There's a Tradition following a Faction War.Of course it was the Bunnies who started it... they know how to throw a party, and who are we to stop them? It's grown since then of course.
A nightclub gets hired out. The only stipulation is that it has to have 2 dance floors and a private room. Hey, so pilots get a little bit rowdy.... It doesn't stop a multitude of establishments vying for the honour of hosting the After War party. They more than make their money back for any breakages.
Unlike the first Faction War party, the public are now allowed entry. As long as they can afford the door charge, and it is so exorbitant that the "public" consists of the Galaxy's rich and royalty. They are allowed into the first dance floor and no further, unless by invitation.
Of course, even though they are privileged, they don't enter the building. They are part of the crowd, a veritable who's who of celebrity, waiting for The Processions.
The processions of mech's. Not divisional prizes, they are too.... common. No, these mechs are the prizes for those who fought, and sometimes bled the hardest. They may be sold for scrap afterwards, depending on the whims of the victor, but they are all retained for this one event.
First comes the Procession of Gold. The newly won Megazomes, eighty all told this year. They marchdown the main street in unison, then turn to encircle the building to park up, each adorning a faction banner and the pilots own clan banner, snapping and fluttering in the wind.
But they will not park at the front of the building. Those spaces are reserved and the pilots respect that tradition.
Their pilots and his or her date for the evening dismount, dressed in the latest fashion, dressed to party, dressed to dance. Cameras flash and drones zoom as the paparazzi vie to get the best images for the highest bidding publications.
But even these pilots, honored guests that they are, do not enter. Their place will be the second dance floor. It is theirs to call their own, or invite in who they wish. It is their party and their whim. The pace will be frantic and drinks will be from bottles because you spill less.
But they wait for the others.
Theirs were the parks at the front of the building. Theirs would be a black tie affair in the private room.... the Green Room. Polite conversation and relaxed carousing with drinks in small glasses with a lot of ice, colour, umbrellas and olives on show. They could enter the dance floors if they so wished; that was the right that they had earned. But the Green Room was their domain, their private refuge.
But here and there, dotted among the dinner jackets and evening gowns were... the anomalies.
Dress code for these pilots had gone out of the window after Faction War 2. A bouncer had tried to enforce the dress code. Their had been.... unpleasantness. He did recover, and the pilot's clan picked up the tab for the medical bills. There were no issues at Faction War 3.
A jumpsuit, unchanged after 5 days of combat then downtime, rinsed and repeated. A baseball cap and sweat pants so threadbare and comfortable that the knees were ancient history. This year, a dressing gown and slippers. No eyebrow was raised.
Theirs was the alcove. The Emerald Alcove in the Green Room.
A suppression field kept the noise out. There were less of them this year, in the same way there were less every year. They didn't pay for drinks. It was tradition that their tab was covered by those who... no longer sat at the alcove.
Rank had no place in the alcove. Neither did relative skill levels, clan affiliation, enmities or bank balances. Only one thing mattered.
Each held an unbroken run of top five placings. Each had won five Dreadnoughts from five seperate Faction Wars. And they could dress however the hell they wanted and drink whatever the hell they wanted. Some even ordered coffee.
The party is in full swing now.
To those who also sit in the Emerald Alcove, I raise my coffee cup in salute to you.
Submitted by David McCallum #701548