Hello. Major Cecil Winston Archibald Pwnage of the Bretonia Armed Forces, at your service, suh!
Now, me young pup, you're probably wondering what's an old flier like me, who's given the best part of his life to Her Majesty's navy, doing back in the hot seat.
Well it's quite simple really. Here I was retired this summer gone, after 40 good solid years service to the Forces. I'm sitting in me favourite spot on a sunny morning, in the gardens of the family manor house on Cambridge, nice cuppa tea and a scone, reading the Sunday paper.... and what do I see?
Bloody Kusari has invaded! Those rice munchers, stomping around our hallowed and ancient lands without so much as a by-your-leave.
Well it's just not on.
That very minute I called to me butler, Frobinger, and I says, "Frobinger, saddle up old Fish-face! Scrub the guns, load the missiles, and set the targetting scanner to 'Kusari'. I'm orf to fight the war!"
I said goodbye to old Aunt Tilly and the dawgs, and had a quick whip round the manor and beat all the servants, which I think they appreciated.
So it's pip-pip and tally-ho, for queen and country!
EDIT: (OOC: This has nothing to do with the current AW/SA conflict (dammit)
Well old boy, when the silk scarf and googles get a little bored over there in Bretonia, and the Purdies are
showing a little rust in the bores (Dammit, can't get the staff these days) Pop into Waterloo Station at your
convenience. Maybe we can use a chap of your calibre, I do like the cut of your cloth old bean ...
Some say he is a proud member of: "The most paranoid group of people in the Community."
I say old chap, nice to see someone with a skerrick of manners for a change. Too many fly-by-nighters and never-you-minds bumping around these days.
Well now I have to admit I've heard of your particular outfit; and if I may speak frankly, they may not be the most polished of lads, but by all accounts they're worth their salt. So I must say I am highly tempted by your offer.
But there's the rub..... there's a job to be done, and while those pointy-winged jacks are goose-stepping all over me beloved homeland, it's the red knickers and tin hat for muggins here, by god!
Let's see now.... ah yes, I was just saying how I was so outraged at those ruddy Kusari for invading our sovereign homeland, that I'd put me boots that I'd hung up back on, and headed out into the blue yonder to join me comrades.
I say, I s'pose I'd better give you a quick rundown on me equipment. First there is me ship -- standard issue B-907A Crusader. Old Fish-Face I call her, and not a bad old bird either, seen me through many a scrape. Managed to hang onto her after me retirement, sort of a going away present from the squadron, and glad I am of it too. Beats the old gold watch, what what!
Next, weapons: Standard issue Ripper class 4, 1 of; Standard issue Advanced Skyrail class 5, 1 of; Civvy class 3 shield buster, 1 of; Catapult missile launcher with ammunition, 1 of; Starkiller torpedo launcher with ammo, 1 of.
Now I know what you're thinking, me lad: "But suh, B-907A has total of six gun ports!" And so she does. I try to keep her to regulation, but just between you, me and the fencepost, those wretched outlaws can conjure up a fine weapon, damn their eyes. So -- lean closer, boy! Can't have this shouted out to all and sundry -- I have me "non-regulations". One, a very nice neutron cannon wrested orf the flaming wreck of a Corsair I'd just downed, and damned lucky I was to grab it too. I call her "Brown Bess". The other, old "12 bore" I christened her, a jolly nice particle gun kindly given me by an Outcast lass.
Pick that jaw up orf the table, young pup, it does you no justice looking like you're about to swallow an elephant! Yes I've had dealings with those ne're-do-well Outcasts which have involved more exchanging of pleasantries than gunfire, but that's a story for another time. Let's just say, in these interesting times, more goes on than meets the old eye, nudge-nudge-wink-wink-say-no-more!
So throw in a tin hat and a pair of red knickers, and that about sums up old Muggins here. Now where's that blasted serving wench?
Now where was I? Ah yes, my first deployment. Well like I was saying, old Fish-face and I set orf to BAF-HQ to re-sign up. They took me on immediately, I'm happy to say, and waived me through basic training. I fully expected to be out giving those noodle-munchers a good walloping by lunchtime.
But sadly, it was not to be. "It's been a while for you, old boy," they told me, "we can only have our best men on the front lines."
Bloody cheek! I told them, I've downed more bandits than you've had Sunday dinners. Nevertheless, I'm a soldier for Her Majesty, and I follow orders, no matter if they were issued by some whelp who was still soiling his nappies when I was earning me stripes chasing pirates.
Long story short, I ended up posted to HM Prison Newgate. A crowded, stinking hole in the middle of nowhere with only a minefield for company. Apparently with the war going on and our lads deployed away, the BPA has had to step up patrols to look after things at home. That's seen them stretched pretty thin, and so they've had to bring in some of our "inexperienced" boys to help out at places like Newgate. Makes perfect sense to me...
Don't sit there picking your nose, lad! I'm getting to the best part. I was assigned squad leader, in charge of a mixed bag of chaps patrolling the prison's perimeter. As you know the place is blanketed by a minefield; only one way in, one way out. Now the majority of the prison population are Mollys, damn their hides, and neither we nor the mines were any deterrent in keeping their stupid chums from trying to break them out.
Mollys, bloody Mollys! Mad as cut snakes, the lot of 'em. Kill yer soon as look at yer, so you better get in first, what-what!
Their base, Arranmore, sits deep in the richest gold field in Dublin, though I never seen it meself. Our lot aren't silly enough to go out that far, our jurisdiction stops at the Essex. No, only the occasional bounty hunter too big for his boots, hoping to make a name for himself ever goes out that far. Them, and the odd fortune hunter who can't resist the glittering riches just ripe for the plucking. One or the other they come smoking back, if at all.
The Mollys filled their goldfield with mines, to deter trespassers and thieves, as one would. Now any sane person would leave a small safe path through their minefield, known only to himself, and I don't need to explain why. But not the Mollys! As many of their number find a fiery end courtesy of their own ruddy deterrent, as are shot down by our boys.
So you understand what we're dealing with here when I tell you of me posting at Newgate. But that's a story for another time. Come along, me lad! Gin and tonic, and be quick about it!
We've a ripe need for chaps like your fine self when it comes to, ahem, 'liberating' goods from Kusari merchantmen.
You see, old boy, those noodle farmers are making a fair mint out of trading with those dastardly krauts from New Berlin.
If you want one of our spiffingly shiny new Challenger bombers, you could head out to the Sigmas with our lads and show them what's what, aye?
Basically, would you care to join Queen Carina's Privateers for a spot of trade interdiction, or as I like to say... would one like to rob those chop-sticking bastards?
Ask for Commodore Stuart aboard the York. I'll be scheming over maps of Kusari and may have a Guinness or two spare after that last raid into Dublin. They can't fight a war, and have nay grasp of economics, but if you say one thing about the Mollys, say they make good stout.