>>84208735This will be a nice anchor point as I'm too embarrassed to post this in the Discord.
>'And here we have the last of the kaiju response coalition! Coming all the way from the land down under, arriving in the limousine entourage, ladies and gentlemen! Cynapse's very own Pilot 237, Jean Faymas!'>At the spokeswoman's cue Jets opened the door and submitted herself to the flood of heat from the high Hawaiian sun. >The floor was abuzz with energy the type not unlike being in a sortie. It was a battlefield of noise and distractions as Jets had to maneuver through the fanatic Cynapse junkies shouting her name. She raised a tepid hand and waved at the paparazzi. "G'day everyone! Thank you for showing up and, uh, hope you have a fun time!" >Hastily making her way towards the convention entrance Jets was immediately bombarded with praises of admiration.
'We love our aussie mech pilot!'
'Marry me Jets!'
'Uuuuuuuuuu tomboy tummy!'
>Ever since her plane hit the asphalt coming from the cool Australian winter straight into blazing humidity of Hawaiian summer Jets had been feeling super crummy. Maybe it was just the jetlag of a 16 hour flight that she hated. Maybe it was the insistence of The Powers That Be she attend this "crucial display of global cooperation and brand awareness". >Maybe it was the knowledge that she would be hounded to take pictures like that leaked gravure photoshoot which she had to issue a public apology for misusing company tech for bombing the residence of said leaker.>The camera always hungered for the company's star pilot, ever since her debut outside of the mech academy. And for a short while Jets obliged as part and parcel of a mech pilot. She can remember reading the back issues of Cyn & Punishment during her off periods with her predecessors accompanying the centerfolds of the magazine. Decked in the old accouterments of purple nomex fabric was like looking in a time capsule with how much pilotsuits have changed over the past decades. >Now Cynapse's finest wore a plugsuit that clung to her body in ways she feared drew too much attention while walking down the red carpet. Flashes of the myriad of cameras aimed to capture every piece of her plugsuit made her eyes throb with a dull ache and left her neural implants fried. Her calibration actuator tether (or CAT's tail) mirrored her cognitive unease and wrapped itself around her leg. >Security ushered Jets in the convention building proper where the relief of air-conditioned wind hit her purple bangs. "Thank fuck," she sighed. >As the burly bodyguards escorted Jets towards the backstage wing for the talents she took a glimpse at the giant signs decorating the main floor. Her home corporation Cynapse had a healthy presence front and center of the southern wing of the building. >Stands previewing the latest consumer products from home based neural interfaces, M-11-A gunpla, and giant plushy packits were hocked to get the brand loyalty skyrocketing. And if that weren't enough, to Jets' horror, they had a stand filled with dakis of her likeness, the one with the weird transparent swimsuit.>God she hated photoshoots. 