Martian

Edit: Nevermind, found the issue.

Goose Fishkin is The Stig of Xenonauts. They say he once impregnated an entire Brazilian volleyball team. Some say that he is a better shot with his feet than his hands but he wanted to give the aliens a sporting chance. They also say that his spine has to be oiled twice a week. All we know is that his name is Goose Fishkin.

Commander Goose Fishkin. Much badass.

The internet is a magical place.

The conspiracy of the higher rank your Xenonaut, the more effective and accurate the enemy's attack is against them. More than once has my Majors or Captains, geared up in full Wolf armour, get killed outright by some no-name alien guard with a standard-issue plasma rifle at extreme range. When the game breaks out the Bullsh!t bullets, I turn it off and go have a little rest..

#1 - Don't get shot. That about covers it.

Hey Fend- if Marty snuffs it, I want his replacement to be 'Goose Fishkin'.

My main game has given me the best trooper name I have ever seen: Goose Fishkin. Totally random name the system coughed up, and I will take great care in keeping him alive. Anyone else get some good random names?

You really need some help with your air game, fend. Wonder if I could knock out a video primer for that...

This is why you do not have Marty lead teams...

Awww yiss. You need a Marty, though I wonder if I can pester you for a custom class? When I got soldiers with good all-around statistics, particularly with TUs, I class them as Commandos and give them a useful assortment of gear. Rifle, Pistol (Or shotgun if they are strong enough,) Medkit, a C4 charge and as many grenades as they can carry. I use them to scout the flanks and outskirts of a map. High attrition rate if you aren't careful, but useful soldiers.

My transports are named after warhorses- Destrier, Charger, Courser, etc. And to match, the fighters are named after medieval weapons. Condors are light swords (Epee, Rapier, Colichemard, Gladius) Foxtrots are poleaxes (Glaive, Lochaber, Ranseur, Pike) Corsairs are heavy swords (Broadsword, Katana, Scimitar, Ulfbehrt) Also eagre to see how you do in the next season!

Just crashed the game by firing a Plasma Cannon off the Scimitar. Did it three more times in a row and same effect every time. I have the game saved at the moment before firing, so if someone can just tell me where to find that save file on a Mac, I can copy it out and send it to a tester to see if it can be replicated.

A restart could be good. Now that you understand how the game works, you can limit casualties and make further progress with ease... until the game goes Hard Mode on you, anyway. Would also give me a chance ro re-write Marty a bit. Being a silly hoser is fine, but hard to write fiction for as I had him. I will miss his habit of one-shotting Sebellians, though.

Muh feels...

You know you need a Marty. Callsign: 'Martian' Sex: Don't care. Ethnicity: Don't care. Role: Rifleman/woman Equipment: Dem Rifles. The least-loved yet most useful class in the game. Gimme dem ger-nades and a gun.

Apparently the minimal adjustments I made are too much for the game to handle. It crashes on ground combat. Somedays I do hate running a Mac.

Yep.

I modded the AK to have a 30-round magazine, it was fairly simple. To add a bit of balance to that though, I also went and modified its magazine to take up a 1x2 slot in the inventory, since those banana mags are rather bulky. Loving this mod all around, though.

You had an open window and a sniper two steps away but opted for the young gun with the cannon.

'The Hoser and his toy,' the LT laughed, setting down the steaming mug of coffee. The range was usually quiet in the evenings, save when the troops were bored or wanted to try out their new toys. Marty took those opportunities to set up at the centre post with his prized air rifle and just drop pellets into the targets at the extreme end of the range. The gun never made a sound louder than a polite cough, and the strike of the pellet impacting a second or two later was louder by far. 'Aw c'mon, LT. This is a precision piece of engineering! It ain't one of them fiddly Daisy's you give to a ten year old.' 'Uh huh.' A chair squeaked as it was drug across the concrete, then creaked slightly as the LT settled down. 'You can't tell me that thing tops what we issue.' Marty snorted and waved a hand dismissively, 'I'd rather keep using the Enfields the Canuck Rangers have, to tell you the truth. Hell, I'd rather use a sling shot over that damn .308 they gave me. And yeah,' the soldier continued, patting the somewhat lumpy-looking rifle on the benchrest, 'This beauty is still miles beyond the standard issue rubbish.' 'Uh huh,' Fend looked amused, stretching back on the chair, blowing the steam off his coffee. Marty rolled his eyes, 'Yeah well, it won't hit like a .308, but take a peek through the spotter.' Humouring the young canuck, Fend rested an elbow on the bench and peered through the bulky scope set up at Marty's elbow. The paper target was the familiar head-and-shoulders silhouette, outlined by various lines and markers to denote hit zones. The head and heart bullseye's looked like they had been peppered by buckshot at very close range, leaving just a ragged mess half the size of his palm. The target was hung at the furthest station; 150 yards. It would be a competent display for any decent marksman, but nothing to crow about. The look Fend gave Marty spoke this. The look Marty gave back suggested that Fend didn't quite understand the gravity of the situation. 'This gun fires tiny pellets a quarter of the weight of a bullet at roughly a quarter of the velocity,' he said. 'Putting a pellet into a target at a hundred yards takes the same kind of math as dropping a .308 round into the same target at five hundred yards. Holdover, windage- all of it is nearly the same.' 'Uh huh,' said Fend. Feeling somewhat slighted, Marty broke open the action of the air rifle ad levered the barrel down to cock it for a fresh shot. 'Just a thought,' said the LT, taking a sip of the coffee as the soldiers braced against the shooting rest. The rifle coughed politely, and roughly a second later, there was a thunk as the fired pellet found its mark. Fend waited for the young soldier to glare at him. 'Do you think that thing will kill a lizard? How about a grey? Do you think that pea-shooter will help you out there where it counts?' Fend held up a hand to stall the outburst. 'Yeah, I can tell it helps for practice, but this isn't your backyard anymore, Marty- you gotta get used to our guns now. The boys upstairs are cooking up some new gear for us, and you're going to have to adapt in a hurry, and probably with things breathing down your neck with the intention of stringing your spine up as a decorative piece.' Fend pointed to the ugly little gun on the table, 'Pack it in grease and save it for a hobby when you retire, kid. Time to grow up.' The LT hadn't been an asshole about it- it was just a matter-of-fact statement from an old hand. Marty hadn't been much pleased after the LT had strolled off, but after a couple more shots, the words had sunk in. The Canadian hadn't been in a proper shooting war as yet, but the history was there, and something about the LT's words struck a chord. Eventually, Marty had packed away the Weihrauch he had so prized, and dragged the ugly, unwieldy battle rifle they had issued him over to the bench. --- The talk had helped the kid open his eyes to just what he would be facing, but it had been the assault on the crashed ship that had solidified it. The crash and roar of the guns, the stink of burning flesh, the panicked screams, the unfamiliar and heavy laser rifle in his hands. The LT had just fallen in a spray of friendly fire from the left, then MSV was shouting a command from the right, then the door to the ship opened and the thing strode out. The laser rifle felt like it weighed a ton, felt like it was the size of a car- he couldn't get it to his shoulder in time, couldn't get a sight picture before the thing cut MSV down. The laser rifle spat death, and the thing's neck burst into a haze of red and violet as the bolt of light vaporized flesh and bone... --- Marty blinked. He was at the firing range, in the centre post. The black behemoth of a rifle was on the bench, its frame and barrel making soft clicking noises as it cooled. Downrange, a series of targets was gently smouldering. The furthest was a hundred and fifty yards, the closest no more than ten, and all of them spread across the range from left to right. Six targets, six holes through the center-of-mass. Marty's eyes swivelled to the sound-activated timer at his elbow. Ten-point-three seconds between the first and last shot. He bumped the magazine eject and slotted a fresh battery in place in one smooth motion. The charging lever clicked and the weapon hissed back into life, a hellish red glow pulsing in the chamber's indicator. He'd get faster. He wasn't going to lose another teammate.

Hmm, you may well have your finger on it. i have a day off today/tomorrow (huzzah graveyard shifts,) lemme see if I can transition from being just some goofy canuck to something better...

I am sad that opted to write a character while drunk. I could have been so much cooler. Ah well. I could cook up a pair of Irish IRA maniacs to work with a scout car.

And a second one: had an Interception sortie engage a bogey at the very same instant a dropship team arrived at a target LZ. Went into an Air-to-Air game, and was interrupted to have the dropship team engage on the ground. The Air-to-Air game was paused in the background and was showing up on the fog-of-war tiles. Rather odd.

Odd thing happens on occasion while playing in windowed mode; The game keeps going to the background, even when I am in the middle of moving soldiers about. It doesn't minimize, but the window greys out and I have to click on it again to keep playing. Not particularly troublesome, just irritating. And no, there are no other peripherals connected.