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Down the deck, a VTOL's engines finally spool down, set against grey skies and an oddly calm sea. But you barely notice, hunched over your tablet, its faint blue glow lighting your face. The same fifty pages of survey logs. The same reports of probes swallowed by the storm. Minutes of noisy telemetry. Fragments of images. Then nothing. Again and again, your eyes hunt for the detail you are sure to have missed.

Eventually, approaching footsteps pull your attention up from the screen.

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The Major. Red hair pulled back, freckles prominent in the harsh deck lighting. She's composed, as always, but there's something softer in her eyes when she looks at you.

"Are you still struggling with the new medication?"

"Mrm."

She stays silent for a moment, then extends a cup toward you.

"Here. Fresh coffee. Probably your last decent cup for a while."

You take it gratefully as she leans against the wall beside you, looking beyond the deck.

"Ten years of this storm…" She pauses. "Hard to picture what's left inland after all that."

You wrap both hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into your fingers. "Thank you for pushing this through. Division must have fought you every step of the way."

"They did." She sighs. "Half of them think Ophelia's red box is long gone, but you know me, I pulled some strings."

She studies your face; the eyebags, the uneasy tension in your small frame.

"Are you prepared for what you'll find?"

You look down into your cup. The question sits between you, unanswerable. The readhead's mouth then curves into something like a smile, as if she already knew her question would be met with silence.

>Go over mission parameters.
>Ask about the crew she assigned to your expedition.
>Write-in.

>>6365559
>Ask about the crew she assigned to your expedition.

Welcome back!

>>6365559
>>Go over mission parameters.

What a beautiful day to die in the snow.

>>6365559
>Ask about the crew she assigned to your expedition

>>6365559
>Ask about the crew she assigned to your expedition.

>>6365559
>Ask about the crew she assigned to your expedition.
Oh shit, we're back!

>>6365559
>Ask about the crew she assigned to your expedition.
Is this a sequel to something?

>>6365591
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Nerv%20Bridge%20Simulator

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"I managed to pull Sloan from the southern front. A great field analyst, with a stellar service record. They can navigate AT anomalies better than anyone I've worked with, if you trust their instincts." She pauses. "Veer's going too. You've seen him around the Arpeggio. Big guy, doesn't talk much, but he's seen a lot and can maintain and repair anything mechanical."

Her expression shifts slightly. "And then... look. I know how you feel about them, and I get it, but I had to fill out the rest of your roster with production-series HMCLs. Fresh ones, third quarter of last year. They'll answer to you directly, same as the others. I wish I could give you a full human crew, but-"

"It's fine," you cut her off, though your jaw tightens slightly.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" She reaches into her pocket, and places a small wooden object in your palm.

"What is this," You turn it over, tracing the rough-carved lines. "'Did you make it yourself?"

"Yes. Well, I tried to, anyway. It's supposed to be a moose." She almost smiles. "If you make it to the geofront, would you leave it there? For me."

You study the carving. Its uncertain legs, the botched attempt at antlers. It is somehow both light and heavy.

"I will."

You slip it carefully into your jacket's inner pocket as you stand. "See you in a few weeks, Eileen."

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Your flight will drop you north of what used to be Boston, where the ACV is waiting with your crew and a full complement of probes and strike drones. Enough to get you there and back.

With the perpetual storm system over eastern Canada entering a five-week lull, the first in ten years, you finally have your window to reach Montreal-3's geofront. The partial surveys painted a bleak picture however: compacted ash and snow fused into jagged, petrified formations ten meters deep in places. Dozens of flagged sinkhole collapses where the surface gave way to pockets of loose slurry beneath. Severe storm density, sporadic angelic-pattern signatures throughout the corridor, heavy AT-field interference across all bands. Infrastructure gone.

And two hundred miles inland, buried deep in the geofront's sub-levels, lies your quarry: the MAGI facility. Somewhere in that nightmare is Ophelia's white box, the organic core at the heart of the supercomputer.

Her innermost component.

Damaged, most likely. The biological substrate was fragile and liquefaction is possible. But if it survived, if any neural structure remains intact, then the assembly is to be extracted and brought back. The original MAGI unit was generations ahead of current UNSDF systems. Even degraded, Ophelia's core could increase computational capabilities by an order of magnitude.

Recovery and analysis. That's what's in the mission brief, what Division signed off on. Closure, what you actually need, won't appear in any report.

- -

Your gaze drifts to the small porthole window. Even muffled by the troop bay's hull, the VTOL's engines are deafening, but somehow their screech feels familiar. Safe, almost. It pulls you back to another life, to someone who used to fly these things.

An hour to drop-off. Enough time to think. Perhaps too much.

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You're sitting in the middle of Rachel's disaster of a living room, on a kitchen chair she dragged in from the other room. Despite living here for months now, you've given up trying to clean, your caretaker's habits makes that a losing battle. She circles behind you with scissors, wearing that faded green tank top, the fabric worn thin over the years. It's probably older than you are, you think. Then the snipping finally stops.

"There we go!" Rachel ruffles the back of your head enthusiastically. "See? I told you short hair would work on you!"

Your head feels strangely light. You glance down at the floor covered in wavy strawberry-blonde strands. They used to be part of you. Not anymore.

"What, did I fuck it up?"

Rachel ducks into your field of view, wearing that expression she gets when she's not sure if she messed up but finds it funny either way

"No, it's fine. I just..." You touch the bare skin at the back of your neck. "I've had long hair for as long as I can remember."

"Exactly!" She straightens up, triumphant. "You were long overdue for a change, Anna. Trust me, that little dude you like won't be able to look away now."

Your face warms. "Please stop."

She grins wider, clearly delighted.

"So, synch training today, right?" Rachel asks, kicking loose hair into a pile. "Who'd they pair you with?"

"Florence."

"Ah. The creepy one."

"She's not creepy," you say, a little too quickly.

"Nah, she kinda is." Rachel turns sharply, scissors aimed your way. "Don't tell her I said that."

"I won't."

"Good girl." She tosses the scissors onto her desk with a clatter. "Oh! Since you're heading down to the geofront anyway, mind swinging by Section 2 offices? They're holding a package for me. You know where that is, right?"

"Yes. I can do that."

Rachel stops mid-movement, eyeing you suspiciously. "Wait. No complaints? No negotiating? I had a whole bribe prepared."

You stand, brushing loose hairs from your shoulders. "Do you want your package or not?"

"Wow, ice cold. Maybe the creepy one is actually yo- ow ow ow!" You pinch the soft flesh of her upper arm and twist. She yelps and tries to wriggle free, but you've got the angle. When you release her, she stumbles back, rubbing her arm and grinning.

"Creepy AND violent. They really stuck me with the problem child, huh?"

Ignoring her last comment, you head toward your room, but catch yourself in the hallway mirror. Short hair. Exposed ears. Your whole neck and jawline visible. It looks like someone else.

"It really does look good, you know." Rachel's voice is quieter now. You glance back. She's leaning against the doorframe, sincere for once.

"...Yeah. It does."

The lie comes easier than you expected.

>Go straight to synch prep. Get your head in the right space early.
>Find Florence first. You can head down to the geofront together.
>Grab Rachel's package now. Get it out of the way.

>>6365834
>Grab Rachel's package now. Get it out of the way.

>>6365834
>Find Florence first. You can head down to the geofront together.

She's on the way.

>>6365834
>Go straight to synch prep. Get your head in the right space early.

>>6365834
>>6365834
>Find Florence first. You can head down to the geofront together.
I want to see the creepy one.

>>6365834
>Grab Rachel's package now. Get it out of the way.

>Go on suptg
>2016
>34 threads
Welp, time to read

Vote closed.

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Florence's assigned quarters sit in one of the densely packed Nerv housing blocks. You pass through the lobby and up the stairs, nodding at faces you recognise from the geofront. Technicians, analysts, people whose names you should probably know by now. They blur together.

Her door is on the twelfth floor. You press the buzzer, but get no answer.

You try again, then test the handle. Unlocked.

The apartment inside is oddly sparse: boxes are stacked against the walls, a mattress lies on the floor next to an unassembled bed frame still in its packaging. It doesn't look like anyone actually lives here. More like someone's camping temporarily in their own space.

"Flo?"

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Movement in the kitchen area. She's got earbuds in, swaying slightly to music you can't hear, focused on something at the counter. Cooking, you realise. There's a cutting board, vegetables, and a rice cooker gently simmering.

"Florence?"

She turns swiftly, sees you, and jerks in surprise. Her knife slips.

"Aah!"

Blood runs across her palm, bright against porcelain skin, and drips onto the cutting board. She drops the knife with a clatter, sending her other hand over the wound.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!"

"No, no, it's fine! I just-" She laughs, wincing, pressing a towel against the cut. "I just didn't expect to see someone."

You're already moving, guiding her toward the sink. "Let me see."

She extends her hand reluctantly. The cut runs deep across her palm, clean but bleeding freely. You turn on the cold water, guiding her hand under the stream. "I was making us lunch, actually" Florence says, managing a smile despite the wince."...For after the harmonics test. Real food, not cafeteria food, you know? I mean, I've never cooked anything before, ever, but I thought it might be fun to try."

You reach for the first aid kit you spotted under the sink: gauze, antiseptic, bandages.

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"You're really good at this," Florence says, watching you wrap her palm carefully.

"I've been trained."

"That's not what I meant." Her pale eyes track your movements. "You're... gentle."

You secure the bandage, not meeting her gaze. Her fingers are long, delicate. Even the white gauze stands out against her skin, the red already seeping through slightly.

"There." You secure the end. "Try not to use it for a while."

"Thank you." Florence flexes her fingers, testing the wrap. "Well. So much for lunch." She nods at the bloodied, half-chopped vegetables.

"Sorry, Flo. I ruined this."

"It's fine, don't worry about it." She's already moving to trash everything when she pauses, really looking at you for the first time. "Wait. Your hair…" Her good hand reaches up, stopping just before it actually touches. "It's so short. What happened?"

You graze the back of your neck self-consciously. "Rachel cut it this morning."

"Oh? Was it also a cutting accident like this?"

The corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. "Kind of, yeah."

Florence meets your smile with her own. She can't seem to look away from your new haircut, fascinated. Your face warms.

You know why Rachel finds her unsettling: she's too pale, too thin, like she might break. Albino skin, almost translucent somehow, and white hair that catch the light strangely. But to you Florence is not creepy at all. She has that otherworldly quality you see in glossy magazines, too beautiful to be entirely real. Except the way she's looking at you right now is immediate and true, not captured and frozen on paper.

"I uh, I've got to run an errand real quick before the test…you want to tag along?"

- -

"Final approach, Commander Simenco."

The pilot's voice pulls you from half-sleep. Through the window, the VTOL is descending over land now, grey terrain scarred by erosion patterns. You straighten in your seat and stretch your neck. Meeting your crew doesn't make you anxious, exactly. Your reputation precedes you, they'll know what to expect. But the thought of working alongside HMCLs again…

You told her it was fine. You'll make it work.

The VTOL banks, and through the window you catch your first glimpse of the staging area below. Time to see what Eileen managed to scrape together for you.

>Assemble the crew. Introductions, clear chain of command, then straight into mission prep. Set expectations early.
>Skip the formalities, meet them as you go through pre-departure checks. There's too much to do before you can move out.
>Write-in.

>>6366358
>Assemble the crew. Introductions, clear chain of command, then straight into mission prep. Set expectations early.

>>6366358
>Skip the formalities, meet them as you go through pre-departure checks. There's too much to do before you can move out.

>>6366358
>Assemble the crew. Introductions, clear chain of command, then straight into mission prep. Set expectations early.
Even if we're setting ourselves up to meet the cow right before it gets turned into steak.

>>6366358
>Assemble the crew. Introductions, clear chain of command, then straight into mission prep. Set expectations early.
Holy crap, I barely remember anything, but wasn't there two Eileens? And one bodyswapped with the MC in the end?

>>6366358
>Assemble the crew. Introductions, clear chain of command, then straight into mission prep. Set expectations early.

>>6366358
>Skip the formalities, meet them as you go through pre-departure checks. There's too much to do before you can move out.

>>6366627
Surely we're the major after we've grown up in Eileen's body and the major isn't just a pile of salt somewhere in Montreal

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The old Nerv coastal stronghold, now a UNSDF forward operating base positioned right at the storm's edge, finally comes into view. A large tower complex, battered by years of violent weather but still standing.

And at its base, the ACV.

Fifty meters of armored bulk on massive all-terrain wheels, surrounded by supply workers and fuel lines. The hangar bay dominates the rear section, its back door currently open to reveal the drone racks inside. Weapon emplacements flank the hull, antiquated but maintained. These mobile command centers could survive engagement with entities that rewrote physics. But when the threat evolved, after the Partial Impact, ACVs fell out of favor. Too slow, too mechanical, built for a different kind of enemy.

Anyone else looking at this thing might have doubts about its relevance, but you were there back when they were fielded, you know firsthand how much punishment they could take and keep moving.

And now this one was pulled out of mothball to be commanded by another relic, you think grimly.

The VTOL touches down. You unbuckle, already reaching for your gear.

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You step out onto the tarmac and signal for the loading crew to halt. They stop immediately, turning toward you. Time to establish how this is going to work.

Veer stands under the ACV's wheel, exactly as described: massive and silent, his clothes dirtied by his work. Sloan is farther, hand on hip, straight and listening.

And them. The HMCLs.

Twelve of them, scattered around. One is going through her backpack in search of something. Another readjust her boots. A third is saying something to the one next to her, you catch the tail end of what might be a joke, a faint smile. All identical.

Pale eyes, albino skin, almost translucent somehow, and white hair that catch the light strangely.

Something ugly uncoils in your chest.

Pushing the feeling down, you force your voice to be steady. "Listen up. I'm Commander Simenco. For the duration of this operation, I have operational authority: all of you answer directly to me. Chain of command is simple: if I'm incapacitated, Sloan takes over. If Sloan's down, Veer. Understood?"

Nods. A few murmured acknowledgments. One of the HMCLs raises her hand slightly, almost friendly. "Understood, Commander."

"We have a five-week window before the storm system closes back in. Our objective is Montreal-3's geofront, specifically the MAGI facility in the sub-levels. We retrieve the core assembly and extract. This is a recovery operation, not a combat deployment, but the terrain is hostile and unstable."

You pause, meeting eyes across the group.

"You follow orders, you stay in communication, and you watch each other's backs. We go in together, we come back together. Questions?"

Silence. Good enough.

You dismiss everyone. The HMCLs peel off in pairs and small groups, voices low as they head toward their assignments.

You look away before that feeling in your chest can rise again.

>Roll 2d10

Rolled 4, 7 = 11 (2d10)

>>6367928

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Rolled 1 + 2 (1d6 + 2)

Rolled 9, 8 = 17 (2d20)

>>6367928
Oh boy time to fuck up

Rolled 4, 6 = 10 (2d10)

>>6367952
>>6367928
By using the wrong dice, of course.

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[ Miss: 3 vs. 4, 7 ] [ 53 ]

You give the order. The ACV groans to life: a deep rumble that you feel through the deck plating and walls. Hydraulics hiss. The massive wheels begin to turn, slow and heavy, waking from a long sleep.

The FOB disappears in a wall of snow behind you as you clear the access road and push into open terrain. Inside, everyone has their hands full. Veer's already monitoring the drive systems, muttering into his headset. Sloan's bent over their tablet, cross-referencing probe data with the route ahead. The HMCLs move through their assigned tasks with some chatter and enthusiasm.

You're on the bridge, standing behind the driver's seat. One of them sits there, hands steady on the controls, pale eyes fixed forward.

"I'm July-Six-Twenty-Two," she says without looking back. Her voice is cordial, pleasant. "I'll be driving the primary shift."

You don't answer. Just watch the horizon through reinforced glass.

- -

Two hours in, the terrain turns hostile.

The ash and ice formations are worse than the surveys suggested, much worse. What looked like navigable ground from the drone footage reveals itself as a nightmare of edges and deep fractures. The ACV grinds and struggles forward at a crawl. July-Six-Twenty-Two adjusts course constantly, and progress slows to a kilometer every thirty minutes.

"This is bad," Sloan says from behind you, tablet glowing in their hands, impatient. "If it's like this the whole way-"

"It won't be," you say.

Sloan goes quiet, but you can feel their frustration. The slow grind of progress already affecting crew morale, and you're barely ten kilometers from the FOB.

July-Six-Twenty-Two keeps piloting through her shift, her expression unchanged.

Wind whips against the bridge window.

[ No Progress, Morale -1 ]

> Deploy a survey probe to map a passage through the formations. It might not make it back, but could save hours of grinding through this terrain.
> Push through as planned. Difficult terrain was always part of the equation, conserve your resources for when you'll really need them.
> Write-in

>>6367963
> Deploy a survey probe to map a passage through the formations. It might not make it back, but could save hours of grinding through this terrain.
It'll reassure the crew, if nothing else.

>>6367963
> Push through as planned. Difficult terrain was always part of the equation, conserve your resources for when you'll really need them.

We have the sustainment to get through this. Morale will suffer, but we'll save resources for when we really need them.

>>6367963
> Push through as planned.

>>6367963
>Deploy a survey probe to map a passage through the formations. It might not make it back, but could save hours of grinding through this terrain.

>>6367963
> Deploy a survey probe to map a passage through the formations. It might not make it back, but could save hours of grinding through this terrain.

>>6367963
>Push through as planned. Difficult terrain was always part of the equation, conserve your resources for when you'll really need them.

Just speed read the whole quest. Was not expecting a callback to Anna's swim meet crush.

>>6367963
>Push through as planned. Difficult terrain was always part of the equation, conserve your resources for when you'll really need them.

>>6369896
I am halfway through. They are not text dense, but it's amazing that you could have a thread done in a day
There is an opening for part 25 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIuBjGkycSs), but the link is dead. Anyone has it?

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I edited the system a bit to ditch the 1d6 roll. 2d10 roll-under stat from now on.

You brace against the bridge railing and give the order to maintain course, trusting the ACV to grind through. July-Six-Twenty-Two adjusts without hesitation, throttling up and flipping hard switches.

>Endurance Roll: 2d10

Rolled 4, 7 = 11 (2d10)

>>6372095
BRACE!

>>6369944
https://files.catbox.moe/t12akl.webm
The explosion at 1:15 with the clap always made me chuckle. Running NBS was unreal.

>>6372095

Rolled 1, 7 = 8 (2d10)

>>6372095
Just in case more rolls are needed.

>>6372104
Sweet. Thanks OP.

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[ Mixed Success: Endurance-6 vs. 4, 7 ]

The ACV grinds forward, screaming in protest but holding. Meter by meter, the formations thin out until the terrain ahead opens up. Still hostile, but navigable. You're finally through this.

Then Veer's voice crackles over the comm from the engine bay.

"Commander. We've got a hydraulic leak. Suspension system, stress fracture in the secondary line."

"How bad?"

"Not catastrophic. I can patch it." There's a pause, the sound of him moving through tight spaces. "We'll be stationary for a couple hours."

"Get it done."

You glance at Sloan, who leans against the console with an annoyed expression. "Well, at least we're making excellent time," they smile. "At this rate, we'll hit Montreal by summer. Maybe catch the fall foliage on the way back."

"Stay sharp. I want eyes on the perimeter."

"On it." Sloan straightens, tapping commands into their tablet. The external cameras flicker to life across the bridge monitors. Thermal, visual, motion tracking.

Outside the reinforced glass, the wind picks up.

[ Integrity -1 ]

>Get your hands dirty helping Veers with the repairs.
>Remain on the bridge to monitor surroundings with Sloan.
>Retreat to your cabin to dissect the reports again.
>Write-in.

>>6372236
>Get your hands dirty on Sloan

>>6372238
Supporting this

>>6372236
>Get your hands dirty helping Veers with the repairs.

>>6372236
>Get your hands dirty helping Veers with the repairs.

>>6372238
Support

>>6372236
>Get your hands dirty helping Veers with the repairs

>>6372236
>Get your hands dirty helping Veers with the repairs.

>>6372236
>Retreat to your cabin to dissect the reports again.