Scrapper is the first book in the Star Scrapper series by J.N. Chaney and Matthew A. Goodwin, a science fiction novel that readers who enjoy action-packed space operas will be in their element. Set against a backdrop of interstellar conflict and technological marvels, the narrative immerses readers in a richly developed universe teeming with diverse alien races and advanced spacecraft. The book has a fast-paced, exciting narrative while also laying the groundwork for a larger, more complex universe that promises further exploration in subsequent books. The strong character development, particularly the compelling arcs of the protagonists, and immersive world-building are key reasons for its success, noting how each character’s personal struggles resonate with deeper themes of survival, loyalty, and ambition. As you turn the page, you find yourself caught in thrilling battles and daring escapades but also intricate politics and ethical dilemmas that define this vast cosmos, making Scrapper a fine read.
The story is set in a future where humanity is still recovering from a devastating war against a malevolent artificial intelligence that occurred two centuries earlier. The protagonist, Hank Spears, is a resourceful “scrapper,” making a living by salvaging parts from old starships scattered across the ruins of abandoned spaceports. His mundane life, filled with the routine of scavenging treasures amidst the debris, takes an unexpected turn when he stumbles upon a long-dormant and outlawed AI hidden within the wreckage of a colossal starship. This advanced AI, with a wealth of knowledge and wisdom, warns him of a new, grave threat to the galaxy, one that could spark another cataclysmic conflict if left unchecked. As AI is strictly banned by remnants of the old government, Hank and his new companion are forced to go on the run, navigating the treacherous underbelly of a fractured society that fears what it does not understand. Their journey not only becomes a desperate race to uncover the truth, but also an odyssey of self-discovery as Hank grapples with his own past and the moral implications of his choices. Together, they must rally a diverse group of outcasts and renegades to prevent the looming threat from unleashing chaos upon the universe once again.
The plot is well-structured and full of action, with one event logically flowing into the next, creating a seamless narrative that kept me engaged. The characters are a strong point, particularly the dynamic between the protagonist, Hank Spears, and the AI, which offers a fascinating exploration of the relationship between humanity and technology. Their interactions are often filled with tension and emotional depth, revealing layers of personality and motivation that resonate deeply with the audience. The universe the authors have created is also a key feature, with the rich world-building and sense of history that pervades the story being a key featurd. From the intricate details of the setting to the complexities of the societal structures, the world feels alive and immersive. While the initial pacing was a bit slow as the world was being established, the book quickly becomes a page-turner, with tension building steadily until the final chapters.
Despite this it is hardly Tolstoy or Hemingway, but it doesn’t claim to be. I found it great escapism and an enjoyable read, although the tension between AI and human is thought provoking and perhaps not as “Sci-Fi” as we may think!
Free on kindle unlimited it is well worth a look at. I am currently reading book 2.
GORK AND MORK! LISTEN UP, YA GROT! Aeronautica Imperialis ain’t no sneaky little game. It’s da biggest, loudest flyin’ Waaagh! Ya get ta pilot yer bestest, loudest choppas and Dakkajets and make da biggest explosions in da sky! We don’t need no ground squigs, we need da air!
It was a proppa good fight! We lost two Dakkajets, but we got one of dem’s Thunderbolts! Da Boss said, “It’s a draw, ya gits, but a draw wit’ more dakka!” Now we gotta go find more scrap and fix up Da ‘Eavy Choppa for da next big scrap! WAAAGH!
Ork Dakkajet
You gots all kinds o’ Flyboyz ta krump! Da humies fly deir shiny, metal boxes, but dey ain’t got enuff dakka! We gotz da Dakkajet, da fastest shoota in da sky, and da Fighta-Bommer, for when ya wanna make a really big noise! Da squishy Humies are fast, but we’ll krump ’em! Da tiny Mek-boyz fly deir fancy stuff, but a good choppa can fix dat! It’s all about who got da biggest fliers and da loudest dakka!
Da game ain’t just about pointin’ at stuff and shootin’, ya grot! You gotta be cunning like a trukk! You gotta move yer flyas around on da hexes, up and down. Sometimes ya go fast, sometimes ya go slow. Ya can do fancy ‘Ace Manoeuvers’ like a barrel roll or a big ol’ diva! Get behind ’em! Den ya let ’em have it with da dakka! When da flyin’ squig gets hit, it might get a big ol’ kritikul hit, and den da fun really starts!
Imperial Thunderbolt Fury
Da Fight Above Da Grott’s Grotto dwas dis gits first flight!
Da Flyboyz was zoomin’ fast, all red paint and loud engines, lookin’ fer a good scrap. We had a squadron of three planes: a big Fighta Bommer full of bombs, and two fast Dakkajets. Den, we saw ’em! Two shiny, humie planes called Thunderbolts, lookin’ like dey was flyin’ on parade. Gits!
Da Boss’ Dakkajet, a real sneaky one named Mork’s Maw, peeled off first. He was all “WAAAGH!” and sprayed dakka at da first Humie Thunderbolt.
But da Humie was fast, too! ‘E dodged da bullets and fired back, right into da face of Mork’s Maw! One of Mork’s wings got all chewed up, and he started spinnin’ and fallin’ down to da ground. BOOM! Mork’s Maw became a big, red fireball on da ground. Da Boss just laughed and said, “Now dat’s a proppa exit!” as he roared to da ground!
Da only way ta fight two on one dakka
You wanna get an advantage in da air? Dat ain’t just about goin’ fast! You use da hexes on da board to get da best position. Fly low to avoid da other gits’ shots, or climb ‘igh to get a good look at da field and dive down on ’em!
So don’t just fly straight, ya git! Be a sneaky, fast flyboy and outsmart da humies!
But da fight wasn’t over yet! Da big Fighta-Bommer flew in, drop’n its bombs, but dey missed da Humie planes and just made holes in da ground.
Den, our last plane, da big Figha-Bommer named “Da ‘Eavy Choppa,” flew right at one of da Thunderbolts! It was like two big metal squigs slammin’ into each other! Da ‘Eavy Choppa’s big guns roared and tore da Humie plane ta pieces! SMASH! Da Thunderbolt blew up in a shower of metal bits and fire. Gork smiles on us!
Den, one of our other Dakkajets got a bit too excited. It went fasta, and fasta, and started climbin’ ‘igher than da others. But its engine wasn’t ready for dat kind of fast! Da engine sputtered and died, and da Dakkajet just hung in da air for a second, like a stupid squig. Den, it nose-dived right into da ground! KA-BOOM! Another big explosion! Two of ours, gone! Da humies were laughin’, we could hear ’em on da radio!
Da ‘umie Thunderbolt, dat shiny flying box, had our big Fighta-Bommer right in its sights! It’s guns started spittin’ fire, and all da little bits and pieces of our Bommer were flyin’ everywhere! Da ‘umie pilot, he was probably laughin’, thinkin’ he only needed a couple more shots ta bring our Bommer down and make a big explosion!
BUT DEN GORK AND MORK LOOKED DOWN ON US! Da big Ork gods must’ve been watchin’! When da humie’s last shot hit our Bommer, it was just… a one! It bounced right off! All dem bullets, all dat fire, and it didn’t do nothin’! Da Bommer just shook its wings a little, like a squig shakin’ off flies, and kept on flyin’! HA! DAT SHOWS ‘EM! You can’t just shoot down a good Ork plane! NOT WHEN GORK AND MORK ARE WATCHIN’!
Only one plane each was left. Da last Humie Thunderbolt had a wing all shot up and was smokin’ like a busted engine. And our Da ‘Eavy Choppa was barely flyin’ itself, with only one of its structure points left, all holes and sparks. Both of ’em looked like dey were ready ta fall apart. Dey just kind of limped away from each other, too broken ta fight no more.
Ork Fighta Bomber
My first game of “Aeronautica Imperialis” and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks Jason had a great night.
If anyone has a copy they want to get rid of let me know.
I wanted a break from what I have been doing recently a came across these, so I said why not! There were a few more than what was on the front cover. Originally from a Mantic Kickstarter, I need to thank Azazel for gifting me these a few years ago.
I decided to assemble and undercoat them all – before putting them away for another five years!
The Rebs are less of a cohesive army and more of a galactic garage sale of grievances. They’re a chaotic, beautiful mess of everyone and everything that’s been chewed up and spit out by the Galactic Co-Prosperity Sphere (GCPS). Their lore isn’t a single epic tale, but a million little stories of injustice. Each Rebs cell operates autonomously, a fancy way of saying they do whatever they want.
They might coordinate on big, anti-GCPS operations, but most of the time they’re just scrounging for supplies and trying not to get squished by a GCPS patrol. Their tactics are born of necessity and desperation: guerrilla warfare, hit-and-run tactics, and “borrowing” whatever they can from their enemies. This “can-do” spirit extends to their gear, which is a glorious mishmash of scavenged technology, jury-rigged weapons, and whatever they managed to find in a dumpster behind a GCPS base.
The heart and soul of the Rebs faction are their individual units, each with its own unique personality and role. The Rebel Commander isn’t a highly-trained general but rather the one person who’s had enough of everyone’s nonsense and somehow ended up in charge. They’re likely the only one who can actually read the blueprints for their scavenged equipment. I have put together several of these.
The Human Troopers are the disgruntled everymen, the ones who probably had a day job they hated before the GCPS came along and made things worse. Their gear is a mix of whatever they could find, often held together with duct tape and a dream.
The alien members of the Rebs bring even more variety to the mix. The Yndij are the hyperactive squirrels of the galaxy, zipping around to snatch up objectives before anyone knows what’s happening.
The Teraton Brawler is the faction’s muscle, a big, tough individual who solves problems by punching them until they stop being problems.
The Alpha Simian Brawler takes this a step further, combining raw strength with surprising ferocity. Imagine a gorilla with a bad attitude and some scavenged power gauntlets, and you’ve got the picture.
When things need to get loud and messy, the Grogan shows up with a comically oversized, jury-rigged weapon that makes short work of anything in its path.
The Sorak are the silent, deadly professionals in a group of rowdy amateurs, providing a much-needed touch of focused combat expertise.
The Survey Drones are the Rebs’ best friends; they are cheap, fast, and great for grabbing objectives. Their primary purpose is to zip around, do the grunt work, and then get blown up without the enemy getting any victory points for it, making them the perfect cannon fodder. This unique mix of characters and equipment makes the Rebs an unpredictable and challenging opponent on the battlefield, embodying the spirit of a true underdog rebellion.
I enjoyed putting these together and surprisingly the will fit in well with some of the game systems we have been playing so they might see the light of day quicker than I originally thought.
The desert sun beat down with unrelenting ferocity on the desolate landscape, a gritty silence of a vast, ancient land broken only by the distant rumble of mechanized columns and the occasional, sharp crack of a rifle report. Here, amid the shifting dunes and scorched rock, the entity known only as the “Dessicated Fox” moved, its form a blur against the shimmering heat haze, its purpose known only to itself.
Suddenly, the horizon ripped.
It wasn’t a mirage. Above the distant, barely visible tracks of what might have been an Africa Corpse patrol, the air began to twist and distort. A sickly green-purple light pulsed and grew, consuming the vast expanse of the sky. The very sand beneath the “Dessicated Fox’s” subtle gait trembled. This was no natural phenomenon; this was a rupture, a wound in reality itself, born of impossible energies. Its internal sensors registered the precise quantum echoes – the chilling signature of a high-yield atomic weapon, detonated somewhere else, sometime else, but tearing through here.
With a final, earsplitting shriek of displaced reality, something slammed through the vortex. The rift snapped shut behind it, leaving a metallic clang that seemed to ripple across the desert.
Standing amidst the newly settled dust was a mech, immediately recognizable as part of the legendary Stormer lineage, yet distinctly its own. This was UNS-66 Stormer, a Tactical Zeoform. It stood on two powerful, anthropomorphic legs, giving it a distinctly human-like silhouette, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Its chassis was a uniform, sun-baked desert yellow, perfectly camouflaged against the dunes.
A deep scoring ran across its left shoulder pauldron, and a section of its chest plating was buckled inward, revealing sparking conduits beneath. Scorch marks streaked its yellow armor, and one of its optical sensors glowed erratically, like a dying ember.
While its core design echoed the formidable Stormers of legend, its weapon configuration was strikingly different, featuring sleeker, multi-barreled rockets mounted on its shoulder where its predecessor might have carried a single, massive cannon and massive blade. Yet, despite the visible damage, it radiated an aura of grim, unwavering purpose.
A crackle of static, then a synthesized voice, thick with distortion, filled the vast silence of the desert, utterly devoid of surprise or distress. The “Stormer” appeared through the rift. “A little worse for wear, but totally functional. Reporting for duty.” The words hung in the hot air, a stark declaration, as if traversing a tear in existence was merely a scheduled transfer.
The Dessicated Fox remained still, his attention entirely on the new arrival. “Functional, you say?”his reply deep and resonant, cut through the oppressive quiet. “Looks like you had a… complex journey, unit.”
UNS-66 shifted its weight slightly. Its head, sculpted like a battle helmet, tilted, its good eye focusing on Dessicated Fox. “Affirmative. Mission parameters required transit through anomaly. Structural integrity compromised at 78%, primary weapon systems at 62%, shield emitters fluctuating. Power core stable, minimal flux.” It relayed its status with clinical precision, its gaze sweeping the desolate landscape as if assessing a new deployment zone.
“So, you’re reporting for duty,” Dessicated Fox mused. “What duty, exactly, and to whom?”
The UNS-66’s good eye remained fixed. “To the primary timeline. To prevent divergence. Directive received: report to Dessicated Fox. Your designation: ‘Dessicated Fox.’ Known for improbable but resounding victories.”
The desert wind stirred, kicking up fine sand around the new arrival. Dessicated Fox processed the information, a flicker of something akin to recognition.”Improbable, huh? Well, you’ve certainly presented me with a new kind of ‘improbable.’ Looks like we’ve got our next project.” It gestured to the damaged mech. “Begin self-diagnostic upload. This will require… specialized attention.”
The UNS-66 stood silent, its good eye unwavering, its desert-yellow frame a striking, battle-scarred silhouette against the endless sand. It was a silent promise of future battles and untold stories waiting to be unearthed. The silent desert, once home only to the echoes of war, was now alive with the hum of possibility, and the distant echo of a conflict that had just arrived through a rent in the very fabric of existence.
A second “Stormer” tactical Zeoform for use with Zeo genesis and Konflict 47. Thanks again to Rob for the 3D printing.
The night’s macabre symphony was not yet complete. From the deepest, most shadowed part of the wadi, a new tremor began, one that dwarfed the struggles of Soldat 2. The very ground buckled and groaned, a deeper, older sound. Dust billowed, forming a vast, swirling shroud, and from its heart, a gargantuan form began to rise.
This was the Stormer, an even larger Zeoform, its silhouette a monstrous, multi-limbed behemoth against the blood-orange sky. Long dormant, perhaps since the start of the war, its restoration was a testament to the Fox’s terrifying foresight. With a final, earth-shattering lurch, the Stormer ascended, its vast, dark form eclipsing the dunes, a true titan awakened to join the unholy legion.
Yet, the Stormer’s awakening was not a resurrection of perfect power. It stood, colossal but still, its multi-faceted eyes dull, its armored plates rent and scarred by epochs of burial. A low, agonizing hum resonated from its core, a sound not of engines, but of psychic anguish. Its long dormancy had left it severely degraded, requiring extensive psychic repairs before it could truly march to war.
Spectral technicians, conjured from the desert’s own tormented spirits by the Desiccated Fox’s will, would soon begin to phase into existence around it, their ethereal tools glowing with an unearthly light. They would mend its shattered neural network with threads of raw thought, re-forge its broken limbs with materialized shadow, and re-ignite its weapon systems with captured souls.
The mechanical repairs were a gruesome ballet of spectral engineering. Africa Corpse skilled engineers would move step-by-step through the Stormer’s metal hull, re-knitting severed power conduits with strands of solidified despair. Gears, long seized by rust and sand, would be purged of their earthly impurities by scorching wisps of spiritual flame, turning with a chilling, friction-less silence.
Where armored plates had been ripped away, the technicians wove new, phantom alloys from the very dust of the desert, infused with the resilience of forgotten curses. Twisted pistons would be straightened by invisible forces, their hydraulic fluids replaced with a viscous, glowing ichor that pulsed with dark life.
Weapons systems, choked with centuries of sand, were scoured clean by blasts of spectral wind, their barrels gleaming with an unnatural, hungry sheen. Each repair was not just a physical act, but a ritual, binding the Stormer ever tighter to the malevolent will of the Desiccated Fox.
Finally, with a tremor that shook the very foundation of the wadi, the Stormer’s rehabilitation was complete. Its multi-faceted eyes, once dull, flared with an intelligent, chilling glow, now reflecting the Dessicated Fox’s malevolent purpose. Its colossal limbs, no longer stiff with millennia of disuse, articulated with a low, powerful whir. It rose to its full, towering height, a nightmare rendered in steel and dark magic.
As if on cue, a tide of sand-blasted infantry, phantom tanks, and lesser reanimated constructs began to crawl from the shadows of the dunes, forming a grotesque, unearthly parade behind the newly restored titan. This was the Dessicated Fox’s true army, an impossible force of undead war machines and reanimated soldiers, ready to march under the blood-orange sky, the chilling vanguard of a weird war that would consume the desert and beyond.
The Stormer’s reintegration was seamless, a monstrous cog sliding perfectly into a horrifying machine. Its very presence solidified the psychic links that bound the Africa Corpse, a silent, pervasive hum of shared purpose and malevolent energy flowing from the Fox through the titans and into every reanimated soldier. Its sheer mass and newly restored, devastating firepower sent a ripple of dark confidence through the undead ranks, an unspoken promise of overwhelming destruction.
The desert was no longer just their battlefield; it was their tomb, and from it, a new and terrible empire was beginning to stir.
Another Zeoform for Zeo Genesis. The Stormer Tactical Zeoform is synonymous with the Africa Corpse and sees wide-spread through many hot zones. The Stormer uses a distinctly humanoid configuration granting it more agility than the Soldat and allowing it to simply pick up and use a variety of weapons as dictated by mission and role.
The dust had barely settled in the Town of Corrupt after Guru’s Angels’ latest takedown when the whispers started again, this time with a very different flavour. It wasn’t about corruption, or takedowns, or even the lingering scent of that bizarre micro-pigmented dust. No, this time, everyone was talking about Guru himself.
“Guru is breaking from tradition and adding two more team members to his ‘Angels’,” the local news blared, “a move that has many talking, and I’m pretty sure Farrah is rolling in her grave like a rock star at a wild concert! I mean, who knew that a makeover would include more Angels?”
The original trio, Blur, with their knack for turning chaos into an art form; Glitch, the digital ghost who could make a bank account disappear faster than you could say “malware”; and Astra, whose pinpoint precision could disable a security system with a well-placed… something (the details were always vague, and best left that way), were legends. They were a well-oiled machine, a symphony of disruption.
So, the announcement of two more Angels was, to put it mildly, unexpected. It was like adding two more guitar solos to a perfectly balanced rock anthem. The town was buzzing with speculation. Was Guru losing his edge? Was this some elaborate tactical manoeuvre? Or, as some of the more colourful locals suggested, was he simply bored?
The official word, delivered in Guru’s usual cryptic style via an encrypted message board, was that these new recruits would “infuse the team with fresh perspectives and enough energy to power a small village.” Which, translated into plain English, probably meant they were either incredibly skilled, utterly insane, or both.
The new faces were Scrubs and Rift.
Scrubs, true to their name, was the team’s medic and… well, general fixer. She wasn’t just about patching up bullet wounds (though she were excellent at that). Scrubs was a master of improvisation, able to turn any piece of junk into a vital tool, a life-saving device, or a surprisingly effective weapon. She was calm under pressure, resourceful to a fault, and possessed a dry wit that could defuse even the tensest situations.
Rift, on the other hand, was… different. She was the team’s psycher, a master of manipulating perception, and bending reality. She could create illusions, induce hallucinations, and generally mess with people’s heads in ways that were both terrifying and incredibly useful. They were enigmatic, unpredictable, and prone to sudden shifts in… well, reality.
The addition of Scrubs promised to be a game-changer for the Angels’ operational capabilities. Previously, any physical confrontation or unexpected injury meant Glitch often had to divert precious attention, and even some of her hacking resources, to monitor health vitals or scramble for improvised medical solutions. With Scrubs on board, with her calm presence and vast knowledge of field medicine and quick fixes meant Glitch could now fully concentrate on her primary role: diving deeper into enemy networks, executing more complex hacks, and unleashing more widespread digital chaos without worrying about her teammates’ physical well-being. Scrubs could secure perimeters with jury-rigged traps, create escape routes from seemingly nowhere, and keep everyone patched up and in the fight, freeing up the other Angels to focus purely on their specializations.
As for Rift, her unique psychic abilities were set to add an entirely new layer to the Angels’ disruption tactics. While Blur created physical misdirection, Rift could warp perceptions. Imagine turning an entire Nought security detail against each other with a shared hallucination, or making a heavily guarded vault appear empty to a patrol. Rift’s presence would allow the Angels to operate with an even greater degree of stealth and psychological warfare, creating confusion and fear that no physical or digital countermeasure could truly defend against. They could make a Nought’s entire reality shimmer and crack, exploiting their deepest fears and anxieties.
The expanded lineup promised not just more hands on deck, but a truly terrifying synergy. Blur’s physical chaos, Astra’s precision strikes, Glitch’s digital dominance, Scrubs’ field ingenuity, and Rift’s mind-bending abilities. The Noughts, already reeling from the original trio, wouldn’t know what hit them. Or, more accurately, they wouldn’t know how they were hit, or even if they were hit at all.
An artists impression of the secretive, and yet to be identifieded “Guru’s Angels”!
As enthusiasts reflect on the legacy of the original Angels, differing opinions are likely to emerge; however, it is certain that anticipation is building regarding the potential amusement and disorder that this expanded roster will introduce. Furthermore, as a keen observer aptly remarked, “If nothing else, we can at least look forward to an unplanned therapeutic discussion during the forthcoming team meeting.”
The air in the Town of Corrupt, a place where the sun, when it broke through the smog, seemed to cast longer, darker shadows, hung thick with the unspoken understanding of who truly ran things. It wasn’t the elected officials; it was Jason and his “All For Noughts” gang. From the “protection fees” levied on struggling small businesses to the quiet oversight of illegal gambling dens hidden behind legitimate shopfronts, the Noughts had sunk their teeth deep into the Town of Corrupt’s underbelly. Jason, with his loud laugh and an even louder sense of invincibility, genuinely believed the town was his personal fiefdom.
“This town’s all for nought if we ain’t got our say,” he’d would bellow in the dusty local bowling club, slamming a fist on the worn timber. His second-in-command, Roberto, a man whose quiet menace was far more unsettling than Jason’s bluster, would merely nod, a chilling understanding in his eyes. They were, brash, complacent, and utterly convinced of their untouchability. They were wrong!
Then, a ripple disturbed the stagnant waters of the Town of Corrupt. Whispers started circulating about “Guru’s Angels.” They weren’t a gang, nor did they operate like one. They were a Direct Action Unit, a collective of anonymous individuals who appeared to be systematically dismantling the Noughts’ operations. They left no trace, only the fallout of exposed dealings and inconvenient truths.
Their leader, known only as “Guru,” was said to be a phantom – a voice on encrypted channels, a mind that saw through the Noughts’ intricate web of corruption as if it were glass.
He had three distinct agents, the ones who executed the intricate dance of disruption: Blur, Glitch, and Astra.
Blur was the master of physical misdirection and manipulation. They could create diversions, orchestrate seemingly random events, or spread carefully crafted rumors that would send the Noughts’ enforcers chasing ghosts. Blur excelled at making things not be where they seemed, creating a general state of confusion and doubt among the Noughts’ ranks.
Glitch was the digital phantom, the cyber-saboteur. They could infiltrate any network, scramble communications, delete incriminating files, or, conversely, bring them to light at the most inconvenient times. Glitch turned the Noughts’ digital infrastructure into their greatest weakness.
Astra was the marksman, a shooter and sniper of unparalleled skill. She didn’t deal in digital code or misdirection; her precision was physical, capable of disabling critical equipment, delivering non-lethal but impactful deterrents, or hitting targets with pinpoint accuracy from a distance, all without ever being seen.
The first direct strike against the Noughts was a digital nightmare. A major shipment of untaxed liquor, bound for the Noughts’ network of illicit bars, simply vanished from the shipping manifest. The tracking data looped endlessly to a non-existent address. The drivers, thoroughly confused, found only an empty warehouse. Jason’s phone buzzed with a single, cryptic text: “All For Nought.” This was Glitch’s handiwork, a taste of digital disarray.
Next, a critical piece of equipment at the Noughts’ main illegal gambling den mysteriously stopped working. The high-stakes poker table’s automated card shuffler broke down mid-game. The security cameras watching the back alley went dark, one by one, with no explanation. It wasn’t an electrical fault; it was a series of incredibly precise, targeted shots from a distance, disabling the mechanisms without leaving a trace. This was Astra’s signature – surgical disruption delivered with pinpoint accuracy. She didn’t harm anyone, but her message was clear: their operations were vulnerable.
Jason was livid. “Find these ‘Angels’!” he roared, ordering his men to lean harder on anyone who might have information. But every time the Noughts thought they had a lead – a suspected hideout, a potential informant – Blur would weave a web of misinformation. They’d orchestrate a timely “protest” in a different part of town, or spread a convincing rumor about a rival gang’s movements, sending the Noughts’ enforcers chasing phantoms down blind alleys. While the Noughts were diverted, Glitch would subtly redirect their surveillance feeds or scramble their internal communications, leaving them fighting an enemy they couldn’t locate.
The Noughts, for all their brute force, were fighting an enemy they couldn’t see, and couldn’t hit. Their grip on the Town of Corrupt, once iron-clad, began to slip. Small businesses, quietly emboldened by the Angels’ disruptive presence, started subtly resisting the “protection” rackets. The flow of illicit goods became erratic, unreliable.
THE FINAL SHOWDOWN
The final, devastating blow came during the Town of Corrupt’s annual “charity festival” – a perfect cover for a major money laundering operation the Noughts were running through a supposedly legitimate charity stall. Jason, Roberto, and their core crew were on-site, overseeing the illicit flow of cash.
Suddenly, the festival’s PA system, meant for local announcements, crackled to life. It wasn’t the mayor speaking. A distorted, digital voice boomed across the main square, playing snippets of recorded conversations – Jason’s voice, Roberto’s, discussing their illegal schemes, detailing specific transactions, even naming complicit officials. Then, the voice declared, “The truth, Town of Corrupt, is no longer for nought.” This was Glitch, broadcasting their dirty laundry for the entire town to hear, shattering their façade of respectability.
The Noughts sprang into action with a shooter moving forward to distract Blur, a barrage of suppression fire, although not causing any damage due to her expert dodging did cause her to try and avoid the fire.
Astra made her move. From a hidden location, her gun ready, she took aim. Her “shots” were perfectly aimed at the shooters most vulnerable points, and suddenly one of Jason’s crew was nought!
Simultaneously, Blur orchestrated a controlled an attack on the Nought hacker who was trying to infiltrate a weapons platform not used since the the early days of the Corrupt Wars. Wounded but not out, the hacker was in deep trouble.
Bad, but things were about to get worse. With all of the “Angels” surrounding the hacker the result was inevitable.
In a last desperate attempt to restore some dignity the last remaining “Nought” try to hack the Angels computer node. A series of Aim, Aargh, Wound results from Astra’s sniper rifle brought down the offender.
As Jason was cuffed, his bluster completely deflated, he looked around wildly. But there was no one to see. Without even a single scratch, Guru’s Angels had melted back into the shadows, leaving behind only the undeniable evidence of their operation. The Town of Corrupt, for the first time in a long time, felt a flicker of hope. The grip of corruption had been loosened, not by brute force, but by the precise, surgical strikes of those who fought for truth, justice, and Guru’s way, in the digital and physical shadows.
Another great game of Mission Critical with Jason.
What’s next in the thrilling saga of Guru’s Angels? To find out stay tuned – same Guru Pig time, same Guru Pig station!
A Goblin Tank is a chaotic masterpiece of crude engineering, far removed from the precision of human or elven war machines. These ramshackle vehicles are typically cobbled together from scavenged metal plates, mismatched wheels or tracks, and whatever other junk goblins can lay their grimy hands on.
Expect asymmetrical designs, belching smoke from unstable power sources, and a general air of impending structural failure. Adorned with jagged spikes, crude blades, and frantic goblin graffiti, they embody the destructive ingenuity of their creators.
Crammed within these precarious contraptions is an overeager, underqualified crew of goblins. Coordination is a foreign concept; instead, a cacophony of shrieks and frantic gestures guides the tank’s erratic movement. Drivers wrestle with controls while gunners haphazardly aim their volatile weaponry. These expendable crews often throw themselves and their tank into the most dangerous situations, viewing the vehicle as a temporary, explosive home before its inevitable destruction.
The weaponry mounted on a Goblin Tank is as improvised as its construction. Forget accuracy; these are tools of mayhem. You might find oversized ballistas launching flaming projectiles, dangerously unstable flamethrowers, or multiple haphazardly placed guns firing a mix of scrap and actual ammunition.
Close-quarters combat is assured with crudely fashioned ramming spikes and “choppas.” These weapons are notoriously unreliable, prone to jamming, overheating, or simply falling off during the chaotic advance.
On the battlefield, a Goblin Tank serves as a mobile source of shock and awe – or just plain shock. It barrels forward, spewing smoke and fire, aiming to break enemy lines through sheer, unpredictable chaos.
Even if it doesn’t achieve a decisive breakthrough, its very presence is a potent distraction, drawing enemy fire and attention away from other goblin forces. Ultimately, a Goblin Tank often meets a spectacular end, whether through enemy action, internal malfunction, or the sheer, explosive exuberance of its goblin crew.
I picked the tank up at a bring and buy, not sure why, but it does look kinda cool. It is from a 3D print that I found here.
The battle was over in minutes, the desert air still thick with the tang of ozone and spent ammunition. As Soldat 1 stood silent amidst the fallen patrol, a deep, unsettling tremor began in the sand. Cracks spiderwebbed across the dunes, orange light filtering from unseen depths. Gradually, monstrous segments of corroded metal and twisted cables breached the surface.
The desert night hung heavy, thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the faint, sweet scent of blood. Soldat 1 stood motionless, a sentinel of silent destruction, its optical sensors reflecting the dying embers of a hastily extinguished British patrol. But the silence was a lie, a momentary breath before the storm. A deep, guttural groan, not of engine or metal, but of something ancient and malevolent, vibrated through the cracked earth.
Beneath the swirling sand, a titanic form stirred. Soldat 2, a grotesque mockery of engineering, groaned with the protest of corroded joints and reanimated hydraulics.
With a low, grinding roar, Soldat 2 uncoiled, a leviathan of steel and necromantic power, rising from the earth like a colossal, ancient sand worm, its multi-faceted optics glowing with malevolent purpose. The true horror of the Africa Corpse was only just beginning to stir.
It was buried deep, its lower half lost to the thirsty dunes, its massive body tilted at a perilous 45-degree angle. Yet, with horrifying resolve, its immense, blocky arms, already scarred by the elements and unnaturally decayed, began to claw. Sand erupted in cascading waves, illuminated by the sickly orange glow of the setting sun, as the mech heaved, a monstrous beast trying to free itself from its sandy tomb. Exposed wires sparked, internal lights flickered with a ghastly green, betraying the unnatural life within.
Then, with a hiss of releasing pressure, a hatch on Soldat 2’s upper torso slowly cranked open. From the dark maw, silhouetted against the internal glow, emerged Kommandant Eisenfaust. He was not a man, not anymore. His gaunt face was a roadmap of ancient battles and unholy pacts, his uniform tattered but still bearing the grim insignia of the Africa Corpse.
His eyes, burning with an internal, infernal light, scanned the desolate horizon. He was an undead hero, resurrected for a war far stranger than any he had fought in life, stepping forth from his reanimated war machine.
The Dessicated Fox’s will had stirred them both from their slumber, and the desert would once again run red with the blood of those who dared to oppose the rising tide of the weird war.
With a surge of dark power, Soldat 2’s TAR-29d Gulo Assault Rifle, a relic of forgotten skirmishes now humming with malevolent energy, was raised in the air.
Round after round ripped into the twilight, not aimed at an enemy, but as a deafening, echoing declaration of his return. At his other arm, the ancient Ohkara Shield flared with a searing, otherworldly light, emitting a loud, defiant salute that cut through the desert’s oppressive silence.
The sound was a challenge, a promise of retribution.
As the last rounds echoed into the vastness, Kommandant Eisenfaust’s glowing gaze locked onto Soldat 1. A flicker of recognition, a silent bond forged in shared damnation, passed between the two reanimated entities. Once again, the two brothers-in-arms, bound by the Dessicated Fox’s unholy will, were reunited, ready to unleash the true horror of the Africa Corpse upon a world unprepared for their weird war. The desert would once again run red with the blood of those who dared to oppose the rising tide of their terror.
Thanks again to Rob for a second 3D print, this time with a big shooty thing. Hopefully a few more to come, Rob?
“Once upon a time, there were three little girls from the toxic wasteland of Corrupt; and they were each living in very hazardous circumstances. But I took them away from all that and now they work for me. My name is Guru, Guru Pig!”
Just for kicks, the girls hatch a hilariously outrageous plan to sneak into the enemy’s command HQ in an oh-so-fortified district of Corrupt, all while casually tossing in the idea of “eliminating key personnel” as just a cheeky little bonus for their shenanigans!
The “party” consists of:
Blur – Her mastery of razor melee combat isn’t just a result of training; it’s more like a hilarious survival game gone wrong! Forget advanced tech; we’re talking about perfectly weighted, super sharp blades—maybe even scavenged from a particularly clumsy metal vendor or crafted from the leftovers of the last made-at-home shield-making contest. Who knew that being a combat expert could feel like a DIY project in the depths of Corrupt?
Astra is a sniper extraordinaire, a ranged combat whiz whose accuracy is so on point it could probably win a game of darts from ten blocks away. Her aim isn’t just impressive; it’s practically magical, polished not on boring shooting ranges but in the wild adventure of slum streets, where even pigeons are on edge. Every shot she fires is like a laser-guided love letter, bursting through gloom and grime with the finesse of a catwalk model dodging puddles!
Glitch is the team’s digital poltergeist! Glitch can sneak into any network like a cat burglar in a Wi-Fi shop, mess with communications like a kid playing with a walkie-talkie, manipulate surveillance systems as if they were mere toys, and extract data faster than you can say “buffering.”
Welcome to the “party” zone, where the only thing more vibrant than the decorations is Jason’s questionable dance moves!
Glitch kicks off the mission by breaking into the enemy’s high-tech communications clubhouse—because, why not? Their fingers twirl around the holographic interface like they’re auditioning for a sci-fi talent show, lines of code melting away like butter on a hot pancake. They unleash a fancy worm that’s sneakier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, quietly sipping on data while commandeering the network like it’s their new favorite toy. Suddenly, the enemy comms start doing the electric slide, then poof! They’re as silent as a library at naptime, replaced by a looping, oh-so-boring signal that’s so bland it’s practically begging for the lights to go back on.
As Glitch’s digital tendrils weave through the enemy’s compromised communication node, Astra moves with practiced swiftness. A sharp thwip cuts the air as she lobs a tactical smoke grenade. The canister impacts a nearby wall, instantly erupting in a dense, swirling cloud of white. The thick vapor rapidly expands, masking their position and disorienting any approaching guards, buying Glitch precious seconds to solidify their digital hold and complete the crucial hack.
A formidable enemy close-combat expert, honed by countless engagements, lunges from the swirling smoke. Their movements are a blur of trained aggression, aiming for a swift takedown. But Blur is swifter. A phantom flicker is all that’s seen as Blur anticipates the attack, weaving inside the enemy’s guard. A precise strike, a barely audible thud, and the expert crumples, dispatched before they even register the counter. No screams, no struggle – just silence and an empty space where a threat once stood.
Having taken over the communications node, Glitch, now comfortably lounging in the enemy’s systems like a cat in a sunbeam, decides it’s time for a little fun with a high-frequency sonic pulse. Instead of a dramatic explosion, imagine a slightly annoying, deep vibration that sneaks past all their fancy defenses like a ninja in the night. The sudden pressure wave crashes into every poor enemy inside the compound, leaving them clutching their heads as if they just heard their least favorite song on repeat. Soldiers wobble like jellybeans, their knees giving way and sending everyone crashing to the ground in a clumsy heap, making them look less like warriors and more like a pile of confused puppies – utterly vulnerable and temporarily out of commission!
With the enemy temporarily incapacitated by the ridiculous sonic blast, Glitch zooms in like a caffeine-fueled Quoka towards a downed operative. Forgetting all about her hesitation—what’s that, a luxury?—she unleashes a flurry of energy bursts from her assault rifle, like a kid at a candy store. The impacts are comedy gold, knocking the poor target to the ground and leaving them wondering if they’ve just been hit by a rogue fireworks display.
The successful shot made Glitch realize that the enemy is not just your average shooter—this guy’s got the aim of a laser-guided squirrel! Pity they won’t get a chance to use it!
Standing up to the sonic blast and the unpredictable antics of Glitch, the enemy shooter now finds himself in a pickle, squaring off against both Glitch and Astra—talk about being outnumbered! It’s like bringing a rubber spoon to a knife fight.
A comically loud alarm blares, announcing that a tiny, mischievous explosive charge has decided it’s time for its big debut somewhere in the HQ. An enemy operative, grinning like they’ve just won a prize for worst villain of the year, is fumbling around to secure the area, their hand awkwardly patting the remote detonator like it’s a pet cat. But wait, here comes Blur! Practically a gust of wind in spandex, Blur zips in and out like a bad magic trick, arriving right behind the enemy. Before the villain can go, “Wait, what?” and before the timer can even go “tick,” Blur delivers a swift, superhero-grade smackdown. The operative drops like a sack of potatoes, and just like that, the explosion is thwarted by the skin of a mouse’s whiskers!
With the sonic blast’s effects fading like a bad haircut, and the enemy’s demolition expert taking an unplanned nap, only one enemy operative is standing, looking like they’ve just lost a fight with a blender. Enter Blur, who zips over to secure the communications mask, because let’s face it, the last thing anyone needs is a surprise party invitation going out at this hour!
Meanwhile, Astra zips around like a caffeinated squirrel on a mission. She spots an enemy-controlled automated weapons turret, awkwardly stationed like a bouncer at a club that no one’s trying to enter. With a few spectacular moves that would make a magician proud, her engineering tools blink like they’re in a disco, and the turret’s internal gears start humming as she wrestles it into submission, overriding its grumpy targeting protocols. Now, instead of being a menacing menace, it turns into her overly enthusiastic sidekick, scanning for trouble with its shiny optics, ready to unleash a hail of cover fire at Astra’s command—because who doesn’t want a turret with a flair for the dramatic?
Finally, Glitch, the master of mischief, tiptoes toward the enemy’s main C2 HQ like a cat burglar on a midnight snack run, ready to plant a demolition charge that’s just as likely to turn the building into confetti as it is to bring it crashing down—talk about a party favor!
An absolutely hilarious spectacle featuring Jason and a gloriously chaotic debut for “Gurus Angels”!
