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One day, you're lurking around the back of Spoony's house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, when you find a pile of old broken machines. On top of it is Mechakara's face panel. For a few moments, you're sure he's dead. Then the red eye lights up. Then he starts to speak. This is his story.
A story about MvM, with Scout/Pauling squarely in the middle of it all. I hope you like pining. And badass little ladies who are totally running this shit, don't even get in their way.
It was not a war they were going to win. More importantly, it was a war they were definitely going to lose.
The mercs were made for war, by more than just definition. Born and bred for it, reared in blood and fire, in the heat of the Australian Outback, in a shadowy laboratory in Stuttgart, in an empty back lot in Boston, playing baseball amid broken glass. Nine of the best and worst men in the world, locked in a war with new and different rules, where the laws of death and dismemberment were suspended, and you clocked out at the end of the day for an exorbitant paycheck, then got up in the morning to do it again. A microcosm of a war. Contained by the reasons and resources of those wiser than the men who waged it. A war with more blood and less cause than any before it.
This is not the story of that war.