"How many
Marians does it take to..."
There was a roar of
laughter as the comic began drawing up a long string of random letters, making
fun of the Marians' Roman numeral system. It was a cheap joke, but better than
nothing for these tavern-goers in what had been the Illyrian Palatinate.
From his seat, Mark
watched silently, his mind wandering. The Marians, to their credit, had at
least TRIED to be benevolent to their conquered foes. But many would rather be
free in hell than serve in Caesar's heaven, and so the Marians had
unfortunately been forced to stamp out the growing pockets of resistance with a
growing amount of firepower.
Not that the show much
bothered Marcus, the Marian agent behind Mark's bland Illyrian cover identity.
Even the most loyal of Caesar's spies were not above a joke behind their
leader's back.
However, those men in
the corner were a different matter, and Marcus watched them carefully in the
reflection from his glass. The one was a known resistance leader, and the other
two, if he had to guess by the C-Bills that just changed hands under the table,
were important contacts. This was worth making a move on, he decided, and keyed
the radio that was wired into his clothing. He whispered into the collar mike
under the cover of his glass, and looked at his watch. Exactly five minutes
later, Mark, the Illyrian merchant, rose from the table andstopped at the bar.
He paid his tab, shook hands and shared smiles with those he knew, and went
home for the night.
Exactly two minutes
after Mark departed, the door to the bar was kicked in by a thin, evil-looking
man in Marian uniform, backed by a pair of towering armored troopers whose
broad shoulders barely fit through the doorway. The elaborate visors of their
Roman style helmets peered coldly around the room, their arms flexing the
massive guns they wielded. Silence fell as the Illyrians looked at the Murmilli,
Caesar's finest soldiers, the erratic lights of the bar gleaming off the molded
scrollwork of their breastplates. The dark-haired Marian strode over to the
table where the three resistance fighters were talking, and pronounced them
under arrest, in nomine Caesar.
Then all hell broke
loose.
The Illyrians moved en
masse. Some dropped for cover, others dove for doors and windows. The thin
Marian man jumped back as the guerillas and several others pulled weapons,
yelling an order as he dove to the floor. The Murmilli answered the yell with
their guns, mowing the Illyrian resistance fighters down in a blaze of laser
beams and automatic rifles. Some Illyrians returned fire, but most just tried
to run. The two troopers stood stoically in the chaos, cutting down whatever
got in front of their guns. Outside, the fleeing crowd found the other three
members of the squad, who immediately opened fire on civilians and guerillas
alike.
One of the guerillas got
back up, firing a pistol, and the troopers shot him down as they advanced. An
Illyrian grabbed onto one of the troopers' legs, and was sent flying with a myomer-powered
kick. Another man broke a chair across the other Murmillo's armored back, and
the trooper turned and grabbed him. The man heard the trooper laugh, and then
his neck snapped in the Murmillo's mechanical grip.
The resistance leader
stayed quietly on the floor until he saw that the troopers were distracted by
the crowd. Then he jumped up and dove, crashing out the window and into the
street. All around were dead and wounded Illyrians; screaming, yelling and
gunfire continued sporadically, and he grimaced as he heard the WHOOSH of a
rocket launcher. Smoke rose from the bar, where the troopers' lasers had set it
alight. He shook his head clear, and took off running, only to hear heavy
footsteps pounding behind him.
The guerilla sprinted
with all his might, but the Murmillo still closed, its tall powered legs moving
faster than any unarmored human. He tried to change direction, but was hauled
off his feet with a jerk. He screamed as his right upper arm crushed in the Murmillo's
powerful grasp. The trooper observed his prey for a moment, dangling like a
caught fish, his feet kicking somewhere near the Murmillo's knees. The armored
figure did not speak, but simply turned and walked back towards the riot scene,
carrying the guerilla back to face Caesar's justice.
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BattleTech Battle Armor Technical Readout |
OOC: Here's an image of
the original Roman helm...this is what the Murmillo's helm is modeled upon.
