The Grendel attacked me almost immediately, weapons blazing. The mech's two-storey body was laughable in shape but advantageous from a tactical viewpoint. Its thick, bulbous body gave it heavy armour and a low center of gravity, and its weapons array was built directly into the center of its frame, making it harder to destroy. The tubby grey German mech fought less like its mythological namesake and more like a sumo wrestler-it was built to take a hit and remain standing. A single red light shone through its thick armour as it wobbled toward me, marking where its camera was hidden away. The chunky Grendel was a tough enemy for my flimsy Regiment, especially because it was carrying both a rotary railgun and a powerful howitzer cannon. Fortunately, I had a trick or two up my sleeve. An interchangeable weapons array had been the reason I had chosen to use a Regiment for my mission-though a Goliath would've been a better mech, the Regiment's mounted weapons were easily customizable. Most

The Exodus looked like a giant red kettle. Its big, bowl-shaped body and raised shoulders gave it an ornate look, accented by the gold decals that decorated its armour. The owner had put substance before style, certainly, but there was still plenty of style to spare on the body of the Exodus. A giant, stylish red kettle, then. It's amazing what nonsense goes through your head when you're dodging missiles launched from said giant red kettle of death. "Blast!" I growled, and slammed my hand onto the activation key. The odds were good enough. I could feel my teeth vibrate as the back of the Prototype folded outward on itself, the jagged armour behind my cockpit peeling back like a gate to allow access to something new. The Prototype's secret weapon. Only, it wasn't a weapon. It was a crystalline pyramid of electronics and synthetic glass that poked out of the armour a few centimetres above the mech, shimmering in the midday sun. The quiet hum it made failed to convey the true power

Report: Quinn The interior of Dropship 13. Russian airspace. The rough metal tread of the hangar bay floor dug into my knees as I landed, gasping for breath. You never notice how suffocating it is inside a mech until you're outside once again. I stood shakily, slick with sweat, and laughed, raising my arms and enjoying the cool air on my skin. Below me hung the Prototype. The mech's once-smooth armour was scuffed and chipped, pitted with dents from bullets and other projectiles. One plasma cannon hung from the mech's side, its long, bulbous frame scratched and bent. The launcher on the opposite side of the mech, however, was much worse for wear. A twisted hunk of metal hung limp, emitting an occasional spark as power ran uselessly through the crippled unit. Lucas wouldn't be pleased. The interior of Dropship 13 was a dim, vast space filled with mechs that hung down from mechanical arms like sleeping bats. Reddish-brown metal grates lined the walls as well as the floor, doubling a

"Two weeks," Dan insisted. "You're out of your mind!" I shot back. "The Prowler came back in one piece. That is not worth two weeks of running errands for you." "Mostly in one piece," Lucas interjected. "Sixteen days," Dan added. "That's longer than two weeks!" I snapped. "This is a terrible negotiation!" "It's not a negotiation," Dan replied, "it's a hostage situation." "It doesn't matter if Dan tells her," Lucas interjected. "Mallet probably knows already." "Three weeks," Dan continued. "Three and I won't tell her." The elevator drifted to a stop, mechanical brakes locking it firmly in place. The moment the elevator doors slid open I was greeted by a thunderous howl. "Jackson Quinn, get the hell in here!" "Something wicked this way comes," Dan hissed. "See you after General Mallet decides how to tan your hide," Lucas chuckled. "The deal is off!" I insisted. "No deal!" Two pairs of rough hands pushed me out of the elevator and the doors sealed behind me. The Stonewood twi

"Alright, listen up pilots!" Mallet was in her element, standing at the front of the crowded briefing room. To call it a briefing room was generous. The open-air auditorium was, in fact, merely a ramshackle collection of chairs and tables pulled together in the corner of one of the dropship landing platforms. My seat was close to the platform's railing. I could see the Firmament's uppermost dome high above and could almost make out the bulky shape of the reactor core far below. The morning was muggy and smelled of ocean salt and oil. Sixteen dropships of various sizes occupied the space directly behind us. Crews bustled about the space, loading mechs and making final preparations. The mechanical din was only overwhelmed by the din of thirty mech pilots chattering nervously. "Grayson, shut up," Mallet snapped. A specific, loud voice quickly stopped talking and the rest of the room soon followed suit. General Marissa Mallet swung her hawk-like gaze to the front of the platform, w