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.
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.