CLASSIC BATTLETECH CATALYST game labs

[Editor's note: this is the original post, before the first major update. To see the most current writeup of Graves' Dancers, click here.]

GRAVES' DANCERS: CRAZY LIKE A FOX

Jean Graves is the son of a traditional Davion military family from Bonneau. He progressed through military school, where he took advanced studies in strategy, to the Point Barrow Military Academy. At that controversial school, he worked hard to live up to the family tradition. As a result, he became a skilled Mechwarrior and an early selection for OCS.

Then the dreams started.

At first they were merely annoying. Jean resolved to ignore them, and threw himself into his studies with renewed vigor. But as time passed, the dreams became clearer and more vivid, waking him sweating at night. Or screaming.

It is a credit to Jean's persistence that he managed to keep up his performance in one of the Federated Suns' most demanding schools, graduating with honors to a commission in the Addicks Draconis March Militia. There, he was given command of a company, and showed what seemed to be an instinctual flair for tactics. His on-the-spot improvisations changed the course of many a skirmish, both simulated and real.

Little did anyone know, Jean was actually listening to the voices in his head.

As the visions continued to intensify, Jean tried to find distractions, as he had in school. He got involved in politics, taking Katherine's side just for the sake of school tradition. But that quickly proved to be even more troublesome, and Jean finally turned to drinking to calm his nerves. Eventually, his superiors noticed, and Jean was ordered to seek medical help during his unit's regular rotation. The doctors thought his problem was treatable; Jean hoped they were right.

As it turned out, they weren't.

The exact sequence of events is unclear, but historically, the base where Jean's unit was stationed was bombarded by artillery from the Davion Assault Guards during the opening stages of the FedCom civil war. Jean says that he doesn't remember what exactly happened, but his men say that he led them through the chaos as if he knew where every single shell was going to fall. Guided by Jean's uncanny instincts, the Dancers fought their way to their DropShip, lifted off, hijacked a Merchant JumpShip, and escaped Addicks.

For the next several years, Jean's company, Graves’ Dancers, was the terror of the Draconis March. Being a Davion unit stationed on Davion ground, the Dancers knew where and when to hit Victor's forces and DCMS invaders alike. And with the aid of other loyalists, they hit them hard. But in late June of 3066, a massive Allied task force landed on New Avalon. It seemed clear that both Katrina and the last Loyalist bastion in the Federated Suns would fall, and with it would fall the Dancers' cause. Jean's men say that he seemed utterly unsurprised at the news. And then he led them to the Chaos March, where they sought to take refuge from Davion retaliation until the war was finally declared over.

Now the Dancers have turned up on Outreach, seeking work as mercenaries. Jean still drinks, and still dreams. But he has come to terms with his madness. His skills are sharp, his instincts are scary accurate, and his unit is small but effective. Only time...or Jean's visions...will tell what the future may hold for the Dancers.

The unit logo of Graves' Dancers is a skull surrounded by red roses. The Dancers' ‘Mechs are painted black, and decorated with individual motifs of roses and thorns, cavorting skeletons, and similar macabre images. The Dancers wear Davion-style uniforms and equipment, with their own personal touches.

Dragoons Rating: B+

PERSONNEL
Captain Jean Graves is possessed of what superstition calls a sixth sense; doctors would call it schizophrenia. Jean doesn't know what to call his problem, he just knows that what he sees in his head is more often right than not. It has taken time, but Jean has developed a darkly risqué humor and sense of style as an effective defense mechanism against his dreams; with his madness now somewhat under control, he could prove to be a great leader. His Penetrator is well suited to his mobile, improvisational style of fighting.

Albert Murphy, or “Big Al”, as he has been called throughout his Mechwarrior career, is formerly of the 3rd Davion Guards. A veteran of Operation Bird Dog, he was part of the company-sized force known as Allen’s Animals, which was dispatched in mid-May of 3059 to wage a guerilla campaign against Clan Smoke Jaguar on the world of Luzerne. Only one lance was recovered from the operation – and his wasn’t one of them. When his Clantech-equipped Atlas was shot out from under him by a trueborn Star Captain from the 6th Striker Cluster, he was taken bondsman and forced to work as a laborer for nearly two months until the planet was officially liberated on the 8th of August. Bitter from what he saw as abandonment and incompetence on the part of the AFFS, he left House Davion’s service, and settled in for a quiet and anonymous life on Acamar, only to be caught up in the chaotic civil war that overtook the planet just a few months later. Joining up with the mercenaries dispatched there as part of the bit of corporate adventurism known as Operation Stiletto, he helped to secure a stable government for the war-torn world. For the next four years, the small mercenary force remained on Acamar on a cushy garrison contract with the planet’s fledgling government. In 3066, Big Al and the other mercs were scattered by Olson’s Rangers, a mercenary regiment in the employ of the Capellan Confederation and intent on installing a pro-Liao government. The Capellan mercenaries were driven from the planet by Cunningham’s Commandos, a mercenary unit sent by Duke George Hasek, just a few weeks after their landing, but Big Al decided he’d had enough of the quiet life. When Graves’ Dancers arrived on Acamar, Big Al contacted Jean Graves and offered his services, and his extensive resume landed him the spot recently vacated by Eric McClair. Big Al now pilots a stealth-armored Victor salvaged during the Dancers’ previous assignment on Styk.

As part of a strike lance in the First Bolan Jaegers, Jason Bouchard earned himself a commendation for valor from Margrave Richard Steiner at the battle for Cavanaugh II (his homeworld) during the FedCom Civil War. Though the commendation came well-earned -- Bouchard had personally accounted for five kills with his LNX-9R Lynx, including a Cataphract from the Forty-second Avalon Hussars -- Steiner’s summary execution of Jaegers commander Megan O’Heron in the face of her calls to seek a cease-fire with allied forces prompted Bouchard to join the legions of those who defected when the battle turned against the Loyalist forces. Arriving on Outreach with his Lynx in tow, he was hired by Captain Graves almost immediately.

Like Eric McClair, Isabelle Rodriguez was also a member of Graves’ command lance in the Addicks DMM. She inherited her Japanese mother’s beauty, including long black hair and a petite, athletic build. She grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in the poor parts of Delacambre, and her rough childhood taught her to conceal her sensitive side under a “bad girl” mask. Isabelle gained admission to the Kilbourne Academy by virtue of her cleverness, and was assigned to the Draconis March Militia after her graduation. Isabelle is a hotshot and gambler, and has never lost a quickdraw contest. She is also an incorrigible tease, and enjoys using her “feminine wiles” on the Dancers’ male members. But if she has any genuine romantic interests, she is keeping them to herself for now.

Eric McClair met Jean Graves at Point Barrow Military Academy, where they both studied. Born on Woodbine, his parents were simply another pair of miners, but Eric managed to earn a scholarship that financed his time at Point Barrow. When he and Jean graduated, they were both assigned to the Addicks DMM, and Graves managed to have him transferred to his company’s command lance. McClair has been a loyal follower of Graves ever since. He is, like the others in his unit, an ardent Loyalist to Katrina – his disdain for Victor Steiner-Davion turned to hatred when his parents were killed in the fighting on Woodbine in 3063. After the raid on Styk, Eric was promoted to command of his own C3-equipped lance, designed to give more hard-hitting firepower to a unit more dependent on maneuver warfare than overwhelming force.

Few Mechwarriors have been bounced from one unit to another as many times as Sergeant Andrea Reimer. Then again, not many have the nervous tics and hyperactive nature that earned Reimer her nickname along with so many transfers. Out of a ’Mech, she looks and acts like someone with an adrenaline or sugar high coupled with a caffeine or amphetamine overdose -- a fact confirmed by the accidents that seem to follow her around. Once inside her Stealth -- the Lightning --she seemingly melds with the ’Mech and is nearly unstoppable, though curiously her ’Mech takes on many of her unique mannerisms. She was recently reassigned to Eric McClair’s new Striker Lance, her modified ‘Mech now serving as the spotter for the rest of her C3-equipped lancemates.

Deandra Voss is the youngest daughter of Angela Voss, the Major General who commands the Davion Light Guards infantry brigade. Raised in the staunch military tradition of the Voss line, Deandra was trained to be a Mechwarrior from the age of twelve. After graduating from the prestigious Albion Military Academy, she was assigned to the 8th FedCom RCT, just in time to get caught in the conflict on Kathil that kicked off the Federated Commonwealth civil war. A terrible meatgrinder that consumed multiple regiments on both sides, Deandra saw most of her fellow soldiers captured or killed as the 8th FedCom was pounded to pieces from years of being at the forefront of the Loyalist offensives. After almost three years of continuous conflict, the Loyalist remnants on Kathil finally surrendered to the rebel forces, ending one of the biggest battles of the civil war. Released from a prisoner-of-war camp at the conclusion of the war, Voss left the AFFS to pursue a career as a mercenary. Months on Outreach without a job left her despairing, but when she saw a MercNet ad for Graves’ Dancers, whose exploits she had heard about from her comrades on Kathil, she jumped at the chance to join up with such a storied Loyalist unit. She now pilots a Salamander in Eric McClair’s new Striker Lance.

Ian Sharpe was born on Skye into a large family, all of whom had close ties to the Free Skye movement. These connections, in addition to his high scores on martial aptitude tests, got him admitted to the Sanglamore Academy. After graduating in 3047, he was assigned to the elite 17th Skye Rangers. Just a few years later, the Rangers were caught in the voracious maw of the Clan Invasion, facing off against the Jade Falcons on Barcelona and then again on Black Earth. The second time nearly resulted in Sharpe’s death, when his Zeus was disabled by Elementals. In an attempt to resist the battle-armored soldiers with his service pistol, his femoral artery was severed by a ricochet in the cramped confines of the ‘Mech cockpit. The Skye Rangers overran his position just moments later, and a medic was able to get to him in time to save his life, but at the end of the Black Earth campaign he was given an honorable discharge for medical reasons. Retiring to Skye, he was revered as a war hero and eventually took a job as a consultant for Cyclops Incorporated, the largest producer of military-grade hovertanks in the Lyran half of the Federated Commonwealth. He also maintained an unofficial role as a training officer at the Sanglamore, where he gained quite a reputation for turning out disciplined and skillful soldiers. When the Skye Jaegers began to coalesce in late 3059, soon-to-be Colonel Steve Pitcher visited Sharpe to recruit him for a position as Hauptmann of one of the unit’s six BattleMech companies. Sharpe accepted the offer, and it was largely due to his rigorous training regimen that resulted in the Skye Jaegers being the first Jaeger unit to reach combat-ready status. When the Free Skye uprising began in the latter part of the FedCom civil war, Sharpe and the rest of the Jaegers were eager participants. But after the drubbing the Jaegers received at the hands of the Arcturan Guards while the Fourth Skye Rangers sat back and watched from the sidelines, Sharpe became disillusioned with the Free Skye movement, and left the service of the LAAF. Deciding to seek his fortunes as a mercenary, Sharpe joined up with the Dancers during their final stopover on Outreach. He now pilots a brand-new Thunderbolt in Eric McClair’s Striker lance.

Robert Mykelby, a Terran from the British Isles, joined the Com Guards a few years before Operation Serpent. Assigned to the Second Division, he witnessed firsthand the bloody fighting on Huntress. Unlike most of his comrades, he survived, but barely, and with serious emotional scars. No longer able to stomach the leadership of “the incompetent dwarf”, to use his words, he left the Com Guards with his Falconer, looking for mercenary work on Outreach. On the battlefield, he and his Falconer are a force to contend with. Off the battlefield, he is a vociferous opponent of Victor Steiner-Davion, whom he blames not only for the deaths of his friends on Huntress, but also for ComStar losses during the FedCom civil war. After the uprising in TempTown on Outreach, Mykelby’s Falconer was damaged beyond repair, but it has been replaced by a brand-new Warhammer of the WHM-9D model.

A fierce Azami warrior formerly of the 15th Dieron Regulars, Ukla Mauok pilots a nearly 200-year-old Dervish that one of his ancestors captured. Languishing in the disgraced unit for years, Mauok felt little loyalty to the DCMS, and when his ‘Mech was crippled by Jean Graves in combat on Addicks in 3065, he leapt at the chance to escape the Combine and joined the Dancers (the Dancers had returned to the system for a jump recharge at nearly the same time as the DCMS flotilla hit the opposite jumppoint, and the Dancers dropped on-planet to support the DLC against the Combine aggressors; of course, they immediately fled as soon as the Davion Assault Guards arrived in-system). He has since upgraded the ‘Mech to the DV-8D standard, but bizarrely, his near-surgical precision with the Dervish’s medium lasers make him a terror at close range. During a raid on Lyons, an Axman thought little of a Dervish at close range and tried to make quick work of him. After chopping at the Axman’s armor with his missiles for several minutes, Ukla closed and finished the Davion warrior off toe-to-toe.

Known for his tenacity and rugged pursuit of opponents, Matthew “Rawhide” Francis is formerly of the Caph Rowdies, a mercenary company that frequents both sides of the Capellan March. He is probably known best for his reported chasing down of a fleeing Shadow Hawk across 350 kilometers of the Salazaar desert on Bromhead.

The youngest member of the Dancers, Cartago native Manny Calavera, is so brash and cocky that it makes everyone who meets him want to slug him as soon as he opens his mouth. His only saving grace is that the young hotshot is nearly as good a Mechwarrior as he claims to be. A crack shot with his gauss rifle, Calavera holds the unit record for the most enemy pilot kills, although when engaged in his continual bragging he grossly inflates the number. He also takes it upon himself to personally assist in the upkeep of his Enforcer III, Grim Fandango, although he usually is more a headache to the techs than a boon. He takes great pride in Grim Fandango, and has painted a motif, depicting a dancing reaper holding a scythe in one hand and a castanet in the other, across the ‘Mech’s chest.

Alan Hawkins, or “Hawkeye”, as he insists everyone call him, is a disgruntled veteran Mechwarrior from Kirklin, and the Dancers’ XO. Formerly of the 22nd Avalon Hussars, he was sent to the Addicks DMM after being wounded during the Clan Invasion. During their time together in the DMM, Hawkeye became Graves’ mentor, of sorts, teaching him to appreciate the tactical and strategic value of the mobile raiding tactics the Dancers came to specialize in. His experience and cynicism balance Jean’s more instinctual, holistic style; together, they make a good command team. Hawkeye projects the old school attitude and barking voice of a drill sergeant; he chain smokes cigars, and is an unrepentant alcoholic. But beneath his gruff exterior, Hawkeye has a sensitive streak; he genuinely likes the other Dancers, and does all he can to support them, both as a public leader and private counselor.

Frederick Jacob “Red” Nelson is a native of Tsamma. His nickname comes from both his first name and his fiery hair. He grew up working on his family’s homestead, and has a farmhand’s barrel chest; he stands two meters tall, weighs 150 kilograms, and easily lifts over twice his weight! Fortunately, Red is usually a gentle giant; he is gregarious, loyal to his friends, and enjoys showing off his strength. Red’s one notable flaw is his general lack of sophistication. He is actually fairly bright, but his simple mindset reflects his humble origins, and often makes him a "straight man" for the rest of Graves’ Dancers. But as with most of life, Red just takes the role in stride.

Furio Castelluccio was born on Sadurni into a family that owned a small but well-regarded winery in the Avellino region of Katerini. When he was eight, Furio’s parents were killed in a car accident, and he was left in the care of his uncle, a drunk who verbally and physically abused him on a regular basis. At the age of sixteen, Furio ran away from home, hitchhiking his way to the capital city’s spaceport and stowing away aboard a cargo DropShip bound for Solaris VII. One of his cousins was a Mechwarrior with Fitzhugh Stables, and got him a job as an astech. It was during this time that Furio first began to develop a fascination with the Mechwarrior lifestyle. He began to spend his nights (and paychecks) using the ‘Mech simulators incessantly, and took night classes on the weekends. Finally, after years of honing his skills, Furio began to petition Andre Fitzhugh to allow him to join the Stable as a Mechwarrior. With his cousin vouching for him, Fitzhugh had him tested against the Stable’s veterans, and he passed with flying colors. He soon became a successful fighter on the Class Three circuit, and at the height of his career he was considered one of the best medium ‘Mech pilots on Solaris, having made it into the Top Twenty for his Class during four different seasons. Over the years, however, Andre Fitzhugh’s feud with Bromley Stables grew more and more obsessive, with accusations of inter-stable sabotage surrounding almost every match between the two rivals. Several Mechwarriors from Fitzhugh Stables became fed up with the situation, and Furio was one of them; he spent his accrued winnings on a ticket to Outreach, hoping to find employment as a mercenary. He was one of several Mechwarriors hired by Graves’ Dancers during their most recent layover at Outreach, and was given the vacant slot in Hawkeye’s Scout lance. The salvaged PXH-3PL Phoenix Hawk he now pilots meshes well with his combat style, which alternates between hit-and-fade strikes and extremely aggressive brawling attacks.

William Sanderson made his name as an expert city fighter with Hansen's Roughriders.  When his beloved Warhammer was destroyed, his regimental commander offered him a captured Wolfhound.  Grateful that he did not join the ranks of the Dispossessed, but determined to capture a heavy 'Mech, Sanderson is a very aggressive fighter; a trait which, unfortunately, led to his being “let go” by the Roughriders. His Wolfhound bears the scars of several near-disastrous encounters, but since joining the Dancers, his behavior has been reined in a great deal.

John Purcell was formerly a Sergeant-Major in the Wolf’s Dragoons’ Home Guard, but with the decimation of the Home Guard during the recent uprising in Temptown, he decided to seek employment elsewhere. A cynic and a sarcastic misanthrope, Purcell’s attitude meant he was always just one step away from being fired (he had once been a Captain in Beta Regiment’s Long Riders, but was sent to the Home Guard for “attitude problems and insubordinate behavior”). When Jean Graves offered him command of his own company of hovertanks, he jumped at the chance for such a big promotion. He has already begun to put the new company through its paces, and his irreverent command style meshes well with Graves’ own quirky sense of tactics. Off-duty, Purcell is an enthusiastic musician, whose love of rock music led to him installing a music system in his Regulator on which he plays his tunes of choice during missions – usually with the volume turned all the way up. Purcell's first outing with his new company was a wash: his Regulator was responsible for decapitating the Capellan commander's Victor, but his crew was killed when weapons fire from a Crusader penetrated the cabin. Purcell himself was badly injured, nearly losing his right leg. He now walks with a limp, and must take powerful painkillers multiple times a day. This has not begun to affect his leadership yet, but it certainly has not improved his disposition, either.

Angus MacGyver is the Dancers’ master technician. He comes from Sabanillas, though his brogue has been diluted by his technical education. He has been working on machines since he was old enough to turn a wrench; as a child, he once took apart his father’s farm tractor just to see how it worked! He is precise in technical matters, but his strange sense of humor often makes others question his sanity. Angus might be crazy, but he is certainly not stupid, and his ability to improvise complex repairs with only minimal resources makes him the Dancers’ most valuable supporting asset.

TACTICS
The Dancers use mobile raiding tactics, in the tradition of units like the Eridani Light Horse. Their battle plans are often improvised on the fly, according to whatever is guiding Jean's thoughts at the time; the Dancers have learned not to question their Captain's quick judgment, and follow his orders to the letter.

SUPPORT
The Dancers have the Merchant JumpShip (the Toorna Prophet) that they hijacked during the civil war, and they still possess the Union DropShip (the MacGyver) that they used when they were an AFFC unit. Badly damaged when they first arrived on Outreach, both the DropShip and JumpShip had been pawned to arms brokers, but the Dancers have made enough money to get the MacGyver out of hock and restored to full working condition. They have 100% tech support; being a graduate of the hands-on PBMA, Jean fully understands the value of self-sufficiency, especially in a guerrilla raiding unit.

Graves' Dancers
Mixed Battalion/Veteran/Questionable
The Dancers are a flexible, mobility-oriented unit. They field no ‘Mech with a cruising speed under 54 KPH unless it is jump-capable. These ‘Mechs are as follows:

1st Company
Command Lance
Major Jean Graves (1/3) -- Penetrator PTR-6T (C)
Sergeant Major Albert “Big Al” Murphy (2/4) -- Victor VTR-10L
Mechwarrior Jason Bouchard (3/3) -- Lynx LNX-9R
Mechwarrior Isabelle Rodriguez (3/4) – Enforcer III ENF-6M

Striker Lance
Lieutenant Eric McClair (2/3) – Templar TLR1-OGD
Sergeant “Anxious” Andrea Reimer (3/3) -- Stealth STH-2DG
Mechwarrior Deandra Voss (3/4) -- Salamander PPR-7SG
Mechwarrior Ian Sharpe (3/4) -- Thunderbolt TDR-10SEG

Fire Lance
Lieutenant Robert Mykelby (2/3) – Warhammer WHM-9D
Sergeant Ukla Mauok (2/4) -- Dervish DV-8D
Mechwarrior Matthew “Rawhide” Francis (3/4) -- Dervish DV-8D
Mechwarrior Manny Calavera (2/4) -- Enforcer III ENF-6T

Scout Lance
Lieutenant Alan “Hawkeye” Hawkins (2/3) -- Firestarter FS9-OF
Sergeant Frederick Jacob “Red” Nelson (3/4) – Bishamon BSN-3KG
Mechwarrior Furio Castelluccio (3/4) -- Phoenix Hawk PXH-3PL
Mechwarrior William Sanderson (3/4) – Wolfhound WLF-3S

2nd Company
Headbanger Lance
Captain John Purcell (2/4) -- Regulator Hovertank
Driver Jose King
Gunner George Oraszco
Lieutenant Nelle Moon (2/3) -- Regulator Hovertank
Driver Desmond Overholt
Gunner Steve Greenwood
Corporal Randall Johnston (3/4) -- Regulator Hovertank
Driver Hector Throckmorton
Gunner Emmanuel Warner
Corporal Geoffrey Kava (3/4) -- Regulator Hovertank
Driver Karen Leach
Gunner Yaron Eckert

Foxtrot Lance
Lieutenant Solomon Pullman (2/3) -- Zephyr Hovertank
Driver Tyrik Glover
Gunner Joandra Boyd
Sergeant Joel Sommer (3/3) -- Zephyr Hovertank
Driver Sid Myer
Gunner Winter Marcotte
Corporal Jera Bryant (3/4) -- Zephyr Hovertank
Driver Godfrey Harper
Gunner Sera Thomas
Corporal Yukiko Hasegawa (3/4) -- Zephyr Hovertank
Driver Honor Campbell
Gunner Galen Reed

Tango Lance
Lieutenant Julius Bennett (2/3) -- Pegasus Scout Hovertank (Dancers Mod)
Driver Salah al-Zayman
Gunner Damian Perkins
Sergeant Roland Mueller (3/3) -- Pegasus Scout Hovertank (Dancers Mod)
Driver Nona Hoover
Gunner Leonard Gronko
Corporal Kaitlynn Hunt (3/4) -- Pegasus Scout Hovertank (Dancers Mod)
Driver Rich Tavoularis
Gunner Latasha Knight
Corporal Park Lee San (3/4) -- Pegasus Scout Hovertank (Dancers Mod)
Driver Benjamin Glover
Gunner Abby Baughman

Dancers Air
Air Lance/Veteran/Questionable
These two Corsair fighters provide efficient air cover for the Dancers' operations.

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

It was a strand of thought that danced across the ghost-world of Jean’s dreams. The lilting words of some ancient Terran poet, drifting in that corrupted place where the same gut-wrenching scenes played themselves out behind his eyes. The same place he went every night, no matter how much he tried to blot it out with whiskey and self-abnegation.

He felt the rain pelt his face like hail. On Addicks, when it rained, it rained hard. The atmosphere was like soup, and combined with the increased gravity, it turned the rain into whizzing, stinging nettles that continuously pummeled every exposed inch of skin.

He was sitting on the shoulder of his Penetrator, his feet dangling down above the ‘Mech’s open cockpit. Around him, the rest of his company was arrayed, metal titans standing out across the endless grey of ferrocrete that composed Fort Lucien’s parade grounds. Silently, he watched the men and women under his command clamber into the cockpits of their war machines. He knew why they did it. He felt it whisper across his lips.

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

He dropped down into the Penetrator’s cockpit, strapped himself into the command couch, and buttoned down the hatch. He felt himself going through the hard-start process as though he was watching a movie inside his own head, detached and floating. He had had this nightmare a thousand times now. He knew what was coming next, and he wanted to scream, but he could no more control his body than he could lift his BattleMech with one hand.

Something else screamed for him.

A hard rain began to fall.

Artillery shells came whistling down out of the sky, blasting chunks of ferrocrete across Jean’s vision and shaking his ‘Mech with the force of an earthquake. In front of him, he saw a thunderous explosion snap the leg of his lancemate’s Ostsol like a twig. It toppled, twisting, in slow motion. Every second was seared into his mind’s eye. He watched as it fell, sprawling, onto its back…and then, seconds later, another bloom of bright flame consumed the Ostsol’s cockpit. The fire emblazoned his own reflection across the inside of his cockpit window, and to his horror, he saw that he had no face.

No face.

He woke up the same way he always did.

Screaming.

---

Harlech, Outreach
1 February 3067

The Blue Casket was just one more hole-in-the-wall bar in east Harlech. Its only real advantages lay in its proximity to the living quarters of Graves’ Dancers and the extremely low prices of its drinks. It was also poorly-lit, which suited Jean just fine. Nobody wants to see clearly when they drink, he reflected as he spun his whiskey glass around on the ring of moisture it had left on the bar. Hell, it’s why half of ‘em are drinking in the first place. He brought the glass to his lips and tossed the last of the dusky liquid down his throat, and let the fiery sensation settle in his belly. His vision spun slightly, and he laid his head down on the bar.

Jean felt a hand on his shoulder. “Had a few too many, boss?”

It was Eric McClair, one of Jean’s oldest and most loyal friends, seated at the barstool next to him. A crooked grin split his dark goatee, his amusement at his friend’s intoxication evident.

“Lummelone…” Jean mumbled.

Eric removed his hand, but kept grinning. “All I’m saying is, if you stay there, Ivan’s gonna be pissed.” Ivan was the Blue Casket’s bartender, an ornery Tikonovian who solved most problems around his bar with the potent combination of a steel clankball baton and a great deal of velocity. He noticed Jean's semi-conscious repose. “Hey!” he yelled. “You drool on bar, I break you face.” He tapped his baton on the bar for emphasis. Jean was fairly drunk, but he managed to lift himself back up; the desire to avoid an intimate meeting with a large metal rod was more than enough motivation.

Unfortunately, his motivation did not, as it turned out, translate into balance, and it was certainly no match for gravity. Jean gracefully toppled backward off of the barstool, and was left messily sprawled across the dingy stone floor.

Eric collapsed in a fit of laughter, and the man seated on the other side of Jean’s barstool turned and looked as well. “Bloody colonials,” he said, the disdain dripping from his precise, aristocratic tone. “None of you lot know how to hold your liquor.”

“C’mon, Robert, help me get him up,” Eric said, and the two of them stood up and lifted Jean to his still-wobbling feet. Robert Mykelby was a Terran from the British Isles, and his condescending attitude toward all things non-Terran was something Eric had gotten used to, but Jean took offense to the remark. His offense was masked by the fact that he was mostly incoherent, of course, but it was there nonetheless.

Jean tried to wave them off, with little success. “I…fullfine. Just needa siddown.”

The two men dragged him to the corner booth, and then all three of them slid in around the small wooden table. Eric signaled Ivan to bring them two more drinks, and for a few minutes Eric and Robert simply drank and listened to the easy beats of the Mizaran reggae that crackled from the tinny speakers that lined the bar’s walls.

After a while, Ivan went into the back room to wash dishes. A minute or so after he did, a stocky, hawk-nosed man who had been sitting at the other end of the bar stood up and walked over to their table. Before either Eric or Robert could react, he pulled up a chair, sat down, drew a pistol with a small silencer, and pointed it directly at Jean’s chest.

Eric and Robert both froze, their bodies tensing up, ready to spring into action at any moment. Jean seemed to take all of this in stride, and simply stared at the large handgun for a few long moments.

“Well, now,” he finally said, with a sort of calm detachment, “this is a situation.”

The hawk-nosed man said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. The gun stayed perfectly level and still in his hand.

“Can we help you?” Eric asked icily.

Hawk-Nose still didn’t move. “You are Jean Graves, yes?” His voice sounded like someone had rubbed the inside of his throat with lavarock.

Jean seemed to consider this question for a moment.

“No, I’m Hanse Davion. Don’t you recognize me?”

Hawk-Nose’s finger twitched, and a bullet buried itself in the wall a few centimeters from Jean’s head. Jean didn’t flinch, more out of drunkenness than out of bravado.

“You will find, Mr. Graves, that I have absolutely no sense of humor.”

Jean arched an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Captain Jean Graves, by the authority of the Department of Military Justice of the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns and the rightful Archon-Prince Victor Steiner-Davion, I am placing you under arrest for desertion, theft of military property, murder of military personnel, and treason against the lawful government of the Federated Suns.”

Jean shrugged, clearly nonplussed. “This is Outreach. The midget and his goons have no authority here.”

“You’re coming with me, or your friends here are dead men. They’re worthless to me.”

“How flattering,” Eric said sarcastically.

“Quiet,” Hawk-Nose said. “All of you, put your weapons on the table.”

Eric and Robert, with clear reluctance, placed their service pistols on the table. Jean remained motionless.

Hawk-Nose motioned slightly with his weapon. “Yours, too, Graves.”

“Sorry, no can do. Family heirloom.”

A tight smirk spread across the bounty hunter’s face. “Hand it over, traitor. I’ve a thing for antiquities.”

Slowly, he unholstered the heavy revolver and set it in front of him, barrel pointed toward his own chest.

“You know,” he remarked, “this gun got me through the war.” He looked over at Eric. “It’s one of only a few things I can recall that did, and stuck with me afterwards.”

Hawk-Nose leaned and reached out with one hand to collect the pistols. “The war’s over, Graves.”

“Yeah. People keep saying that.”

As the bounty hunter bent forward, Jean suddenly kicked the bottom of the table as hard as he could, slamming the opposite end into the man’s elbow and knocking his aim wide. The man managed to get off a single shot that missed wildly, and then Eric and Robert were both on him, Eric trying to pin him while Robert grabbed his gun hand and disarmed him by smashing his wrist against a table leg. The bounty hunter smashed his forehead against the bridge of Eric’s nose, and Eric rolled off of him, but Robert pinned the man’s right arm with one knee and placed the other on his throat. The bounty hunter writhed and spasmed, trying to get a breath, but Robert applied continued pressure with his knee until the man was out cold.

Jean had still not risen from his seat at the booth. “Hey, Ivan!” he called out. “Some poor bastard out here fell over our table!”

Ivan came storming out from the back, baton in hirsute hand, and saw the bloodied and unconscious bounty hunter. “Stupid son of bitch,” he muttered, poking his prone form with the baton. “Hey! You bleed on floor, I break you face.” Reaching down, he grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him to the bar’s entrance, then picked him up like a sack of potatoes and tossed him out the door.

“Well,” Robert said, dusting off his jacket and heading for the door, “I believe that’s more than enough excitement for the night, boys. I’ll call the police and have them take care of that Davion fellow.”

Eric was still stanching the flow of blood from his nose, and he too moved to leave. “I’ll be in the infirmary if you need me, boss.”

Jean just gave them a vague nod. “If either of you need me, you know where to find me.”

The same place he always ended up, he knew.

The bottom of a bottle.

Loving them already.  In the bar scene, I could almost hear "Captain Jack Sparrow's" voice coming out of Graves' mouth.

This name caught my eye, too, though I'm not sure if I'm reading somethign in to it I shouldn't be:  Ukla Mauok.  It made me think of "Ukla the Mok" from "Thundarr the Barbarian."

Harlech, Outreach
2 February 3067

Jean Graves was the same place he usually was when he had paperwork for the Dancers that needed doing: leaning back in the cushy desk chair he had bought for his office, napping off a hangover. Paperwork, Jean reasoned, was why God invented lawyers.

A loud knock on the door startled Jean out of his half-slumber, and he rolled out of the chair, bouncing hard off his metal desk before ending up face down on the floor.

He turned his head toward the door, mostly so he could speak but also because linoleum was not particularly tasty. “Come in.”

As he lifted himself back into his chair, his executive officer entered. Alan Hawkins, or “Hawkeye”, as he insisted everyone call him, was puffing on one the stinking cigars he had perpetually clamped between his teeth. Although he had no proof of it, Jean would not have been altogether surprised if he found that Hawkeye smoked while sleeping. Not that it bothered him, of course. Hawkeye was one of Jean’s oldest friends, and his mentor of sorts. When they had met in the Addicks DMM, it was Hawkeye’s hardassed attitude and continual berating that transformed him from a greenhorn officer into a hardened soldier. While Jean certainly allowed the discipline of both himself and the unit to slip a great deal while between contracts, it was Hawkeye who made sure that the unit fought as a coordinated, professional unit on the battlefield. He was a man who, simply put, excelled at every aspect of professional soldiery, and Jean knew just how invaluable his input was.

Hawkeye snapped off a quick salute, tossed the papers he was holding onto Jean’s desk, then sat down in the seat across from him. “Found something I thought you might be interested in.”

Jean looked at the papers appraisingly, but didn’t pick them up. “A contract?”

Hawkeye shook his head. “No. ‘Mechs.”

Jean grabbed the papers and started to read them, but the first few pages seemed to be mostly legal and technical jargon. He flipped through them, hoping to find something he could understand.

“Coupla Starslayers, Jean, that’s what yer lookin’ at. A friend of a friend of a guy I know picked ‘em up at police auction a week ago.”

Jean nodded; he knew the Starslayer well. It was a ‘Mech that had achieved a great deal of circulation in both branches of the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth. Though ugly and not particularly advanced, it was sturdy, maneuverable, and mounted a powerful complement of energy weapons. Best of all, for both the AFFC and mercenaries alike, it was cheap.

“We’ve still got a lot of the older chassis that we salvaged during the war, Jean. They ain’t worth much these days, but we could still probably sell off a few. That’d raise more’n enough.”

The idea had definitely piqued Jean’s interest. “I’m betting we’re not the only ones who’re gonna be interested in snatching these up. How long do you think we’ve got before somebody else buys ‘em?”

Hawkeye chewed his cigar thoughtfully. “Hard to say. But it’s a seller’s market right now when it comes to BattleMechs. The sooner we sell off some of that salvage, the sooner we can get our hands on those Starslayers.”

Jean stood up, collecting the papers in one hand. “Then get your uniform, Lieutenant. And get the boat ready.”

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. “Boat?”

Jean was grinning like a madman as he stepped out his office door. “Yes, the boat, Lieutenant. We’re going for a sale!”

Harlech, Outreach
4 February 3067

The briefing room of Graves’ Dancers stank of sweat and Hawkeye’s noxious cigars. January was the middle of summer on Outreach, and the room’s air-conditioning had been broken since they had moved into the office space two weeks previous, so the unit’s Mechwarriors were forced to sweat like pigs while seated in the cheap folding chairs arrayed in a semi-circle around the room’s centerpiece, a podium that had approximately the same aesthetic qualities as a chimney. A large oscillating fan sat in one corner, spraying the rank stench about the room, but it was one the Dancers were long used to.

The entire unit had been ordered to assemble for a briefing, and the excitement in the room was as palpable as the aroma: this was the Dancers’ first contract since coming to Outreach and beginning their mercenary careers. None of them knew the details of the contract, not even Hawkeye or Eric. But the offer had only just arrived that morning, and Captain Graves had already decided to accept it, so everyone knew it must be a lucrative one.

When Jean Graves finally entered the room, the entire unit leapt to its collective feet, standing at attention and giving the traditional two-fingered salute of the AFFS. Jean hurriedly snapped off a salute in return, and Dancers took their seats again as their commanding officer took his place behind the podium. He had shaved and appeared to be sober, which was certainly a good sign: it indicated he was ready to take the unit into the field again.

Jean cleared his throat and gripped both sides of the podium, then began to speak. “Let’s get right down to business, ladies and gents. This morning I was contacted by a Precentor from the Word of Blake.”

A buzz of murmurs swept through the room. The Word of Blake, a breakaway sect of ComStar composed of its most conservative members, was a controversial group throughout much of human space. Although their humanitarian efforts throughout the war-torn Chaos March and elsewhere had rightfully earned them a great deal of goodwill, many still distrusted the Blakists. The Wolf’s Dragoons, famed mercenary unit and rulers of Outreach, had formed a coalition of like-minded mercenaries bent on disrupting Blakist operations throughout the region.

Hawkeye turned around in his seat in the front row, always the disciplinarian. “Alla you, shut the hell up!” The room quieted, and Jean cleared his throat to speak again.

“The Word of Blake wants us to steal some high-tech toys from the Draconis Combine. I certainly don’t think any of you will mind taking on the Snakes again.” That got some satisfied laughs from the Dancers; they’d hit the forces of the DCMS hard a year ago during their counterattacks against the Draconis March, and so they relished the thought of facing down Combine forces once again. “Specifically, we’ll be hitting the Alshain Weapons complex on Tok Do. It’s about eleven jumps from here, near their border with the Ghost Bears. The Blakists want this covert, so they’re footing the bill to transport a lance of our ‘Mechs and Link’s boys.” Lincoln Donovan commanded the Dancers’ sole squad of battle armor, and he and the troopers under his command relished battle with a zeal not usually found outside of the Clans or Solaris fans. They whooped their approval at the news. Jean grinned at their enthusiasm. “Save it for when we get to Tok Do, boys.”

Manny Calavera spoke up. “So, boss, which one of the lances is gonna go snake-stomping?”

“I haven’t decided yet, Manny, but definitely not yours.” Everyone laughed at that.

“In all seriousness, though, folks,” Jean continued, “this is a sweet gig if we can pull it off, and pull it off clean. Nice, fat paychecks and probably a cargo hold full of salvage. So starting tomorrow, we’re gonna start a rigorous training cycle. I’ve already reserved time on the proving grounds, and each lance is going to take turns practicing simulated extractions that will be drawn up by myself and our Blakist liaison, who will be accompanying us during the actual raid; the schedule will be distributed to lance commanders. Once I decide which lance will be making the trip, we’ll boost for orbit and head to Tok Do, and that’ll be that. Any questions or concerns?”

Nobody spoke up. Jean kept a solemn look on his face, but inwardly he beamed with pride at how the men and women under his command became consummate professionals when it came to doing their jobs. He raised his right hand in salute, and everyone else in the room snapped to attention for the second time. “Let’s get ready to dance, folks. Dismissed.”

Small update for all three of my fans: I've got four more story posts on the burner...one is mostly-done multi-page rough draft, and the other three are still in the "research and development" stage. The one on deck is a flashback to the beginning of the FCCW; I plan to intersperse several stories like this one in order to flesh out the unit's background and the main characters.

A wobbie contract.
Well at least your hitting some snakes.
Rigorous training schedule, break out the bourbon.

tag

It gets better!! ***** 5 Stars

Getting better all the time.

I approve. And the 42nd Avalon got a mention, hooray. I need to figure out what they've been up to in the Jihad.

hated enemies the Davion Assault Guards and 1st NAIS  talk about best and brightest lol just as well they picked up more folk, they are going to go through the Warriors quickly

Indeed. By the time they end up on Outreach, there are only five Mechwarriors left of the original dozen Dancers when they first fled Addicks (Jean, Eric, Hawkeye, Isabelle, and Manny).

The current contract:

Just another update: of course, the Dancers are still alive and kicking...even as I type this, my third and fourth hands are writing a story based on the raid the Dancers just pulled off. Hopefully, you all will think it's a good one, but it may be another few days before I can put the finishing touches on it.

On a side note, I'm officially soliciting suggestions: Red's Tarantula is scrap, and Bill Sanderson's Wolfhound is in pretty bad shape too. What should I replace the Tarantula with? Should I get something to replace the Wolfhound too?

Unfortunately, the rules of the campaign I play the Dancers in don't allow me to customize non-Omnis. Any suggestions on specific replacements?