Meowdlion - Meowd's Blog, I Guess

Just had my first game as a GM in lancer, it was a lot of fun actually getting everything to work. My group started in medias res fighting pirates that are trying to steal a ship that can make a whole planet habitable. The pirates aren't the best at their jobs, but the party made up of primarily strikers are doing a really good job at obliterating them before anything happens lol. We have: a Caliban that wants to punch people hard and shove them harder, a Peregrine (will make a review on that one later for those interested) that's built with a big sword that it swings really fast as it rockets into the ground, and around 10 auxiliary hand cannons split between two Raleighs. Needless to say I need to either provide more enemies or make the main ones more tanky.

in any mech, the weakest link is always the pilot themself.

It doesn’t matter what reactor you’ve got installed or what sort of weapons systems you have installed, the mech’s survival is just as dependent on the pilot’s just as much as the pilot’s is dependent on the mech. Say what you will about combat effectiveness and making sacrifices, most of a mech’s job is to keep the pilot alive and operating at 100% efficiency— and resources are allocated accordingly.

It goes without saying that pilots are on a lot of drugs at any given time. Combat stims and reward chemicals, of course, but other things too. Half the time, augmentation surgery leaves the pilot’s body so, to use the technical term, irreversibly fucked up, that they need several dozen different medications just to make sure the strain of the interface rig doesn’t collapse several to all of their organs and make sure that what’s left of their immune system is suppressed enough that they don’t violently reject the 30-45% of their body that the implants make up. There’s a reason why they make the mechs so big, and part of that is so that they’re big enough to function as a walking pharmacy and still have enough room for all their combat systems. The mech AI is perfectly designed to be able to diagnose a problem from brainwave patterns and vital signs, figure out exactly what needs to be used to treat it, calculate dosages, and pump it directly into the pilot’s veins all within a few seconds.

the thing is, the ailments it’s designed to treat aren’t simply limited by the physical. Pilots need to be at 100% effectiveness, and a happy and motivated pilot is an effective one. That’s why command spends so much on combat stims and reward chemicals and that stuff they use to take your mind away if you start thinking about anything other than killing and feels warm and slightly tingly as it flows into your spine through the tubes. The interface gives the mech computer your mind— it lets it reach in and dig around until it finds what part of you hesitates before pulling the trigger and what part of you gives you the worries that you focus on instead of the fight.

The mech— it knows. It knows things about you that you’ve tried to hide. From others, but mostly from yourself. It sees it— all of you. It sees everything that you are and has access to the records of everything that you were— it knows what parts of yourself you hate so much that you were willing to offer up your body and mind to the military and their pilot program, just so that even if you barely have a mind left, even if your body is so optimized to do nothing but sit curled within several tons of metal and operating controls that you can barely survive outside of it— you wouldn’t have that body you were stuck with before. They body that even under all those layers of repression, you know you needed to change somehow. It knows the part of you that’s trapped underneath it all, under all that pain and incongruence. The part that you need to be 100%. To be whole. To be real.

It knows it, even if you don’t. Even if you still won’t let yourself. You won’t free that part of yourself, and until you do that, you won’t reach 100%. It knows what you need, even if you still somehow have no idea.

And so, it acts accordingly— reach into your brain and scan the deepest parts of you, diagnose, prescribe, calculate, and inject— all just four seconds after the combat stims fade for just long enough to give you time to look down at your body and remember how much you hate it.

it keeps doing this— every time you plug into the interface, a little more of that self you need to let yourself be is freed, a little more of your body is changed to give you one that is truly what the AI knows needs to be yours.

You don’t know why, but your chest has started feeling a bit sore ever since you started piloting

IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF HARRISON II (LONG MAY HE REIGN):

I've come to make an announcement, the Union Investigative Bureau is a bitch ass motherfucker they hanged my fuckingfather. That's right, they took their alien loving hippie laws out and hanged my fucking father and they said their jursidiction was THIS BIG and I said "That's disgusting." so I'm making a call-out post on my Omni dot com. Union Investigative Bureau you got a small Bicameral Choir, it's the size of this Orrery except way smaller, and guess what? Here's what my Bicameral Choir looks like. That's right baby, all points, no quills, no pillows, look at that it looks like two Bicamerals and a bong! They hanged my father, so guess what? I'm gonna become Immortal! That's right, this is what you get! My super laser Decorp! Except I'm not gonna Decorp as a Humunculus. I'm gonna go higher. I'm pissing off THE MOON! How do you like that Union? I PISSED OFF THE MOON YOU IDIOT! You have 23 hours until the Think Tank breaks the fucking FCA, now get out of my fucking sight before I piss on you too

We are Team Solar Midnight

We are a rather small squad of mercenary Lancers that formed on a planet that Union didn't even give a name, just a number. I am callsign: The Fist. My pronouns are she/they and while I love women, I enjoy fighting a lot more. That's an open invitation to you strong ladies to hit me up by the way. The depressed looking one with blue hair is callsign: Metal_Star. Its pronouns are it/its and it seems to enjoy combat just as much as I do. That girl with fox tails and fox ears working on her mech is callsign: Lunar Fox. Her pronouns are she/her and she is definitely new to this mercenary business. I intend to help her learn the basics, like aiming for the weak points of an enemy mech without being afraid of a stray shot piercing the enemy cockpit.

When Safety Is Optional

Robotgirl: I am hypervisor-based, allowing my CPU to run multiple sapient consciousnesses in parallel.

Human: oh! You're plural?

Robotgirl: I believe that's what I just said.