
The Javelin rocked to one side as an ammo bin exploded, ripping it apart from the inside. The pilot had no time to even eject as the Javelin was ripped apart by the warheads inside it's own body. Flaming pieces of metal flew in the air and unexploded shells rained into the surrounding forest, igniting the trees and burning foliage. Sparks flew off of the raging commando as it ran through the firestorm, picking up on another contact deeper into the trees.
   A scream erupted over Rollin's headset so loudly that he had to shut off his comm unit lest he was deafened by the sound. He growled deep in his throat, almost laughing at the same time as he watched a PPC blast blow clean through the head of Regal Four's Stinger. The growl grew in his throat as he laughed maniacally, not even concerned with the closing enemy units, he took his commando deeper with Regal Three moving to take his wing.
   â€œLeer, I don't think we're coming out of this. I read at least six medium units closing,” he said to himself, knowing his comm unit was still deactivated.   â€œMay God have mercy on our souls, brother.”
   Then the commando was overtaken by a hail of missile and autocannon fire, ripping the right arm and most of the torso clean off of the 'mech, but Rollins and Leer kept going, firing their full compliments at a Blackjack that had just moved out of the darkness, seemingly from nowhere. Rollins knew it was hopeless, but he had to keep moving, he had to keep his assault going long enough for Regal Two to make it back to base and warn the heavier units.  The desperate charge of the two light battlemechs seemed to throw the Blackjack's pilot, and the lumbering machine started to lurch backwards, autocannon rounds spewing from the tips of it's barrels like angry insects, each biting softly into the armor of the charging scouts.
   Marcus' grin grew wider as he realized the fearless assault had shaken an obviously rookie warrior at the controls of the Blackjack.  His remaining missile launcher and laser erupted their salvo, joining with the lasers of the Stinger charging beside him.  The lasers hit first, digging deep ruts in the armor of the Blackjack's left leg, near it's ankle.  Then the four SRMs arrived, though only two struck home, they were enough, and the beleaguered Blackjack tumbled as it's leg was severed as it took a step backwards.  The two veteran warriors had created an opportunity, one the Stinger took instant advantage of.
   There was no ejection, no cry for quarter, just the flash of jumpjets flaring to life, and the sickening screech of metal on metal as twenty tons of fury landed on the cockpit of the downed 'mech.  The Stinger began to fall forward upon striking his target, but the Blackjack's pilot could not have escaped.  The daring coup de grace erasing a life from existence, as their enemies had done to Jeffries with their initial strikes against the scouts.  There was no regret as the Stinger steadied itself, and the Commando rushed past, his sights set on a Vindicator moving to flank them.   
   Then the forest became a raging inferno as a 'mech's hand clenched onto the commando's remaining shoulder and spun it around. The Stinger didn't wait for a response and began to run full tilt back the way they had come. Rollins took the hint, and began booking his little commando after the fleeing Stinger. He didn't make it far before he heard the sonic boom of aerospace fighters overhead as they flattened the area with massive ordnance, blowing the forest clear to Hell, along with anyone left in it. He smiled to himself again before he keyed his comm back on.
   â€œThanks Regal Three, I owe you Leer.”
   â€œOh shove it, Rollins and get back to base.”










   Leer dropped down from his Stinger's hatch and onto the walkway provided for him in the hangar back at HQ. He took a moment to study how badly his battered recon 'mech had been jarred with a frown before removing his nuero-helmet with a sigh. He stood at nearly six feet tall, with shady brown hair and deep green eyes that spoke volumes. Though not slim, he was not muscular or fat, but somewhere in between. His face was very nondescript, the kind you could miss in a crowd. Except for his eyes, always leering passionately from an uncaring face. His eyes were his callsign.
   Rollins walked along the catwalk to find Leer studying the damage. He smiled with approval as the taller veteran fussed over this and that, scowling at the scorch marks and missing armor. He couldn't help himself but to smile despite the day's loss. Leer just had that way about him. Finally he moved to stand beside his comrade.
   â€œShe'll be alright, brother. That tub of bolts and lasers can take more than that little beating,” Rollins said with a smirk.
   â€œY'know Sarge, if I didn't know better I'd say your Commando came outta this better than my Stinger, what with the optimism,” replied Leer with a sideways glance at his Lance Commander. Then he sighed, and all the energy went out of him. “I don't know why I do this anymore Marcus, I just don't. I mean, Jeffries man, he was barely Green when we picked him up two months ago.”
   The Widowlayer sighed softly, and put an arm around his best friend's shoulder to lend him support.    â€œI know, Simon. But there's nothing we can do about it now. Jeffries' life may possibly have saved the lives of everyone on this base, had Deuce not been able to hightail it outta there to call for support.”
   Leer pulled away from his friend's grasp, and glared at Rollins. “Do you hear yourself, Mark? I mean really? You're spitting alla that bullshit generals send to families in letters. 'He died with honor, he saved lives, for every life that we lose, we save hundreds.' Sarge, that's just bullshit! How can a man's life be worth one lousy pile of frakking dirt?”
   Marcus Rollins did not have an answer to Leer's questioning, but simply regarded the man,and told him what every commander learns the hard way. “Simon, it's the only way I can lead this lance. I have to believe that for every man I lose, I save a hundred people from back home. For every ten I lose, I save a city. Don't you see? It's our only way around the guilt of loss. Dammit, I fought alongside Jeffries too! And now we can't even send remains back to his family for a proper funeral. It's all I can do Simon, it's all a commander has.”
   Simon “Leer” Mundanus regarded Rollins guardedly.  “Sorry Mark, I didn't think of it like that. I figured..” Leer shrugged, his shoulders stooping lower as he just seemed to grow tired suddenly. “I just thought you were turning into one of them. That was the whole reason we left the Army, and I just thought alla this was getting to you, partner.”
   The sergeant smiled softly, and turned to walk back down the catwalk without a word. Leer fell in behind him, his mind wandering to himself as technicians busied themselves with repairs to the Stinger and Commando that had just been brought in. The two men walked on in silence, out of the hangar and deep into the bowels of the underground bunkers that served as their base of operations. Soon, Marcus stopped Leer, and the two men ducked into the briefing room, each brooding to themselves.
   Standing at the front of the room was Captain Johannes Kaufman, leader of the Roughriders' Charlie Company, and Regal Lance's temporary commanding officer. He watched Leer and Rollins sadly, having known far too often how the loss of a comrade in battle hammers one deep in the pit of the stomach. How all of a man's fears rise to the surface after losing a friend, and one's thoughts of immortality vanish without a trace. He knew, only too well what those two men were going through as they took a seat next to their surviving lancemate, Deuce.
   Standing to the Captain's side was Lieutenant Alsus-Steiner, called the Lyran, as he is a distant cousin to the ruling family of  of the Lyran Commonwealth. The Lyran was a tall and noble man, a tribute to his heritage, with close cropped blond hair, and dynamic blue eyes. His gaze was one that was hard to break. Though he looked serious and all business, the Lyran was actually one quite lighthearted and easy going. It wasn't hard to trust the man, which is why Leer distrusted him the most.
   â€œOkay Regals,” Johannes said stiffly as he brought the three lancemates' attentions back to him.    â€œI know it was a trying day, and you will be commemorated for your actions in the face of superior forces, I can grant you that.” Johannes paused for a moment. “But lets get this debriefing over with so you can go and commemorate your lost lancemate however you choose, you are going to be given twenty-four hours base leave on reserve duty for this purpose.”
   The three Regals shuffled in their seats uncomfortably, Deuce having just heard the news of Jeffries' death when Leer and Rollins entered the room. Deuce's face had gone pale, and he snorted derisively before Johannes continued. “Your recon report lead to two goals, for which you are being commended. One, you were able to get word back to base despite losing radio contact, and thus prevented the destruction of this facility and loss of this garrison. Two, your actions lead to the scattering and destruction of two enemy medium lances that had deployed with stealth for the purpose of damaging or destroying this installation. However, the heavy elements of the unit escaped destruction and fled back into the forests with whatever medium elements were left, I am sure, and burned for space aboard their dropships.”
   The captain took a drink of water, and studied the three men, noticing that they simply did not seem to care about the effects of their recon sortie. “I guess, gentlemen, that is all. You have twenty-four hours before you are put back on active duty, though you are asked not to leave base. That recon was considered a success, gentlemen. Remember that, although you lost a friend, you've saved countless allies.” With that, Johannes and the Lyran departed, neither happy to have had to make that debriefing.
   â€œWell Sarge,” said Deuce. “Twenty-four hours, I say we hit the damned bar.”
   Leer and Rollins laughed, and followed Deuce to the one spot they knew they could blow off some steam, the Twisted Royale Tavern, located just on base.

   Rollins, Leer, and Deuce were laughing at a booth in the back of the always hopping Twisted Royale. The Royale was a dim, smoke filled room filled with patrons from various occupations on base. Built into a concert hall underground, the Royale was technically on base property, and thus the remainder of Regal Lance had headed straight there from their debriefing.
   On stage, a new age rock band was blasting out a loud and defiant, tuneless scream of constant noise, and servers were busy running drinks and food to this table and that. The atmosphere was friendly as games of pool and cards were flourishing at the back of the main hall. Everywhere you looked, there were techs, officers, mechjocks, aerospace pilots, nurses, and infantry all just having a good time spending their hard earned cash, and getting plastered doing it.
   Deuce smiled fondly as he chatted away with his lancemates. “Remember when we picked up Jeffries just before the raid on Warren? Damn, the air raid sirens started going off, and here comes this guy hopping down the hall on one leg, his pants half off and some rather homely looking woman chasing after him...” Deuce broke off, laughing a little before sighing sadly. With a chug of his brew, he looked over to his silent lancemates, trying to find some words.
   â€œHe was a good man, rough around the edges, but good” said Leer to break the silence, just before raising his glass. “To Jeffries, and all of those who have passed through our noble little lance in his fashion.”
   Rollins and Deuce touched glasses with Leer and drank heavily, not noticing a brawl erupt a few tables over. The joint was jumping, and it was hotter than a battlemech in the desert inside that little tavern, though noone seemed to notice. The three members left from Regal Lance just sat in silence, drowning their sorrows. Soon, they'd have a chance to pay back the bastards that took Jeffries.
   â€œRevenge,” Leer thought to himself as he studied his comrades. 'Such a fickle thing. It really makes no difference if we ever pay them back, because odds are one of us will be dead within the next two drops. That's just the way it is in Recon.' He sighed softly, drinking more. He was drained, completely unable to see past the rage that he saw as such a useless thing. But it was there, and it had him in his grip so thoroughly, that the tap on his shoulder nearly sent him flying from his seat.
   â€œEasy now, bro,” came a soft tenor from behind Leer. Rollins and Deuce looked up to see the heavy lance from the Roughrider's Charlie Company standing behind their compatriot. “we just came to say we're sorry guys. We know what it's like to lose a brother in the field.” said the soft voiced man as he clapped Leer on the shoulder. “And it's been confirmed that the Capellans staged that little assault. Bravo Company and some support are inbound, but we're looking at another Liao assault in the next three days.” He smiled, then turned away and his lancemates went with him.
   Rollins growled low in his throat.  “Bait.”
   Deuce tossed a glance to his lance commander. “Well, boss, someone wants us to hit some Caps hard. I don't think it's so much bait as it is information. Those Riders didn't need to tell us squat.”
   Marcus snorted derisively, and let himself cool off. “I want to be on full alert. The two of you should go back to your quarters...I want us to be there to welcome the bastards when they come back to this miserable rock.” With that, Marcus “the Widowlayer” Rollins stood and walked away, leaving Deuce and Leer to follow suit with blank faces and thoughts of revenge. The palpable bitterness of the three men ensuring they were left to their own.