Ari gunned the engine away, hearing the sudden declaration to clear the firing line. She angled the X-50s and dove away at top speed. She was still in awe from the first shot she saw from the Wave Motion Gun, and was less than eager to be caught in the blast from one. She quickly achieved top speed, the X-50s still running optimally thankfully. She watched then as the blast arced out, a blast of pure devastation given physical form. She watched, in awe, as it blew through part of a cruiser that the other team had just blown up, through the enemy shields, and then still through the enemy vessel. Truly, the Lincoln carried terrifying firepower for being a carrier, and it made one wonder after the capabilities of the true battleships that the UEE fielded. The coalition may have the edge in small craft, as they had vastly superior numbers of MAS suits for obvious reasons, but it seemed UEE naval dominance held true just as it always seemed to whenever it was called into question by another Coalition attack.

Shaken from her reverie by the Captain's order, she began to panic a bit again. She was driving a damaged suit and needed to get back for a hot exfil, in 10 minutes? There was no way! She's a rookie pilot, no way she can swing it! Again, though, the steely confidence in her belly reminded her that yes, yes she could. She was a great pilot and she'd even kept the pace with the 7th thus far, surely she could manage to make her way back, right? Besides, if nothing else, even if she missed the evac she was still in UEE territory, it wasn't like she was deep in Coalition terf. With a sigh of relief, she decided to do her utmost to reach the Lincoln. However, a few zigzagging shots said something different.

With a glance, she noted that an enemy Ferir was flying forwards, gunning towards her. Another glance confirmed that her targeting AI was back online, and she resolved that she had the time to dance. She began to fly up, her weapons locking on quickly. She did NOT have the time for this shit, and she'd learned her lesson. She adjusted the solution manually, and let loose, watching with a grin as the blasts raced out. She grinned as the blasts made contact, watching the Ferir go spiraling into the endless dark. Ariana had the first of many lessons of MAS combat, and it was time to prove that she'd learned it well. With that, she turned towards the Lincoln and got to work, firing her thrusters and hurtling away.

Ari watched as the Lincoln grew closer and closer, while her MAS narrowly dodged round after round. She had no idea if she was going to make it, which round would be the lucky one that took her down. In a way, it was almost intoxicating, that feeling of adrenaline filling her. It made her feel so...alive, like every part of her body was hyper aware. She grinned as she flew, as if she could feel every ounce of speed the Astelion was gaining while hurtling through space. She was calm, collected, completely in control of her MAS and her surroundings, she knew she could do this. Adrenaline and confidence in equal measure kept her flying, elegantly dancing around projectiles

When she arrived to the Lincoln, she watched the Hangars open, and threw up all her brakes and reverse thrusters for a rapid deceleration. Speed rapidly ticked away from her MAS as she closed in, and she even angled the X-50s to try and provide a brake. It worked to some extent, and she was able to draw to a slow glide by the time she floated into the hangar. Various machines began to kick into place, grabbing the Astelion in a few key places to help guide it into the bay. As she was guided to her proper place for the Astelion, she sighed a gentle sigh of relief at this however, as she was at least safe now. Of course, that also meant that she had to wait for her team mates. With a gentle prayer, she wished them nothing but safety, and hoping that they would return alive. She'd already begun to grow incredibly attached to them, especially Maki and Alice, who'd been so nice to her. So, her sincerest prayers went with them, and she folded her hands and lowered her head in her cockpit, fervently praying for them.

"Those idiots are way too happy about killing." Maki commented to no one, a feeling of disgust creeping up her throat. Alice, she could understand somewhat. She was walking, programmed weapon. It was in her nature. Yet, there could be no helping how disconcerting it was that the AI would be so eager to end lives. Wes was the kind of man who lived better in war time than in peace. The exact kind of man her father had warned her against. Such people were useful to have at your side in a battle, but they were also dangerous.

When the orders came for her to attack the frigates with Wizard and Rabbit, she was glad for an excuse to stop thinking about it. No use for brooding on the dangers of blood lust in the middle of a battlefield. "Good job taking down the Mark 3, rookie. Now just keep on your head on straight." It was good to see Ariana hadn't needed any hand holding, even if her nerves showed. She could hardly be blamed a very human reaction in the midst of her first battle.

She had linked up with the other two members of the 7th as ordered when the retreat was sounded. "What the fuck?! The Ulysses will fall if we don't mop them up now!" She cried in protest over the comms, her anger apparent. She knew it was the last thing Captain Alexis would have done, which meant those orders came from someone else. The Admiral.

Trust those who sat too far up from the battle to make such cold calculations. There was nothing that couldn't wait for them to spend another thirty minutes cleaning up the rest of the Coalition forces. Maki slammed a fist against her console, cursing under her breath as she turned around and flew back to the Lincoln at top speed in a three man formation with Wizard and Rabbit. The rookie was already back, and Maki lingered at the hangar doors to cover the rest as they flew back.

She stood right above the gates, preventing them from shutting as long as there was an obstruction in the way. She did not trust the admiral to simply order Alexis to abandon the rest of the men fighting outside to their fates. If the man wanted to discipline her for her little act of defiance, he could very well throw her in the brig himself, kicking and screaming. "I've got your asses covered now move it, assholes!" She yelled through the comms, at the same time putting one round through a Ferir's torso where the cockpit would be, unsure if she actually killed the person within. Well, at the very least, she would have dissuaded them from coming after the retreating MAS of the 7th.

Nobody among their squad died today, but Maki could hardly celebrate the fact knowing they were abandoning thousands more on the station to their fate, part of the Lincoln's crew among them. Admiral Ardin had better have excellent bodyguards, because the Lincoln had a tight knit crew and he certainly wasn't winning any favours by condemning part of that family to death. "Baka wa shinanakya naoranai!" She spat, not caring if the admiral could hear her over the comms, not that she cared if he understood her Japanese. Those who knew her well enough would have heard her utter that line before and be well aware of its meaning - Only death will cure a fool.

"Verdammt... Acknowledged coming back home.", the lieutenant commander sent out over the comm in response to his recall order. He spun the sentry around and using the secondary thrusters gently pulsed his way back to the hanger. These small movements in the sentry's current state made it groan in protest as the reactor whined and the console continued to flash a series of warnings across the screen. Trapp pondered to himself why a mute button was never installed in these things as the alarms continued to ring in his ears.

"Wizard, make sure the others get home in one piece." Trapp added in his comms as he directed the hulking piece of metal back in line MAS hanger. Landing procedures in a MAS were generally the first thing taught by the 101st and the last thing that most actually learned. You don't decelerate fast enough and your MAS just punched a hole through whatever hanger wall you happened to be in and decelerating too quickly threatened to blow your thrusters. Not that the German had to really worry about decelerating all that much as the Sentry almost lazy moved towards the hanger entrance. As he reached the hanger he gently landed the sentry and directed it slowly into its holding cell. Machines of all sorts whirred clamping it back into place so that nothing would slide out of position.

Looking at the sentry from the outside give a testament to UEE engineering and fail safes that the thing still manged to stay aloft. The anti-ship missile had torn though the shield system and most of its armor in the process. Scorch marks dotted the entire front face of the sentry as it looked like it had just came right out of hell. A large hole permeated throughout the core section of the chassis, circuitry sputtered and sparked in open air and the soft glow of the idle reactor could be seen through the cracks. The walking coffin had pretty much splintered as a result and most of the on board hydraulics had been thrown into a hodgepodge of various conditions. The main line connecting the thrusters to the central reactor had blown resulting in the deactivation that Trapp had experienced. The beauty of it all was that unlike various heavily customized vehicles, repairs of this magnitude to fix the MAS would only take most of a day, rather than weeks. By mandate most Engineering crews had most Mass Produced parts on hand for quick and dirty replacements when needed. With most of the circuitry intact it would be a simple job of replacing the translucent metal alloy of the cockpit and the metal plating of the armor. Though no matter how easy Trapp knew the job was he knew that engineering would not wast any chance given to complain about all the extra work he had given them. The very thought of the whining crew chief made him smile.

The lieutenant commander let out a long held breath within his cockpit as he wrenched the helmet off of his head. He rotated the helmet easily in his hands, the cool metal giving him some sort of solace as he looked down at the bloodstained visor. First day back and he had already almost killed himself for some admiral that wouldn't even learn his name. The bureaucracy of it all sometimes made Trapp wonder if he had made the right career choice if what they were doing was the right thing. He knew why the Coalition solider's fought, they fought to stay free of a subjugating imperial rule that did nothing for them when they were one. Now why did the UEE fight? To reclaim their lost colonies? To unify the empire once more? Every Coalition pilot that he had fought seemed totally enthralled in their convictions, never backing down when the chance was given. And for every one of those pilots the UEE had ten Admiral Ardins. He shook his head clearing his seditious thoughts from his mind as he focused back on his squad comms still blaring into his cockpit. Everyone seemed to be okay though the Captain's withdrawal order made Trapp raise an eyebrow wondering who had made that executive decision. The Ulysses and the rest of the 5th fleet would not be able to hold the armada at bay and Cerol's orbital defensive could only do so much. Tactically it made sense to preserve the Lincoln but it just didn't sound like an order the Captain would make so easily.

He disengaged the blast shield over the cockpit once more his side screaming in protest as he raised his arm to pull the lever. The metal pulled back and Trapp watched as the rest of the deck crew ran about preparing for the immediate arrival of the rest of the seventh. Hydraulic clamps spraining to life and loaders shuddering as they moved about ready to catch and lock the arriving vehicles. Trapp ran his hand gently across the hole in his cockpit as he watched the preceding, his fingers tracing the outline of the jagged hole. The artificial light of the hanger glanced in and illuminated the blood streaked cockpit and the shard from before as it caste a dazzling array of light. He ignored the fire that the biogel was currently masking, he would not leave the MAS until his entire squad got into the hanger it was what they did. You weren't out of the battle until everyone was home.

Soon afterwords Williams and her MAS came roaring into the hanger. Trapp nodded almost happily as he watched the Astelion be pulled back into position. The rookie had done well for herself in her first battle and at least one worry could have been cast from his mind. He was unsure when the Captain first told him that they were getting a greenhorn in but she hadn't died and that was all Trapp could really ask for. He didn't need or want some kid with their whole life ahead of them's death on his mind. Nobody wanted to write that letter home. He flipped his comms so that they would be directed to the Astelion. Trapp spoke in his standard amused tone and though his words did not sound it they were the closest the rookie was going to get in terms of a good job from her squad leader."Williams.... Your wingmen almost died, you showed near suicidal tendencies and almost allowed for your emotions to win over in battle. But you didn't fuck up... just keep it that way."

Soon afterwards the rest of the seventh came flying in. He listened over the comms making sure everything was going smoothly and soon afterwards he heard Maki's angry voice come over the communications. Trapp let out a sigh and shook his head as throwing threats and challenging a direct officer was generally not the smartest thing to do, especially when that superior officer was part of the imperial family. Now Trapp knew that he needed to act quickly to prevent any backlash coming back towards the Captain, himself or more importantly Maki in the form of a court-martialing or other actions. Trapp took a deep breath as he switched back to open comms before he spoke. When he did speak his voice was not in its normal smooth baritone but rather a loud harsh roar akin to some sort of primal beast. "Oberleutnant, you will shut your mouth and get into the Lincoln this goddamn instant! So help me God! Or I will get you relocated so quickly off of this god damn squad quicker than you can say insubordination! Jetzt bewegen!"

Trapp shook his head as he realigned himself and let the order ring out for all to hear. He had hoped that Maki understood he had just put on that dog and pony show to please the Admiral and make sure that she didn't actually get disciplined. It was all a game of politics, a game that Trapp himself disliked immensely but he knew how to play it well enough. Worse came to worse he would patch it up with her later.

"That goes for everyone else as well! Double-Time it people!"

"Orders read, Capitaine," Gerard said into the general comms as he cleared the hull, pushing a frozen corpse away as gently as he could, "but not understood..." he muttered into the squad comms. He suspected that a higher power was at work here but shut his inner thoughts off. He, Shanks and Alice were the furthest away from the Lincoln, and he would ahve to time it well if he was to avoid the blast of the wave motion cannon. Kicking his thrusters into gear, the Marauder started to jet forwards even as he started to take macrocannon fire from the turret arcs of the cruiser behind him. A couple of seconds later, the capital charge detonated, sending out a pulse of blue-white light followed by hundreds of smaller blooms where secondary explosions started to occur. With a final silent bang, the cruiser exploded, sending debris flying everywhere. With expert piloting skills, Gerard managed to dodge all of it save the tiny pieces that had no effect on the Marauder. A sudden explosion of force hit his MAS as he adjusted for it, letting it push him along as he rode it. He didn't look back at his teammates. He trusted them enough not to screw up a simple escape.

In a flash of light so bright that it forced Delacroix to cover his eyes even through the photofilter of the armorcrys cockpit, the Wave motion gun fired for a second time, tearing straight through the final cruiser in a brilliant lance of death. Delacroix would have been awestuck...if he didn't think of the lives on board the ship. How many people died to that vengeful spear of light? How many of them had wives, husbands, children? Howmany more would die to the core detonation to follow? These thoughts forced him to bite his lip hard enough to cause him to bleed a little before he let up. There was no helping it. They were his enemy...They needed to be removed for the greater good. Putting extra power into his thrusters, he turned away, lengthening his journey a tad as the cruiser finally exploded. Vaguely he recalled Maki's angry tirade pour over his comm net but it barely registered as he jetted towards home, dodging rounds and missiles as he did so.

"I've got your asses covered now move it, assholes!"
Maki's angry voice continued through the comms as Gerard neared the hangar doors, followed by Trapp's commanding barks. Then, Maki's classic line came through. "Calm, madamoiselle," he said, his voice considerably gentler and mellow than those that came before him before he switched to a private channel, "Folle est la brebis qui au loup se confesse, do not give the wolf more reason to act." As he said that, a Ferir closed, but the Japanese pilot put a round through the abdomen of the MAS, staggering it. Within a second, Gerard slammed the haft of his axe into the cockpit before cutting off its arm, destroying the HUD and gun arm but leaving it mostly unharmed. He had done enough killing today. Feeding more power to his thrusters, the giant maw of the hangar bay opened in his vision. He would be home soon.

As he entered the airlock, Gerard rapidly thrusted backwards, scraping the Marauder's feet against the floor of the bay, showering the blackened space with sparks. Coming to a rest as the hangar doors opened, he started to march the weakened MAS into its assigned space, letting the engineers and machinery taking hold. Altogether, the MAS was a wreck. Pieces of debris were jabbed through its chassis from the close range Ferir detonation, with some dangerously close to the cockpit. The left side was pitted with gashes and cuts while pitted holes dotted its surface, exposing servoes and cables. The formerly white paintjob had been seared off ont he front, leaving it its default gunmetal grey. All in all, he had gotten off quite lucky. Climbing out of the cockpit, he stumbled as he hit the ground, Lark having to hold him up as he once more had to become used to the static gravity of the ship. Thanking him, Gerard approached Trapp and Williams. "Well done on your first sortie," Gerard said with a small chuckle as he ruffled her hair, "I believe I can leave my back to you now." Looking up to Trapp, Gerard conducted a small salute, but his face became a little grim. "Is the retreat because of the Snake?" he asked in a small voice.

The Eagle cast a subtle but knowing glance through space at Guillotine’s Marauder. It was clear through the attempted but absent response he had given her that her actions had upset him to some extent. But she did what she had to do. There were only two types of people in wars: the living and the dead. From her perspective, there were further friendlies and targets. And which ever an individual was at any given moment was not considerate of what they did outside of the battlefield. Any life could be extinguished in an instant. The lives of good people and bad, of people who were loved and hated. The death of Tori painfully reminded her of that.

Tori...

She began letting out a synthetic growl, low and distorted, and not given to the illusion of humanity that her previous vocal monotony produced. The growl indicated that an anger was growing inside her, as it often did. This was not something she willed, nor could she even control. The smallest mistakes could quickly frustrate her, and sometimes emotions like grief would be expressed through anger. She didn’t like being angry, especially in battle, because it made her impulsive and do things she wouldn’t do with a clear mind.

After receiving new orders from Marquis and regrouping with Guillotine and Sokolov, Alice couldn’t help but watch with awe at the incredible sight of the wave motion gun firing. A beam of gleaming plasma pierced through space before finally impaling the Coalition destroyer, splitting it in two. The remaining halves didn’t survive long, both erupting in further explosions. Then it was done, the destroyer was, well, destroyed. Even Alice could understand and appreciate the irony in such an event. As the explosions subsided, her mind returned to the mission at hand.

The bomb team regrouped, and by now, Alice was getting fidgety. As her temper was kindled, she, for lack of a better word, began to itch for combat. Fighting was her catharsis, her way of releasing this anger. When she was like this, she became impatient. She began tapping the Eagle’s fingers against her rifle, a form of stimming that relieved her stress, if only for a short time. Eventually, before they could decide on a plan, Wes haphazardly sped into battle. She took this as a go ahead and did the same. However, her MAS was much more faster, and surged past him, ready to fight.

---

After finally calming down from her tantrum, Alice was becoming frustrated again. Not long after the bomb team destroyed the Coalition cruiser, they were being pulled back to the Lincoln. This order would mean abandoning the Ulysses and the many civilians on it, let alone their own soldiers. Such orders lacking even the most basic foresight from the UEE leadership that technically owned Alice, mind and body, baffled her. Even if she was just a tool to them, at least she was an effective tool. In the right hands she could do amazing things. Even in her own hands she might even be able to do more! But she didn’t seem to be in good hands, and that was the problem. If a solution existed to this problem, would it even be feasible?

Nevertheless, she had to obey orders. With the rest of the bomb team, she swiftly flew back to the Lincoln. Every once in a while, her thrusters sputtered slightly from the damage. By now, the Eagle was noticeably damaged, it’s formerly pristine ivory armor marred with the scars of war. Scorch and scratch marks covered the surface of the White Rabbit, almost to the point of the armor appearing black. But Alice still moved with a grace and care as she navigated the scattered debris of the cruiser following the charge’s detonation, as well as fire from the rest of the Coalition forces.

When they neared the hangar, Alice watched the remains of a Ferir drift away, disabled by Maki and Gerard. For a second, she raised her rifle to destroy it and kill the pilot within, before realizing she lacked enough ammo to finish them off. Even though she could not show mercy to her targets, she couldn’t be blamed for circumstances out of her control, right? Not everyone was as lucky as this pilot was, at least not for long.

Alongside the other pilots of the 7th, Alice expertly docked the machine back in the hanger. While the Eagle was clamped into place, Alice transferred herself back into her body. Letting out a small shudder, she began carefully stretching her body within the rather small space.

The embarrassment from her earlier tantrum remained. Gerard was correct, she needed to control her temper. But then again, some things are easier said than done. Now, she just needed to hope her engineers found out. They knew what was in her code, but they didn’t seem exactly detect the error that likely caused her temper. And unless they read her root code to a rubber duck, they wouldn’t find out any time soon.

Pushing the thoughts out of her head and replacing them with excitement about William’s success on her first sortie, Alice began to exit her MAS. Creaking gently under the stress of the recent damages, the Eagle’s cockpit opened up, allowing her to crawl out. Once on the ground, she eagerly found her way to Ari, leaving the White Rabbit and its repair to her Engineers. Wes joined Alice, and a smile grew on her face as she met Ari. “Congratulations, Miss Williams! You performed excellently on your first mission!”

"Of course it was him," Wes replied to Gerard as he walked in besides Alice, a bit of a sneer on his face. "What self preserving general wouldn't throw away thousands of lives? And I don't care if he hears me saying this. I'm not some toe-twoed private. Its not like he can court martial us for hurting his feelings."

Yuuyami had followed orders and docked with the Lincoln for resupply. However, before she was able to launch herself back into space, the new orders came in, and they definitely did not sound like something the Captain would ever do. At least, not voluntarily.

Gritting her teeth, she glared at the shiny, useless shuttle sitting in the hangar. It had to be them. It was always the really higher ups that made the most coldest and half the time only moderately efficient strategies, generally revolving around having everyone as cannon fodder, while claiming the glory for themselves. "Looks like this battle ends earlier than expected for us.", she whispered, while laying a hand gently on the leg of her MAS.

Unlike most of the rest of the 7th, her MAS was still in rather good condition. Albeit the few dents and scratches from stray debris impacting her, with the shield heavily scratched up from we collision with the carcass of a Fenir. Speaking of which, another Fenir seems to have met its end, as the rest of her team entered te hangar. As try all flew in, Yuuyami looked over every MAS with a critical eye from were she stood, noting the battle damage on every one of them. However, to her relief, all of the 7th seemed to be accounted for.

Quickly regrouping with the rest of them, she happily huger Ari, while saying "You did good!", before suddenly pulling Ari's head into Yuu's own chest for a few moments and releasing. "Suicidal but good." It was her own way of congratulating the rookie, while at the same time reprimanding.

However, her eyes narrowed in annoyance as the topic of the group shifted to the Admiral. "He's an absolute idiot. No matter the rush, losing that much resources of both personnel and materials, along with the time spet constructing the station and fuel used to ferry the personnel, is not worth it. It's not like he's the one paying for it all." Muttering her complains in annoyance, she noticed a few unopened cans of paint in a crate off to the side.

Suddenly getting the urge to do something, anything, to the shuttle, she immediately started making a beeline towards the paint.

When someone tells you to get out the way of a WMG, you move.

As he careened to the side, he watched the Lincoln bring it's big bang to bear and turn everything on board that last cruiser into matches. For the second time this battle he found himself whistling through his cheeks, watching the sheer energy of the blast scour a line across the battlefield. If the Coalition thought their hardballers had hammers, they had a good damn ways before they caught up to the sledge on even a UEE carrier. In the aftermath of the shot, however, Trent found himself listening to the same orders as everyone else. It made about as much sense as tits on a bull to pull in and dock now and leave the Ulysses to its fate, but Thomas Trent did not believe in insubordination. You did your job and you shut up about it.

What he did believe in was prioritization and exceeding expectations. Why settle for completing one mission objective when you could have your cake an eat it too?

Ten minutes was a pretty tight timetable for departure--the Mosquito might be fast but that didn't mean the docking protocol could keep up, and an unsecured warp could damage more than just his own machine (as he'd been reminded the last time he skidded in late to the party, and for the next three months of galley duty). And there was Trapp, making sure he had an eye on the rest of the squad while they made their way back in. It made sense in the way that a new squad leader telling his men to cover their asses always made sense but this was the 7th. Between the relatively undamaged Maki and Lin, not to mention the rest of them--

"Just go do it."

He blinked out of his slight reverie when his wingmate's channel opened up, the petite pilot's voice in his ear.

"You're going to anyway, just go do it. Trapp just wants us to cover our butts--I'll count head, you go be a jackass."

He pretended to think about it. He really did, for all of about seven microseconds, but really he was already breaking away from their formation with the Hellcat--9:35, 34, 33 and counting--while his lips curled into a smile. "Being awful nice to me today, Rabbit."

"We'll see how nice I am when I tell them all it was your idea." She said cheerfully, closing the link and forming up with Maki as well to keep an eye on the hanger approach for the rest of the team. Flicking his thumb to the active 7th Squad Channel, he highlighted the first frigate in his targeting computer and moved for his solution.

"Back in a bit, Mama Trapp, I'm going fishing. Don't worry about the kids, they've got babysitters. See you in ten boys and girls, I got a rookie to show off for." He added for good measure--it wouldn't do for the commander to think he was ignoring him, would it?--before focusing on his task. This had to be done right, and it had to be done fast.

It made sense in a suicidal, are-you-watching-closely kind of way. Plasma guns could punch through armor like no one's business, but it was the spread of the P170's that made hardballers such a bitch. They would blast open large enough sections of hull that even a capital ship would start hemorrhaging, breaching multiple levels and causing a whole mess of trouble. In contrast, the Arbalest was only really dangerous to the big boys if the ship schematics were known--a through-and-through could be pretty easily contained unless there happened to be something vital in the middle.

But a frigate does not a capital ship make, and after the Lincoln's deck cannon barrage the pair were already running their shield's broad to avoid the debris--they would never have the density to disperse the Arbalest, and it could fire from far enough away fast enough to still give him time to get back in time. A little fancy footwork, a little flyboy prowess, just a dash of reckless disregard for mortality and the human condition...

"Cut power to Tesla Drive and main thrusters." He muttered aloud, thinking and calculating as the tiny microphone in the sensors picked it up and began dropping energy levels before his eyes. "Divert to relays 3, 4 and 6."

It had to be, he knew, in the wake of the WMG's blast. If it hadn't cleared the field it had sure blown a path through it, and as he enhanced the view of the first frigate his right thumb was already spinning up the power flow to the weapon proper.The calm before the storm, while the enemy was still taking count of the losses from the Lincoln and the firing lane was still clear. Tom had always simultaneously envied and disliked fire-and-forget missile weaponry--there was an elegance to a straight shot that he appreciated, even if targeting became a pain in the ass pretty quickly. Ordinarily his concern would be that a stray piece of debris or an MAS would interfere at a critical moment critical moment given the distance, but in the wake of the blast...

"Bye-bye, birdie."

The boys in R&D had made a big deal about how far the Arbalest could actually maintain its cohesive punch. Assuming nothing dense enough obstructed the blast and it's targeting laser could find a something to open an ion channel at, it could accurately link two points kilometers apart at the speed of electricity without losing much power. When he fired for the frigate, the full blast from the Arbalest streamed through the weakened void shielding like it wasn't there, boring through the armor on the vessel with little more resistance. There was a moment's pause before the other side of the ship erupted, a thick beam of plasma briefly flashing clean through the frigate before the targeting sensors lost the feed and it dissipated. Neatly cored, it was barely a moment more before chain reaction started--the explosion was inevitable, but Tommy wasn't about to hang around to watch

Funny thing about painting a great big 'here I am' line across the battlefield...

"Full power to thrusters." He spat sharply, pinned to his seat as the bars on his HUD reversed swiftly. He shot straight up to gain 'altitude' over the battle--skilled as most pilots were, they still tended to think on their own plane, which bought him a little time--7:27, 26, 25...

"Frigate alpha down. Still on schedule." He chimed in merrily to the bridge before quickly flicking off his mike. Technically he was fulfilling every one of his orders--he was going to take the frigates down, make it back in ten minutes--7:03, 02, 01, 6:59--and make sure his team makes had a clear enough run home by giving the bag guys something way more fun to chase. All he had to do was ignore the yammering and focus on the job at hand, the chatter blending into white noise as he bantered with himself.

"Dinner time, boys, come and get it..." He muttered as his lock sensors started going crazy, hopelessly slow missiles streaking towards him through space as slugs began to pepper the sky around him. The Mosquito was a bitch to get a lock on, it's movements as erratic as its namesake, but as he struck out above the field of operations proper it was clear enough he'd succeeded in drawing some attention.

It would only take one lucky hit from the wrong kind of round. He could handle a few slugs but a plasma round to the wrong spot would leave him crippled, unable to get back in time.

And he had no illusions that they would wait up, even for him.

The second frigate was going to be a chore--with its front-heavy armor he would have to get a good enough angle above it to avoid burning too much energy getting through. He was in luck, though--the Lincoln's guns had done their job and knocked both its shield and it's port thruster out. From half a battlefield away it was limited to clumsy heavier weapons better spent on bigger targets--it was relying on its escort, just like he'd hoped it would, and they'd been too far away and too decimated by proximity to the WMG to respond immediately after the loss of the first frigate even if they identified him as a real threat. But the enemy had seen his hand, could tell the solution he was heading for--the age old adage of 'shoot where he's going to be, not where he is' was not working in his favor, and he swore mildly as he watched tracer rounds, bolts of plasma and a Mark III and its attache ride out to cut him off. Even if his Targe was still up and running--a quick flick of the eyes showed it was still recharging--it would never have sustained that, and having cut him off they were rapidly adjusting. His targeting array was already providing new solutions, a superimposed schematic of the vessel appearing with calculated lines for its reactor streaking through it like a spray of acupuncture needles. He bought time with a burst to the side--5:35, 34, 33--holding his breath as his system struggled to find another viable--

"Gotcha." He breathed out, tightening his core and jerking the controls sharply down and at an angle. The only viable approach was on the ship's starboard side, the angle much further down than he'd intended to go but it would have to do. It would take time for them to adjust their targeting--maybe one MAS in a hundred could make turns that sharp with the right pilot--and he just had to hope it would be enough. It would be a matter of inertia and timing, cutting power and coasting to pump enough juice through to the Arbalest to do the job. The Tesla drive was engaged, autocalculations keeping his vector steady as the targeting computer's hard drive struggled to keep up. He was a comet, a bright little streak through the sky, that thin red line approaching at break neck--

Lightning.

The g-force of the sudden stop was enough to crack his helmet against the side of his unit, his chest bruising against the straps of his flight seat as every jet the Tesla drive had access too blared to life to halt the frictionless skid. But the machinery held true--the plasma bridged the gap in the blink of an eye, melted through the armor and punched into the core before the inertial slide was too much and pushed him out of alignment. It wasn't the clean through and through of the other ship, but it would be enough.

3:00. 2:59. 2:58.

He was already turning on the dime, already rerouting the energy to his thrusters when the slug struck his leg, the impact registering in a quick blare of red. The void around him began streaking with tracer rounds and he turned into one himself, another brilliant streak in the dark hurtling back towards the Lincoln .

This was the dangerous part--the Mosquito was fast, but if he was going to make it back to the hangers he was going to need to be really fast. Straight-line fast, which meant an easy target for a good computer or a great pilot, and already he was starting to feel the chips of glancing shells, his readouts pinging the sustained damage.

"Frigate bravo down." He reported in distractedly, eyes on the prize. "Still on schedu--fuck." It took an awful lot to make Tom swear on an official channel, but it happened now and then. Now, in particular, as a hot green flash of lucky plasma seared through one of the Mosquito's shoulders, a dispersed blast that melted a clean hole through the left arm. The feedback through the unit wasn't pleasant--the Mosquito utilized a radial feedback mechanism that had his whole arm buzzing from the damage--but he was very, very lucky. The worst thing that could have happened just then would have been to lose function in the thrusters, but as he slid ever so slightly to the side he was grateful--

Nevermind, not so grateful. The plasma had fried some of the systems in the forward braking jets, which ordinarily wouldn't have been a problem...except for the fact that he still had to get in the Lincoln.

1:25. 1:24. 1:23.

"Hangar bay, this is Mr. Wizard...I'll be coming in awful hot. How about you sit tight in those units for a spell, don't want anyone going crispy-critter on me..." He reported in, cool as a cucumber. If you didn't know him, you would never be able to tell just how much his cheeks hurt from smiling. This was not good--at this rate he would plow straight through, and without the front thrusters there was no way he was going to slow himself down in time. The microjets were doing their job, but not nearly fast enough...

Targe system operational.

"Fat lot of good that does..." He started before blinking at what he was seeing in front of him--the wreckage from one of the Ferirs, still mostly in tact. Maybe... just maybe...

"Targe engage!" He spat as he angled for it, eyes on the prize. If he struck it right--there, where the middle had been carved up by Gerard, the left arm destroyed and the center of it vulnerable--and braced his good arm over the cockpit...

The impact was deafening. His shield barely held together, and even then the impact of metal on metal roared around the pilot. It was a credit to the Tesla drive that it managed to correct his course through the affair, microjets automated to make the minor adjustments necessary for even an impact like that to be glossed over in stride. It had definitely broken some of his momentum, and if there was significant damage to the armor of his arms and chest the mechanics beneath them kept going strong. Without his forward thrusters he couldn't break, but he still had a trick up his sleeve.

"Activate urban combat accelerators." He muttered, eyes fixed on the hangar bay door. (0:33, 0:32. 0:31...) The Ferir had slowed him but he was still coming in too fast, too hot...and so at the last moment he spun and blared the engines full throttle for almost a second, scorching across the airlock shielding and briefly roasting the inside of it before flicking them off just as the door behind him snapped shut. His MAS skidded back across the metal on its heels, leaving dark streaks and long scratches in the bottom of the ship, but as he passed from nothing to oxygen the rotary accelerator jets caught the gas and fired full-bored. Designed for use close to sensitive targets the jets were powerful enough to keep it aloft and maneuver the beast without using the full aerial suite of controls, and in the closed space they and Tom's good friend friction managed to slow him down just enough for the impact with the hangar bay door proper to shatter neither his unit nor the door itself.

And he was in.

"Daddy's home, let's get the hell out!" He called over the coms, wasting no time in setting the Mosquito into its cradle, the machines slipping out to do their jobs. He was glad no one was in the cockpit with him, because the shit-eating grin on his face was nothing less than disgusting. Another day, another near-death experience. The air was so thin when your margin of error could be measured in molecules, and he breathed it in like it could have been his last.

God damn did he need a cigarette.

As he slipped out of the MAS unit proper to rejoin his comrades, he couldn't quite manage to wipe the smile entirely off his face as he settled to the ground. He could have died. He almost died.

But he hadn't, and it wasn't because of goddamn luck.

"Down girl." He managed with a laugh, catching Yuu by the shoulder and spinning her around as he approached, drawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his other hand as he drew her back towards the unit. "Guess nobody ever taught you not to touch the trim, huh?"

But it was the rookie's show, really--she'd shown her stuff, flown with the best, killed herself a man or two and looked good doing it. If everyone else was going to admonish her for it that was their call, but Tom Trent liked his rookies a little bit wild.

Fly or die. Trapp said it himself.

"Looks like I backed the right horse." He winked to the newcomer, not quite able to maintain the same somber demeanor as his companions as he pat Yuu on the back gently by way of release. Snapping a hand to the bottom of his pack, he popped up a cigarette and lit it in the same slick motion, the kind of maneuver that came from starting young and never quitting. With a glance to Trapp, he managed to make his look just the tiniest bit sheepish as he measured the man's reaction, wondering if he was going to explode or let it all go. His drawl, when it came through, was surprisingly pronounced.

"So how far in the dog house am I, Commander?"

"Wizard, you crazy son of a bitch!" Maki yelled through the comms of her Hellcat as she continued to lay down covering fire for the mad man. Well, against the Ferir's at this range, the most she could really do was slow them down if their pilots had two brain cells to rub together. Though she couldn't quite hide the mad grin crossing her features. Though her tone was more amused than angry.

She would have tried the same thing herself, if she wasn't already low on ammo and lacking in a firepower. Well, that wasn't strictly true - the Hellcat's gun was more than capable of ripping through a frigate and utterly wrecking it, but not within the 10 minutes she had to get back to the Lincoln. Not at the kind of range she needed to pull it off.

There was a grim satisfaction when she saw the Mosquito turn the frigrate into floating scrap. "You are going to get yourself killed one day, you magnificent bastard." She commended him as he raced back just in time to dock before the Lincoln made the jump.

---

"Yeah, yeah, we're pilots, not actors, Trapp. Unless you're trying to go for the whole angry-hate sex thing, in which case keep dreaming." Maki replied privately to the man, though her tone suggested she got the message. Some might have told her to learn her lesson from her time at the academy, but someone had to be the one speak up. Even if she was speaking up against royalty. She docked the Hellcat once the last of the 7th were clear and in the hangar, promptly getting out of the cockpit and handing the reins over to the engineers as they rushed to get the MAS combat ready before the next mission. It wouldn't take them long to remove the pieces of shrapnel embedded in the armour, unlike some of the other machines, which she suspected would have been easier to replace rather than repair.

"Wolves are pack animals, Gerard, this man is no wolf." Maki added to the French man, now that they were out of earshot of the admiral. Her disdain for Ardin was clear - she had no respect for a commander who could coldly write off the lives of thousands without a second thought. Whatever the Lincoln's next mission was, she suspected it wasn't so important that the admiral had to abandon the Ulysses to achieve it. Was he making a calculated decision, or saving his own skin? "Asu wa ame, hito ha dorobou. Rain will come tomorrow, and people are thieves." She quipped another Japanese idiom, this one referring to how unpredictable people and things could be, expressing her distrust of the admiral.

She sighed and removed the top half of her flight suit, winding down after combat and revealing the black standard issue tank top underneath, letting the sweat evaporate. "Not like we can do anything about it now. I'll reserve my anger until we have the tally of those who were left behind." She commented, and sat herself on a crate, waiting for the jump and awaiting Alexis' debriefing. Her instructors, in the beginning weeks of basic training, had commented on something like this - Those who fall behind, get left behind. It wasn't a threat as much as a reminder that in battle, a soldier had to be prepared to pull his own weight, and not to rely on the luxury of having assistance from their team. It was a reminder to always do what you could to survive and win the fight and keep the person next to you alive. It rang hollow now knowing that part of the Lincoln's crew had been left behind for no other reason than being at the wrong place at the wrong time, sheer dumb bad luck. Well, that and one man's ego.

It was then that she noticed Yuu making a beeline towards the paint and noticing the admiral's parked shuttle in the hangar so close to them, Maki could tell immediately what the other Japanese woman was trying to do. She wouldn't... She would. She sighed and gestured at the rest to look in her direction. "I'm not saying I don't want to join in, but someone should stop her, no? The fool might not be able to court martial us, but he might just tell the captain to leave us behind on the next mission just for ruining a paint job."

"All units, withdraw to the Lincoln, we're leaving the battlespace..."

McKnight frowned. This was an odd time to get new orders. Granted, to be fair, the fleet was in a bad way, and that was putting it lightly. Even in the background, McKnight could see UEE cruisers being gutted and destroyed left and right be concentrated fire from Coalition ships and their tiny MAS units. Still, the Lincoln was leaving in 10 minutes, which meant McKnight had no time to sit and discuss with Trapp the politics of that order. He and the rookie were too far out to question orders at the moment. McKnight keyed the thrust and began boosting backwards, sending a comm to the rookie as he did.

"Don't stall rookie, get moving!" McKnight growled as he hit his own boosters, his cockpit blaring red as his tesla drive whined.

To his dismay, a pair of Fenrir Mk II's gave chase to the retreating UEE MAS's. Hoping to take advantage of the Astelion and Shrike's weakened states to score some kills. McKnight rolled to the right, dodging a burst of autocannon rounds. Sweat beaded on his brow. His shields were out, a lucky hit from even a single autocannon round could send him flying and leave him helpless, or dead. Switching his saber for his EKP Autocannon, McKnight rolled left to dodge another series of autocannon bursts, and then boosted immediately upwards. His remaining tesla coil whined, and a small explosion on the Shrike's back signified that the other booster had just blown. But McKnight was where he wanted to be now.

Quickly turning around, McKnight strafed to dodge another group of autocannon rounds before he opened up with his own weapon, watching his ammunition counter rapidly tick down as he returned fire with a large burst of his own, firing a broadsword missile at the Ferir for good measure. A quick glance over, and McKnight saw a pair of plasma bursts from the Astelion shoot the other Ferir down. They were in the clear now.

Retreating back to the Lincoln's Triple R bays, McKnight slumped in his seat as his unit was secured. Now that they were back in the Lincoln's artificial atmosphere, McKnight noticed the combination of blood and sweat that had collected on the surface of his visor, staining a crack in his visor that must have been obtained some time during the sortie. He squinted as someone from the outside opened up his cockpit, the harsh white of the hangar's industrial lights pouring in. He saw a silhouette, and a ponytail and immediately identified the figure as his crew chief. A hand was outstretched, and helped McKnight out of the cockpit and into the bright light of the hangar.

Now finally outside of his unit, Sterling could see the damage his Shrike had sustained. Most of the Shrike's back and wings had been stained black, from either the plasma bolt that had collided with him, or the second tesla coil that had exploded. A portion of the upper torso that held the Shrike's shield generator had melted, opening up to reveal the Shrike's slagged shield generator. Dents and dinks otherwise marred the white body of the MAS, and Sterling could hear his crew chief sigh deeply.

"Its a good thing we just restocked." Sophia said with a sigh as she began to walk off. "Lucky that rookie was there, huh McKnight? Otherwise I might not have a Shrike to fix up."

---

Joining the rest of the squadron, McKnight watched as the rest of the squadron gave the rookie some sort of congratulations, each in their own manner. He had to admit, the rookie had done better than he had expected. To be honest, McKnight had half expected the rookie to get shot down. Didn't mean it still wouldn't happen, but she had at least survived for another day.

"Don't let it get to your head rook." McKnight interjected, as he joined the rest of them gathering around the rookie. In response, Sara jumped him, the smaller girl, easily able to rest herself on McKnight's shoulders.

"Oh come off it 'Knight, she did good and you know it." she rebuked him teasingly. Rolling his eyes, Sterling shot a look at the black and gold shuttle that was parked in the hangar. His brow furrowed.

Alongside the black shuttle stood a trio of Sentry Mk IIs, the standard UEE unit- painted the jet black of the Imperial Service. These units weren't much different than the standard Sentry, though their armor plates were of considerably higher quality, and their paint had anti-beam coating, making it slightly more resistant to energy weapons- though Sterling doubted that they could hold up to plasma weapons. The three Imperial Service pilots stood at the foot of their machines, the black uniforms and visors completely shrouding their faces from view. They quietly stared at the 7th squadron, hands on their PDWs, but did not move. The 101st often felt at odds with the Imperial Service. Both groups were regarded as possessing some of the best MAS pilots and soldiers in the UEE, and were often competing with one another for potential candidates. The 101st emphasized individuality and independence alongside fierce loyalty and teamwork, on the other hand, the only thing the Imperial Service focused on was absolute loyalty to the Emperor and his family- not the UEE or its Government. The 101st often viewed the Imperial Service as rigid and intolerant. The Imperial Service saw the 101st as loose and dangerous, with too much power in their hands. The Imperial Service had strict orders against individuality, and as a result, all of their machines were uniform and very few had custom and aftermarket parts.

All hands, prepare for hyperspace jump. Came the automated command from the ship's computer AI. The ship began to rumble slightly and the power flickered off. Moments later, the lights came slowly came back on. They were now in hyperspace.

As Ariana sat there, her hair getting ruffled by a charming Frenchman, she couldn't help but reflect on the absurdity of what was happening around her. A flighty Japanese pilot was congratulating her, an axe wielding Frenchman was saying good job and ruffling her hair, one of the UEE's top aces had just proclaimed that he'd bet on the right horse, meaning her, and an AI was practically bouncing in excitement over Ari's kills. Nothing, not training, not her father, and especially not civilian life, could've prepared her for the sheer insanity presently surrounding her. She'd killed three people, sure she didn't expect to be berated for it, but she'd expected the mood to be a bit more...somber. Instead, all these other pilots were acting like she was 6 and had just passed her very first math test. Of course, beneath this torrent of praise, what could she do but blush bashfully? It was like being back in High School dammit, and that was not a sensation she'd expected after coming back from flying a high-speed killing machine through space while shooting other killing machines with plasma.

"Uhh, thanks everyone...I did my best." She rubbed the back of her head in embarrassment, trying to hide her incredible shock at the mood. With her free hand she tugged at the sleeve of her uniform, the camouflaged fabric serving as an anchoring point for her thoughts. She was glad she'd done so well, to be sure, though upon reflection it was just a little scary how she'd gotten during the battle. She remembered the feeling of that tense grin on her face as the adrenaline pumped and the bullets flew. It wasn't something she'd experienced in training, she was told she'd always worn a serene face during her fights in the sims. Of course, she knew at least part of the reason for this was that no real peril lay in the simulations, and suddenly she understood why she had been told sim combat was nothing like real battle. Yes, she had fought real people, combat pilots in the sims, and she'd seen their tactics and countered them. However, she hadn't been flooded with that spiky, panicy adrenaline. She hadn't been forced to make calls based purely on her instincts, on her gut. She understood that now, that real combat was wild, untamed, not calm and peaceful like the simulations had been.

Bringing her mind off her reflections, she gingerly removed her hand from the back of her head and noted the small burn marks on her hands. It seemed the consoles might have been sparking a little, not that she'd noticed in the cockpit. Apparently she'd been more blinded by the adrenaline than she thought. They were small, and didn't even hurt that much though, nothing like the wounds some of the other pilots had. She was lucky the Astelion's cockpit seemed to be seated behind more of the armor layers than usual. This, no doubt, had something to do with how the previous pilot of the Astelion had met her fate...Tori Astelion was her name, wasn't it? The woman had once fearlessly flown that machine, and no doubt was special to her squad mates, had been torn away just as easily as the squadmates of that III had been torn away by McKnight. "In the end, I wonder, what makes us so different from those Coalition pilots? Maybe we're the same, behind the layers of armor, or the inescapable badges on our shoulders. Those men I killed.....they may be just like me. Who knows, maybe one of them was on their first run too. Maybe they were excited to meet their new squadmates and their MAS, just like I am, and were catapulted into combat for their first time. They may've been just like me, with one exception. I'm alive now, and they aren't, I was faster on the draw, a little quicker on the dodge, a little luckier.."

She was shaken from her musings by the sound of the ship's AI declaring that they were transitioning into hyperspace. For a brief moment, as the ship rumbled, the power went out. Of course, she was used to this much at least, as she'd been on vessels as they transitioned before. She stretched out and winced slightly at the feeling of her body popping and stretching. She'd had her muscles so tight from stress that they'd coiled up inside her. Combined with the fact that she'd been in zero-gs for the entire ride, and her muscles weren't having a fun time with this. After about a minute of this, however, it subsided and she could feel her body returning to normal. It was clear to her that she'd have to stay more relaxed in the cockpit like the rest of her teammates were. After all, she didn't see any of them doing any painful popping and stretching, though she supposed Alice wouldn't have to no matter how tense she'd been in the cockpit. In the end it seemed being an AI had certain advantages that Ari envied, at least for the moment, though the fact that Alice hadn't ever really had a non-military life more than made up for her body not requiring stretching and popping. Besides, it probably required all kinds of un-pleasent maintenance rituals of its own, so they were even.

And then, Ari's eyes skated over to the shuttle some of her teammates had saved. Black and shiny, somehow simultaneously, it bore the sigil of the Imperial Service. Next to it, a group of Sentries sat similarly painted and branded, and below them their pilots. Her dad had never trusted the Imperial Service, they were wild cards who were loyal only to the Emperor, not the UEE and its people. Her father told a tale of the one time he'd seen them in battle. They'd had chance to save a whole squadron of fighter pilots from a squadron of Coalition MAS suits. Instead, they'd darted off to guard the shuttle of some obscure member of the Imperial family who wasn't even in immediate danger. Then, however, she noticed how close their hands were to their guns, and that made Ari even more nervous, as she knew that if whoever had come in that shuttle ordered them to open fire and gun down every pilot in the bay, they'd do it. They may not win that firefight, but they'd try without hesitation, and have a decent chance of winning.

Ari's own hand rested on the grip of her .45 casually, keeping the Imperial pilots in the corner of her eyes. She'd already killed three people today, survived her first trial by fire, she was not going to die in a hangar bay. If she was, she'd die in a firefight, not easily like some sheep to the slaughter. For now, though, she shook those thoughts from her head and focused on her teammates. They'd all come out alive and relatively unwounded, so that was cause for celebration. However, all those people on the Ulysses, and in the other UEE vessels, they'd died without the support the Lincoln could provide. Sure, they may have a more important mission, but how long would it have taken to help win the battle and save those people? Surely, no matter what they were doing, they had the time to help save a whole planet right? Perhaps, then, it hadn't been some big important mission that had drawn them away. Perhaps it was the selfishness of whoever owned that shuttle, their own bid for self preservation. To save their own life, they sacrificed hundreds, maybe thousands more, and that wasn't acceptable. Ari frowned then, this realization dawning on her, and she mumbled "I can't believe we had to leave all of them behind, it's terrible. We could've won that battle, I'm sure of it, between the Lincoln and all of you we could've won that fight if only we'd stayed around to do it."

________________________________________

As Ari walked into the room, she was pretty sure she knew exactly was coming. Her father had told her plenty about the boring parts about being a pilot, and one thing that didn't change no matter what you flew was an after action report. As he'd described it, it was "The squad leader pretending to care about the bureaucracy pretending to care" So, when the droning on about efficiency and kill counts began, she paid attention but didn't expect anything to come of it. It was when all that was over that the squad leader really surprised Ari.

Trapp spoke of some pilots who'd died before he'd ever met the 7th or Ari, of his old team. He spoke of things that would've broke Ari, and yet he had persevered through them. She couldn't help but respect the man ever more for the things he'd seen and done, what he'd had to go through, and came out the other side. She wasn't sure if she could handle flying with people for heaven knows how long and then watching them die. For much the same reason she had even more respect for the pilots of the 7th then before. They'd lived through Tori's death, were still living through it, but managed to be happy, and managed to welcome her. She appreciated it, more than anything else, then however Trapp continued.

He spoke of entitlement, something he seemed to believe the members of the 7th MAS team suffered them. He said they expected to be patted on the back for a job well done, and Ari felt a little guilty for indulging in the praise from earlier. She shouldn't have, she'd just done her job and protected the UEE and her squad mates. He said they defied orders, though to be fair she wasn't sure if they did. She hadn't been able to see everything the others did on the field, because she'd been focused on herself and McKnight. That wasn't the worst of it though, as Trapp moved on to talk about Tori Astelion. In doing so, he unknowingly reminded her, rather forcefully, she wasn't one of them.

He spoke of the glowing reviews Tori always gave of her team, of how she defended their competency to the end. Yet, she couldn't relate, she hadn't ever known the woman, she had no such person to vouch for her competency. He spoke of the grand expectations she'd had for the squad, expectations Ari didn't think she could fill. He said they were shaming her legacy, a legacy Ariana had no part in at all, a legacy that she may never hear anything about other than the scraps she'd already been fed. He said he wasn't going to change them and he wanted them all to get along, though now Ari sported a grave frown as he wrapped up.

When Trapp mentioned the admiral, that frown curled into a scowl. That man had made them abandon the people of Cerol and the other UEE soldiers in space, and he'd done it for himself. Trapp acknowledged the man was spineless, and Ariana knew that even she, with her blind panic upon first entering combat, rated a bigger spine than that man ever could hope to earn. Yet, Trapp also made sure to point out that no member of the squadron could screw with him. Elite pilots or not, he was an admiral, and a relative of the Emperor, he had more power in his toenail clippings than any pilot would ever hold. It was terrible, it sucked more than anything else, but it was completely true. They couldn't afford to anger that man, disappoint him, make him upset in any way, shape or form. He could have them all dishonorably discharged and the 7th disbanded in a heartbeat, and they all knwe it.

Finally, however, it seemed the dark and heavy stuff was over as he called for them to follow the traditions of the pilots who had come before. They were going to drink for the fallen, who couldn't drink anymore, and to celebrate Ari's success. Of course, she grimaced at this, as even in college she'd never been a drinker. She'd been a "good girl" so to speak, and hadn't ever been one of the people invited to parties. She sighed at this, and mumbled to herself "Good gosh, I don't want this to be my first drink."

Lieutenant Commander August Johannes Trapp was fairly sure that his new squad would either turn his hair grey or kill him outright by the time he was done with them. He was silent through the rest of the procedure as the 7th came back into the hanger safe from the operation. He stood there clad in stoicism and looking like a complete wreck; sweat laden hair sticking to his head, blood matted jumpsuit and distant grey eyes focused somewhere in the distance. He did not respond to Trent as he flew off on some death wish, he did not respond to Ms. Nishizumi's own remarks to his own commands. He only stood there and waited for them all to gather back together. His eyes never wandered from the hangar door and any comment that passed his way seemed to fly over his head or through his ears and out the other side. The mission was never over till the last man got home and Trent was pushing it real close. When the proclaimed wizard finally did make it back home only then did he breathe out a sigh of relief.

Trapp listened as the rest of the 7th voiced their complaints and congratulated the rookie never speaking, only listening. As he did he was well aware of the black visors of the Imperial Service pilots upon them. The stoic guardians of the imperial family that would lay down their lives and more for the sake of duty. In a different universe somewhere Trapp might of been wearing one of those uniforms. His father in the political position that he was had the sway to get him into such a highly praised position. He calmed it would be good for the family name. But that always how Trapp’s father was, always concerned about the good of the name rather than the good of the son. Trapp of course declined the offer maybe at first out of rebellion and once he met Gates who pushed him towards the 101st the rest was history. In reality that decision reflected a lot of Trapp own life, taking the harder path to spite those around him. Shooting himself in the foot to prove a point.

He give the pilots a small nod out of polite courtesy before turning away from them.. The 7th did okay, the rookie didn't kill herself and their objective was completed more or less. But the success on paper did not really concern him. You grab any MAS team in the 101st and they will get the job done, no matter the cost. That’s why they were on call because they all would willing leap into hell head first. What concerned him was the signs of emotional overtake, disregard for orders, and near suicidal tendencies in the name of a joy rush. No matter how much the 101st focused on individuality they were still pilots in a war. They lose sight of that and it leaves room for mistakes and people end up dying. Trapp wasn't in the mood to have to write any other letters home.

Trapp pulled a cigarette out from his container and placed it in his mouth letting the small cylinder of tobacco burn. The power flickered as the Lincoln entered hyperspace and the soft glow coming from Trent and the commanders cigs were the only light illuminating the squad for a moment . Moments later the power steadied and the brief moment of silence was ended as the chorus of voices began again. Entering hyperspace was always the most tense part of travel on any large ship, mostly because it was all out of there hands. One minor miscalculation or misfire from the reactor and they would all be dead before they had a chance to even realize. Killed at the speed of light.

”People die rookie get used to it.... In other news you band of misfits: AAR, squad room, in 30.” Trapp turned around and left before he could hear the protest that were bound to be heard. AAR or after action reports were one of the most hated tasks to be performed by the 7th. Squadron leaders are mandated to perform them after every battle and had to mark each one, crossing out a little check box saying that it was done. This would be fine and all except that they usually consisted of the commander drilling into them on the values of efficiency or some other BS. Nobody honestly liked them not even the squadron leaders but it was just another facet of the bureaucracy that needed to be followed.

---

The squad room was not really preserved just for the 7th. Rather it was extra sleeping quarters on the Lincoln that never ended up being used. So teams from MAS pilots to fighter pilots and even the marines occasionally borrowed it for their meetings. Over time beside the two double bunks on either side of the wall others had brought in small assortment of items that give the place its own quality. Part of a worn in couch, a rickety old table that on most nights soldiers could be found playing some kind of card game upon, an illegal tv set small in stature and producing fuzzy image quality but still semi functional in its age. All of these marked it as not some other place in the Lincoln it was a place for soldiers created by soldiers.

Trapp had arrived only minutes before having completed his visit to the medical bay. After receiving complaints for the doctors about his disregard for his own life, they patched him up as best as they could. Afterwards he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned his face off, so that in the end he looked slightly more presentable. He sat at the rickety old table in silence trying to push out a headache, cigarette chomped in his mouth, datapad in hand. Having arrived early on purpose he was contemplating on his next course of action, on the words he would speak when the 7th arrived. He recalled the words of Sun Tzu he had studied back in his military history course at the Offizierschule des Heeres, "Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.". The question was what kind of father would he be: stern or forgiving? Gates had told him once that being in such a position was always to be frank a bitch. Being stuck being pleasing the upper brass and being faithful to the men that you died around. It was a struggle that every NCO or commissioned officer had to deal with. In his mind Trapp already knew his answer and he knew exactly what he was going to say.

The rest of the 7th soon began to file in slowly and as they did he never spoke up and was still focused intently on whatever the datapad in front of him said. They all arrived more or less on a time and as they gathered Trapp went into the standard talk of things. Talks which most of them were used to by that point. Going over kill counts, statistically efficiency, ways to improve and all of that. It was completely standard and he showed no signs of changing anything up as he followed protocol to the standard. It was not until the end where he would normally dismiss them that he didn't. Rather he just sat down at the table and brought out a small box he carried in with him. Out of the box he produced a small bundle of dog tags which he laid out upon the table

Calmly Trapp turned and faced the rest of the 7th still without speaking any words. Then he spoke to them and when he did he was not angry. The commander sounded more disappointed and morose than anything else. It was if he had just woken up and found a cop at his door with them all in handcuffs. All he did was start to list names as he separated each dog tag. "Jonathan Wiltshire, 22 years of age. He had a girl that he was going to marry when he got home, ID number 224335495311, died taking a hammer missile to the front of his sentry to protect a shuttle. Arryn Vral, 24 years of age, ID number 434324314515, plasma bolt to the cockpit, she missed her mom's chicken and rice. Caite Dunwich, 24 years of age, ID number 984314142, blunt trauma from an alloy knife, all she wanted to do was write stories, Ewan Lemon, 29 years of age, he liked to play pranks and could drink anyone under the table, ID number 2234154515, killed outside of his MAS by sniper fire, I cradled him like a babe for an hour before he finally bled out, Masako Unmei, 23 years of age, ID number 3332424141, self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, all she wanted was to go home...."

Trapp continued his voice never changing and his eyes never leaving contact with the seventh, it went on until twenty two names had passed. Twenty two was remarkably low number for a squadron leader most who would have close to double that by the time they had finished it was one of the reasons Trapp was considered the best they had. But these numbers enforced a fact that most tried to forget those that die underneath them. It was easier that way. Trapp never did, he still remembered writing the letter home for each and everyone of them. They still appeared in his dreams. As the last name was called he took another drag before he spoke again. The voice was the same flat morose tone tinged with disappointment, never rising. "They all died to give us a chance at winning this war. The rest of the 5th fleet is going to die to give us a chance. The people of Cerol are going to die to give us that chance. Your own squad mates have died to give you a chance. A chance that I don't know if any of you truly appreciate. A chance you might as well be wasting."

"You think just because you're part of the "Legendary 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team" that you are entitled to something. That you can act the way you do with blatant disregard to orders and your own safety. This is War, this is not some kind of game where the person with the most kills becomes some sort of god. People die every single day in this fight, people are going to die if you fuck up even once, they are going to die even if you do everything perfect. And yet you let your emotions and feelings get ahead of what matters. You expect praise just because you are the best at what you do. You can feel entitled when you've won this god damn war. Until then we aren't heroes, we are soldiers we have a job to do, that involves following orders that we sometimes don't like. That involves not jeopardizing lives and valuable military equipment for an adrenaline rush."

"Most of you still do not trust me nor will take heed of my words. This is because you and I both know that I'm not Ms. Astelion. But what you seem to have forgotten is that squadron leaders talk to one another on the odd occasion. I can not say that I knew Tori as well as any of you but I can tell you what she told her fellow pilots. All she could do was speak praise of you and your actions, never taking the acclaim for herself. She was like a mother that only told the best of her children. And we could all see that she meant every word of it. She honestly believed that you all could hold up the world. What I had seen displayed by the 7th here today can only be described as shameful not only to yourselves but to her legacy and her overwhelming conviction in all of you. She fought for you every time somebody said something ill of the 7th and this is how you repay her. This is how you uphold her ideals."

"Now I'm not going to make any of you change. I'm not here to fix any and as long as you get results I’m fine. Frankly, I'm here because statistically speaking I'm the best you got. Now we can all have a shred of decency in our bodies and try and get along. Or you can bite and I will bite the fuck back. Most importantly of all, I want you to prove to me that I'm wrong. I want you all to prove to me that Tori didn't die believing in a lie. And I think you can all manage that. " The commander’s voice softened as the tone of serious retrospective thought vanished and his voice being more informal and natural.

"And yes Ardin is a spineless child that gives out orders that he himself would never follow, but he also outranks all us and is of imperial blood. Meaning we do anything to even make him think about feeling sad and he will find a way to get us removed or worse. So as long as you keep your comments to yourself and the members of the squad I'm fine with it. Hell if you can come with new names for the cocksucker I'm all ears..... And as I've noticed some of you enjoy Japanese proverbs so here is one for you. Deru kui wa utareru. The stake that sticks out gets hammered down. None of us want to be that stake. Understood?" Trapp finished his report and nodded, the dog tags going back into the box and placed it aside. He took his cig out of his mouth and ground it out against the wooden table. He finally shrugged taking the small flask from his jacket and popping it open took one long swig before speaking again. His voice returning to normal as the seriousness of his former word. What had been said had been said and that was all that needed to be said about it in his mind..

If Maki was seething, she didn't show it. In fact, she drank the toast and set her cup down gently, staying silent while considering her reply. It was true, they were acting as if they were invincible or special. The latter was also true. Any member of the 101st would testify gladly to that fact - no one got in without being excellent, not just good, at something.

If they had stayed for a little longer, they would have thwarted the Coalition attack long enough for more people to get off the Ulysses. If they had taken just another squad of Ferirs or downed another ship, the battle might have been more favorable for the remaining forces. They might also have gotten killed, true, but Maki had been raised on a simple belief - that people only benefited when the needs of the many are put before the needs of the few. It was hard to justify sacrificing so many lives on one man's whim.

"There is one thing you're forgetting, Trapp. We're all stakes that are sticking out. It's why we're here in the first place." Maki reminded her squad leader. Perhaps it was arrogant of her, but she didn't appreciate someone using Tori's death to make the squad feel shitty. "Any idiot can follow orders if you yell loudly enough at them. What makes a soldier is their willingness to stand in the line of fire so others don't have to. So, don't give me that bullshit, Trapp."

She knew somewhere else on the ship, the captain was listening in. Alexis had a bad habit of doing that when she thought her subordinates were going to tear each other's throats out. "I get it. You don't want us to piss off the royal pain in the butt. I'll behave as long as he's around, but don't expect me to jump out the airlock because the man gave an order. After all, we're just disposable weapons to them, right? Point at the enemy and fire? We'll just be replaced with someone new like Tori was after we die. We're expendable to them." She tipped her cup over so it'd fall, as if to demonstrate her point.

"I don't expect praise or medals. I certainly don't think I'm indispensable. What I do expect and think is that every life we can save, we do our utmost to do so. So forgive me if I feel abandoning people to die is distasteful. I'd rather keep my soul and integrity than my job." If anyone doubted her words, they weren't worthy of being called her squadmate. Every person in that room knew well enough that Maki stuck to her guns and beliefs like glue. It wasn't the first time she got in trouble for standing up for her own values, and it wouldn't be the last. What difference would it make if it was some regular officer or a royal dick?

"Nobody is expendable. I'll gladly dishonor Tori's memory to keep others alive. Don't pity the dead, but the living." She muttered softly, not caring what else Trapp had to say on the matter, before leaving the room. She raised her volume so their uninvited guest could hear her parting line. "I'll be in the gym if you need me."

---

At the gym, it was dead quiet. Well, almost. A few people were here to ensure nothing had been damaged, a few were looking around and checking to see if anyone had been missed out in their roll calls, desperate to confirm even one more member of their crew hadn't been left behind. Maki was just there to unwind and channel her anger from the earlier events and the stress of battle.

Even with people asking around if they had seen this or that person, nobody came to ask Maki. Partly because they knew she had hardly left the ship and had been in the battle, but mainly due to the fact that she was giving off a palpable aura that threatened to kill those who drew to near. The loud clang of metal from the salmon ladder she was on drowned out the noise in the background, as she brooded on Trapp's words.

She had to admit he was right on some accounts - the 7th had a reputation that meant they got away with minor misdeanours, but it wasn't as if anyone would stand up for them against a member of the royal family. It certainly hadn't been smart to do so right within earshot of the Imperial Service, not that she would have cared either way. Perhaps a little more consideration for the squad was in order the next time she mouthed off about the royal fuck up.

Still, if there was one thing she was never to agree with, it was abandoning the Ulysses to its fate. Nishizumi, for fuck's sake, don't come back for us! You have the intel! Get it back home! Memories returned to her as the voices of dead ghosts returned to haunt her.

Johnson's KIA! You're the fastest machine still capable of making the trip back! Just GET THE FUCK OUT!

There's no way you guys will-

Fuck that! We're expendable! Just get that intel back to HQ! It'll save more lives than one squad! Now go!

She reached the top of the salmon ladder, doing one chin up and gritting her teeth as she fought to keep the memories out. The began the descent, throwing the bar down to the lower rung and let herself feel the impact. It was nothing compared to her crash landing back at base, and the sound of the metal impacting its purchase was nothing compared to the explosion she heard.

This time she flipped herself up over the bar just to exert herself, the tight tank top now soaked with her sweat and baring her midriff. It was almost sexy if a battle hadn't just occurred. Maki would have flashed a grin and teased the closest person she was familiar with if another memory wasn't surfacing.

I'll be there in a minute, Astelion, just stay alive till then!

She shook her head and let herself go, dropping from the salmon ladder and venting her emotions by smashing an elbow through a training dummy's wooden arm, using the speed from her fall. The move startled a few people but they got the message soon enough and cleared the area. When she was finally alone, she sank down to the floor against a wall, panting and looking up, asking a question to a man she hadn't spoken to in a long time, a man who wasn't there to hear her. "Hey, ojii-san, how many friends did you bury before you were done fighting in the war? I'm already sick of seeing off caskets."

As the others stepped in to congratulate Arianna, Gerard himself faded away behind them, his face still bearing that wide, paternal smile. As the others confirmed Gerard's theory, he gritted his teeth below th smile which became a bit tight lipped. He hated people like that Admiral the most. The ones that so callously threw lives away without a second thought. He knew that all commanders sometimes had to make hard decisions, but Ardin had no remorse, no thought for the common man. Emperor's son or not, he was a terrible human being. He himself was half tempted to cast the UEE aside and join the coalition, and he had already been through several psychological tests which tried to weed out the seditious ones. He had been warned that he was borderline treasonous, but the UEE considered him too precious a pilot to simply exile. Not to mention too dangerous a potential enemy if the Coalition found him. To be honest, Gerard considered the Coalition's goals more virtuous than the UEE's, but his homeworld was under its domineering gaze. He took a deep breath. Now was not the time for these thoughts.

As the shipboard AI warned them of the incoming hyperspace jump, Gerard leaned down and grabbed the nearest railing to steady himself. With a sudden shudder, the Lincoln's power cut off and cast them all into gloom before the lights came back on. Gerard himself felt his head throbbing with a deep panging pain for a second before it subsided. Hyperspace jumps were never really something he enjoyed. For a second he would always experience an intense migraine before it would subside just as quickly as it came. As he reopened his eyes, he found that he had separated himself a bit from his squad, standing aside as they crowded around Ari. It suited him fine. It was her day today, and Gerard was never really one to seek glory. Taking a deep breath as he stood back up to his full height, he heard Trapp whisper his dreaded words. AAR in 30 minutes. Gerard pushed his sweat slicked hair back. That gave him very little time, but he would still undergo his usual after battle ritual. Turning his back to his comrades, he started off first towards their shared quarters, his bootsoles ringing on the metal deck.

'More of those thoughts have run through my head,' Gerard wrote in French as he sat at his coner desk, though the slat of metal was overglorified, 'every time I go into battle now I question how righteous my actions truly are. Are the Coalition not virtuous in their fight for freedom as we attempt to return them to our fold? It reminds me of a mother putting a leash on her disobedient child. It sickens me. but it sickens me more that I am a part of it. I spare as many as I can but, whether by human fault or otherwise, the enemy pilots die. My own team seems as bloodthirsty as the wulferines back on Noveau France and it disturbs me to see them become such. I am proud of my comrades, but sometimes, I am not proud of their actions. Thought I write this and confide in this book, I must constantly reiterate to myself. I am Gerard Delacroix, member of the 7th MAS team of the 101st legion. I am a member of the UEE. I am not a traitor.'
"I am not a traitor..." he repeated quietly to himself as he put his autoquill down into its tiny inkpot. Gerard was a fan of the archaic, and these writing implements helped him to focus his mind. Hearing footsteps echoing down the corridor, Gerard quickly snapped the worn brown notebook shut and hid it away in the recesses of his uniform. "I am not a traitor..." he repeated again quietly as he poured himself a glass of wine to disguise his actions. The more his said those words, the more hollow they rang. Instead of sipping the glass quietly like such a fine vintage deserved, he downed the entire glass in a single gulp before getly placing it back into a small container which maglocked itself to the table. bidding those that entered welcome, he bantered around with them a bit before excusing himself to the shower. He had to at least look presentable.

As water ran over his defined musculature, Gerard found himself once again slipping into the dark corners of his mind, resting his arm against the wall as his head in turn rested araight his forearm. Those men he had killed today...what had they left behind? Wives? Children? His fists tightened. Did he have such a right to end their lives? He thought back to his time in the infantry, where he had learned the name Guillotine. He had slaughtered left and right in guerilla warfare without a second thought as the Coalition invaded, but time after time as they gathered survivors, he would listen to their stories and it would impact heavily on his mind. These were men and women who had lives, just like him. Some were forcefully drafted, just like him. He took a deep breath as he dragged himself forcefulyl out of his reverie. It was almost time for the after action report. running his arms over a few new flash burns, Geard prepared himself for the act to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having met up with the rest of the squad just before they entered the meeting room, Gerard deflected a few questions with good-natured responses, occassionalyl followed by a small chuckle. Being here was much better than being alone with his own thoughts sometimes. It explained why he preferred to be in the company of others, or nose deep within a good book. Or simply drunk out of his mind in his bed. As was customary, he had snuck a small bottle of wine in under his uniform, where it looked like he simply had too much to eat before hand. His still wet hair was slicked back and held together with a black elastic band as it occassionally dripped water onto his uniform but Sara didn't care as she playfully tugged on his ponytail. Nor did Sokolov as he placed his arm over his shoudlers and tried to regale him with tales of his own homeland. As they entered the meeting room, they fell into silence, with Gerard shooting a glance at the stoic Trapp. He got no response. Taking his seat on a worn wooden chair, Geard took a shallow breath as he leaned back eliciting a quiet creak of protest from the seat. From there, Trapp began to go through the standard layout, with Gerard noting his confirmed kills as 3, along with joking about the cruiser with Wes.

Then, things took a turn. Trapp took out a box and started to recount the names of his previous squadmates, which only served to remind Gerard that the UEE pilots were people too, not only the Coalition ones. It was a solid anchor point for him, and served to reinstill Gerard's ideals of mercy. As Trapp quietened down, Gerard took out the bottle of wine he had been hiding and placed it onto the table with a quiet clunk, drawing eyes to him. he didn't let go of the musty old bottle. "Before we celebrate, I would like to put my own opinions into the air," he said as he stood up, his face considerably more morose and somber than usual, "I am...concerned with how dispassionate you people are about the enemy...the enemy they may be to you, but they are still human. I ask you to consider that they have a family too, just like you, before you pull the trigger." Locking eyes with Trent, he seemed to speak these words directly at him. "Do not simply treat them at numbers to be racked up, or as toys to be destroyed. They have feelings, husbands, wives, children, parents who love them. Not only the MAS pilots, but those who crew ships as well." Sitting back down with a heavy breath, he slid the bottle into the middle of the table. "I am not asking you to spare your enemy ...but to consider what you are taking from not only them, but all those they are connected to..." he glanced at Trapp before he uttered his next words, "the UEE is not the only faction to send letters home..." He sighed. "I am sorry for bringing such a thing up...but I needed to get off my chest, desole."

Being spun around and brought back, Yuuyami sighed, but stayed put, instead of trying to give the shuttle a more matte paint style. Granted, she still thought it was a perfectly logical idea, as the bright, shiny paint job at the moment was far to glaring and target-worthy.

With the ship jumping into hyperspace, she immediately sat down quickly, before placing one hand on the floor of the hangar. When the power stabilized again, she sighed with relief, before lifting her hand again. "The vibration of the jump was the same as the last." Muttering soft words to herself, and most likely earning strange yet now routine looks from a few, she stood back up.

With the battle now over, and the Lincoln in warp, it seemed that it was time for the routine after action report. Where the squad leader pretends that the higher-ups cared about the details of the battle, and the higher-ups pretending they want to know the details. While the Captain might have cared, she was dead certain the Admiral would not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All throughout the meeting of the after action report, Yuuyami stayed quiet, choosing to listen while Trapp listed off IDs of previous members, with final words included in. A somber atmosphere indeed, although her eyes did follow the dog tags.

With the topic of the 7th's behavior, along with the positive outlook their previous leader Tori had of them came up, she couldn't help but to smile slightly. She remembered the woman, and how she kept everyone together, through the thick and thin. She also did remember being rubbed on the head sometimes when Yuu didn't alter something she shouldn't have. Of course, as the topic deviated to the admiral, Yuuyami, unlike the rest, instead of displaying disgust, annoyance, or anger, she had a small smile instead. However, it was one filled with sadness, and surprisingly self-loathing, although the latter was harder to notice.

Even with the serious matters over, and the drinks would begin, she looked down at the cup in her hand, staring at the alcohol. Hearing Maki's and Gerard's opinion on the matter, she couldn't help but to softly add, "A weapon, a tool, that which brings harm, and without empathy. When such a tool is unneeded, it is casted aside..." However, at such a soft volume, it would be surprising if anyone actually heard her. Setting down the untouched drink, Yuuyami smiled. "I still have my report to fill out, so I'll hold off on the drink~" Cheerfully excusing herself out, she quickly left the meeting room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of keys being rapidly hit lightly echoed in the empty mess hall. It's not like anyone was there at the moment, so that was where Yuu found herself working. Taking a moment to rub her eyes with her hand, she reached beside her to grab the mug of instant coffee, frowning as it had already cooled down. Sighing, she quickly downed it, before setting it beside fourteen similar mugs, six of which were empty, the rest of the coffee was cold.

Staring at the screen again, she compared multiple diagrams, which would seem like incomprehensible pictures for those without knowledge in what data a tester would be required to find and hand over to the producer. However, as her eyes drifted over the efficiency of the reactor's output, Yuu couldn't help but to think of other things regarding efficiency and resource usage.

"Materials, time. Valuable resources that must be taken into account. That, and personnel. More personnel, more sparsely spread out the workload, and more quickly are things processed." She whispered, before adding, "Even lives are nothing but resource..." with a heavy sigh. She like back at the screen, only to frown again as her view was rather blurry. Reaching out for another mug, Yuu gave herself a self-loathing smile.

Reason behind this was that she tried burying her problems with work the same way someone would drown their problems in alcohol. She had already submitted a report just last week, and she wasn't dues for another one for two more. She disliked being plagued by doubts, or anything related to problems regarding oneself. It prevented one from working at full capacity when required. Anytime outside of work was when she could relax her mind and follow her instincts, which is interrupted by doubts. Even down time and breaks had their uses.

Alice followed Ari and the others to their squad room. While it wasn’t completely necessary, out of courtesy she held her body close to herself to allow her team mates more room in the rather cramped interior of the Lincoln. From there, she found her spot in the squad room and stayed there as the group listened to Trapp and his after action report. He began with standard statistics, kill counts and the such before taking out a box. From the box he produced a number of dog tags.

One by one, he listed the former owners of each tag. Their age, identification number, and for many, their cause of death. It was clear he personally and deeply knew each and every one of these men and women before they died. This was a stark reminder to the 7th of everyone who had given their lives so they could have the chance to continue fighting in this war. People died and will continue to die for them so they can go on to win. Again, war protected no one, no matter how good or bad, or even winners and losers.

She froze when Trapp mentioned Tori. He was right. Tori believed in each and every one of them; she was in a sense, the team’s mother. Tori truly understood Alice, even as she matured and newer emotions and behaviors emerged. She didn’t presume that these emotions were evident of humanity in Alice, but instead that Alice herself was growing into her own individual person. And now, Alice was not only endangering herself, but her friends by surrendering to her anger. If Tori were still here to witness this kind of behavior from her, she would most certainly be disappointed.

Even more shame and embarrassment filled Alice, and she began trembling slightly. Trapp finished his report with an invitation for the 7th to partake in alcohol. But Alice was a machine, and of course wasn’t affected by the intoxicating effects of alcohol and other recreational drugs, so that really wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t able to escape her anxiety like her organic counterparts by drinking. Instead, she had to suffer through it all with full mental capacity and awareness.

When Gerard put forth his confession, she couldn’t help but frown. There was no denying that those among the Coalition ranks were people too. They had families, friends, and dreams. But the issue was whether that mattered when they were shooting at Alice and her own “family” with intent to kill. To consider that their personhood in the battlefield would only serve to foster sympathy with the enemy. And feeling compassion and kinship, if even for a second, towards those that would show no mercy to you or anyone you loved, would lead to your own death. That was the price of valuing honor over reason.

Alice had seen how Gerard spared the lives of Coalition pilots. Pilots that would only return to fight them again in the future. The 7th’s allies gave their lives to give them more opportunities to succeed against the Coalition. And still, Gerard would spare the lives of their enemies, in turn, giving the Coalition pilots and soldiers more opportunities to try to kill them again, and maybe they would even succeed. This was a weakness, and while Gerard was strong, but Alice couldn’t help but feel that one day this weakness would get him killed. And she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, just like with Tori.

She didn't want to fail again. She wasn’t going to be useless.

“Mr. Delacroix, I apologize if I seem cruel, but who the enemy is doesn't matter. There is no doubt that they are people like us. But in combat, they would still waste no opportunity to kill you, me, or any of us. By sparing the Coalition, you are giving them these opportunities. Countless members of the UEE, from the owners of those dog tags to..." Alice's voice shook and wobbled with distress. If she had tear ducts, she'd be using them now. "...To Tori Astelion...they gave their lives fighting the Coalition so we could have the chance to win. One of my directives is to protect my team mates, and I will do whatever it takes to ensure your survival.”

With a small huff, Alice left the squad room. So many things on her mind, and she just wanted to be alone to think about them. Maybe she’d find something to do to take her mind off of them, or maybe she wouldn't. But for now, she just needed to think.

Tom didn't like hyperspace any more than the next man. Space combat, sure--it was a blast to slide through the ether with only a tin can and your reflexes stopping you short of a messy decompression, but hyperspace didn't have any of the interest of all that. A wink and a flash and you were either dead or not, vaped by some snot snot-nosed engineer who didn't doublecheck his numbers. So he wasn't the only one who breathed a quiet sigh of relief as their base of operations came back online, lights dim but functional.

What would it even be like, he wondered on occasion, to die before your nerves could process it?

Though he'd saved Yuuyami from an ignoble and ultimately idiotic demise, it was Trapp that caught Tom's interest. When he had first been appointed, at the very beginning of all this, Tom had been surprised to find himself slightly insulted. That Tori Astelion had been a leader first and foremost was obvious--yes, she was a good pilot and a good soldier, but her own team had better of both. More important than her fighting skills was her way with people, her ability to build them into someone better than who they were. She had managed to play the difficult gambit of comrade and commander and come out on top, and she was loved for it in the same way that Captain Alexis was. It had needled him at the beginning that he hadn't been given the opportunity to try despite being one of the team's most senior and accomplished members, but with even an ounce of reflection he knew it would have been disastrous, which made his interest in those that could--or could not, not every commander was a good one--all the more distinct.

Trapp, for example. The man had clout, he had presence--there was no doubt about that. He would lead better soldiers than Trent to Hell and see them back again, but that was just it. This was the 7th. Half the members of the damn squad were barely soldiers anymore between the pampering from the Captain and the prestige of their position, whether they knew it or not. Yuuyami was a space cadet almost literally, Alice was a doberman chomping at the bit, Maki couldn't keep her mouth shut long enough to even think the words 'insubordination', Gerard was too busy crying over dead enemies and he, well...

He was a soldier, if only because the fastest way to chase the reaper was following orders.

So when Trapp told them to fall in for the after action report, fuck it--he clicked heels and brought his hand up, his spine moderately straighter than normal.

"Yessir." He offered past his cigarette, falling out and drawing it from his lips to trail smoke to the ceiling. As they fell out and slipped off to wind down for the next half hour, Trent tipped the ash off his cigarette and disappeared to whatever it was Thomas Trent did when he was alone. Most people on the ship were almost superstitiously happy not to find out.

---

And so it was that the after action report came to pass and confirmed most of what he'd thought to himself earlier. In some ways he couldn't believe what Astelion had managed to make of most of them. Those who had been in the Infantry at least acted like they knew what a chain of command was but the rest of them, well... they were lucky they weren't called on it more often, frankly, and luckier still that they could pull it off when they needed to. But the truth was that Trapp was right. This wasn't how they should do things. Astelion would have been ashamed of them, not because of their entitlement but because they were losing it as soon as they got to the ship.

Leaning back against one of the cabinets, he was perhaps the least moved by the dogtags of the fallen and the most moved by sheer stupidity of his comrades. He'd been suicidally reckless as always--he knew that--but this was different. As he raised and tilted back his drink, he coughed quietly to gather a bit of attention. Hell, if everyone else was going to say their peace, he might as well.

"Anyone stopped to consider that Trapp is right?"

"This ain't us. Not the battle--Hell with that--but what comes after it. Astelion's dead but, excuse me, when did we start falling apart when we hit the ship? Gerry, you're bleeding all over me--slap a bandage on that heart of yours. Yuu, you really leaving a drink to the fallen on the damn table? Alice, pull it the Hell together. Trapp may not know you all well enough to think better of you, but I sure as Hell do. Tori was a fine woman, a fine commander and a good friend. And now she's dead, and if we were half the people we ought to be by now, we'd do our damn jobs and get ready for the next one like we always do instead of pissin', moanin' and firin' back at our commander like we didn't just step through the airlock and fall apart."

"Show. Some. Damn. Respect, ladies and gentlmen. We are better than this, and it's about time we acted like it."

For effect, he put out his cigarette in the bottom of his glass--fuck it, not like he hadn't stockpiled cartons--and put himself back at attention.

"Permission to be dismissed, Sir."

Waiting for confirmation, he sighed and stood at ease once more before grabbing his glass from the table and making from the door.

"On point, Rookie, you're with me."

The after-action report, went as expected. They spoke at length about their various tactics and techniques, tabulated their kills, criticized each other's techniques and actions- in a professional manner of course, and reviewed everything in triplicate. McKnight frowned as they went over the data. They were getting sloppy. Overconfident and cocky. McKnight let himself get hit, because he thought it was a good idea to take his eyes off of his sensors long enough to send a transmission to Trapp. If his shields hadn't been full he would've been dead then and there. The rookie had her shields blown as well, and Gerard's machine took a big hit to the arm.

Sterling was surprised when Trapp pulled out the box of dogtags and began reciting names, IDs, and various tidbits of information. The information was minor and trivial at best, but McKnight could see what he was getting at. McKnight wasn't as sentimental as some of the other pilots, like Sokolov, who dabbed at his eye with a handkerchief, or Sara, who used Sokolov as a handkerchief, but Trapp new how to play the heartstrings if he wanted to. Sterling listened quietly as Trapp continued his speech, agreeing with several points. The 7th was indeed getting entitled. It was obvious with their performance- sloppy, and ever since Trapp had been transferred to them, the usual clash of personalities had only gotten more abrasive. From Maki's almost complete insubordination and Astelion's criticism and whiny attitude, to Alice's increasing aggression and mood swings. And now they were all stuck each other for another good long while, sent on a deployment with no support for god knew how long and a royal family member's "hunch" for intel.

In the end, the team did what they always did. They drank. Maki was the first to speak up afterwards. She was of course, right- in her own way. Though her manner of speaking lacked respect and tact. How'd she even get through academy, with an attitude like that? McKnight wondered. The answer was likely talent. Or pedigree. Possibly a combination of both. In that respect, Trapp was right. Maki, like the rest of them, were entitled. She'd be the last person to admit it, but the only reason she passed Academy was because of her pedigree and skill- in no other circumstance would they allow a soldier to act out the way she did with little more than a slap on the wrist.

Next to speak was Gerard, voicing his concern about the squadron's lack of empathy towards their enemy. McKnight's gaze softened. Gerard wasn't cut for a soldier's life. He was a talented man, and a vicious fighter, but his sense of empathy was one that McKnight would expect from a fresh-out-of-academy rookie, like Williams, to have, not a veteran like Delacroix. Alice, surprisingly enough, was the first to speak out against Delacroix. She was right, as AI often were, if not a bit blunt and cold. Despite that, McKnight agreed with the AI. A warzone was no place for such feelings. Pausing to consider the enemy's humanity was a good way of getting yourself shot before you shot the enemy.

"Sorry Rardy, but I'm going to have to agree with Alice on this one." McKnight said, speaking up. "Considering your enemy is the last thing you should do before pulling the trigger." McKnight said pointedly, looking at Williams to make sure she understood what he was saying. "As cold as it sounds, sometimes we're better off considering them as numbers and statistics. Its difficult to pull the trigger on someone you believe to be a father or a son and has feelings and emotions. You're just making it harder on yourself that way- and thats a good way to get yourself killed.

Trent spoke up next, with the plain, blunt insight that only a man like Trent could have. This adrenaline junky, enigma of a man had the observation skills of a hawk, and spoke with about as much compassion as a blunt knife. Still, it was the closest to a sentimental or emotional outburst they had seen from the man in a while, so it was good to know he still had some feelings in that. The man emphasized his point by grinding home a cigarette into his glass.

"I can drink to that." McKnight said with a nod.

"Aye." added Sokolov as he refilled their glasses. They took a second drink, and watched as others began to take their leave. Sokolov got up and slugged McKnight in the shoulder. Sterling winced as he was struck by the solid hunk of synthetic-titanium alloy that was Sokolov's cyberarm. "Come friend McKnight, no better way of relieving stress than beating shit out of each other in boxing rink, no?"

"Its fun for you because you're so cybered up you can't feel punches." McKnight replied, still standing up regardless. He shot a glance at Trapp. "You want in, boss? You look like you could use a round."

"I wouldn't mind getting the chance to beat the shit out of you either, Trapp." Astelion added, his comment likely being one of the most light hearted things he had said in a while.

---

As Alice walked, she was approached by a pair of technicians in white lab coats. "Ah, there you are ALI-009." one of the technicians called out, using her serial number as an identifier. "Have you forgotten to plug back into the ship's system ALI-009? We've been looking for you for quite a while." The technician continued with a slight frown. The other technician made a short clicking noise, and continued writing on his datapad."Anyway, come with us ALI-009, time for your core system diagnostics."

"Still..." Gerard said as he gripped his glass. Delacroix knew the sentiments of other people well given his usual personality, but bit his tongue as he fought the urge to snap back. They were who they were, just like he was who he was. And so it was with melancholy that he drank the wine he had poured himself. "Santé, Tori..." he quietly said before downing the vintage, his mind too unfocussed to appreciate the aftertaste. Placing his glass down back onto the table, he half-slumped back into his seat as the squad began to carouse. He gritted his teeth even as his hand unconsciously tightened around the cheap glass of his, sending a crack which propagated further up the goblet. Snapped out of his stupour by the sound, he sighed and tossed it into a wastebin before silently standing up. He...needed some time alone.

Splitting off from his comrades, Gerard heard their voices echo into the distance through the tunnel-like corridors. The dimly illuminated alleys reflected his mood as his soft footfalls became his only companions. Thoughts raced through his mind as he placed his hands into his pockets. Feeling a hard, rectangular object in his pocket, he pulled out his hide-bound diary which brought a small pained smile to his face. "Mon amie, you are the only one who knows of my true thoughts..." he whispered quietly before placing it in his chest pocket, not breaking his stride as he moved towards their dormitories. Subtly checking behind him, he only saw some of the ship maintenance people doing their rounds. None of his squadmates. Though he usually sought companionship, even he needed some time alone with his thoughts.

Sitting in his little corner desk once more, Gerard pulled the little canvas curtain around his assigned area, giving him a little private space away from prying eyes...of course, apart from Captain Marquis who was an all-seeing eye. Even then, she had better things to do than check up on one simple soldier in this meatgrinder war. Reaching under his jacket, he removed a revolver from a hidden holster before placing it on the table in front of him. It was a beautiful thing, with an ivory handle and decorative thorned roses winding around the barrel. A little old in style, it was a coalition model that he took from an enemy officer after he had killed him during an ambush encounter. The words 'To Jerry, may this keep you safe, -Matheld' were engraved into the side of the handle in German. Fingering the chamber, Gerard's mind started to replay that scene that had haunted the corner of his mind for almost a decade now...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hit them in the vitals!" shouted the gruff voice of Sergent Berger in French, "don't let any of the Coalition bastards escape!" Almost immediately, his voice was drowned out by chattering weapons fire, spaced intermittently with the iconic whizz-crack of laser weapons. Beside Gerard, a soldier spun to the ground as a bullet clipped his flank, eliciting a scream of pain. Heedless, Delacroix charged forward through the storm of frantic fire, firing his muddy pistol one handedly as his other hand clutched his hatchet, its handle slicked with dried blood. The Noveau France conscript squad 19 had lain in wait at a battleground, hiding themselves amongst the bodies of their slain comrades and enemies as rain pelted down at them, making the battlefield a bloody mess. His blonde hair was matted with layers of mud and dirt and his entire body was caked with the stuff. As a small party of Coalition soldiers started to march through to a further battleground, they had sprung their ambush, leaping up from the fields and charging them immediately. They were out of ammunition and this was a desperate ploy that they had concocted to serve as their last stand. Stumbling as he stepped into a deep crater, Gerard felt a round clip his arm but that only served to reinforce his grip on the hatchet as he regained balance. He would punish these people for laying their filthy hands on his world.

As he reached striking distance of a Coalition soldier, they lashed out with their rifle bayonet but Gerard simply grabbed the body of the gun and pushed it away, sinking the head of his hatchet into his skull before yanking it out and moving onto the next victim. All around him, screams, shrieks and battlecries were heard as the Noveau France forces crashed into the unprepared Coalition lines. But they were woefully malequipped. A conscript's spade clanged off a Coalition soldier's armour a second before a flurry of rifle shots jerked him back and caused him to fall like a puppet with its strings cut. They weren't getting things entirely their way though as evidenced by a conscript who shoved his old hunting knife deep into a soldier's chest, sliding the blade between his armour plates and into his heart. Gerard, on the other hand, moved like a vengeful tempest among the Coalition forces, his axe hacking left and right, cutting enemies down where they stood. His body seemed to have a natural intuition when it came to combat and it showed as he leaned back to let a hastily drawn combat knife slice across his chest, leaving a shallow gash. Using that momentum, he swung his axe horizontally, cutting deep into the enemy's neck and decapitating him. Unbalanced by the wild strike, Gerard stumbled again across the uneven battlefield but as he attempted to right himself, he found himself knocked into the ground, sending up a splash of muddy water and dirt. Looking up, he saw the frenzied face of a Coalition soldie before he jabbed down with his bayonet. Leaning away, Gerard let the blade sink into the earth inches away from his head and grabbed the soldier, pulling him down and hugging him close before smashing his axe repeatedly into his back even as he was being beaten upon by the soldier's fists.

With the soldier having finally succumbed to death's embace, Gerard rolled him off and rose unsteadily to his feet having emerged into a small lull in the fight. His senses heightened by adrenaline, he looked around and saw that the conscripts were most definitely losing this fight. To his left, he saw a young Noveau French lad get his face seared off by a laser cutter while on his right, a conscript and soldier were locked in a lide-or-death grapple, rolling around in the dirt until the soldier staved his face in with the butt of his rifle. Everything seemed to play out in slow motion as his dazed mind looked around. This was not a fight. It was a slaughter. Locking eyes with an enemy soldier through his mask, he saw him slowly bring up his rifle for a shot. A corporals's chevrons were emblazoned onto his arm and they flashed in the light. Almost instantly, Gerard jinked to the side, slamming his axe into a Coalition soldier's stomach and hiding behind him as he pushed him towards the corporal. Screaming a warcry, he shoved the dying man into the line of fire and loosened his bloodslicked axe, the masked countenance of the corporal coming into view. Shoulder tackling him to the ground, Gerard mounted him and brought his axe up for a brutal swing. The corporal's hand scrambed for his own knife even as the axe head fell, but his other hand gripped Gerard's and tried to push it away, which served to reduce its momentum, the alloy bit only barely sinking into the mask. With a pained expression, Gerard ripped his axe out and started to smash the mask repeatedly with the bit, flat and butt of the axe.

With a crack, the polymer mask broke into shards and the person under its countenance made him stop. It was a young boy...younger even than him. His clean, smooth face was stained with the rivulets of tears. He looked naught more than 12. "Squad 20 is just on the horizon! Just a little more!" shouted Berger as he shot a Coalition soldier in the face with his laser pistol. Ripped out of his reverie, Gerard looked back down at the boy who sniffled and tried to shrink away, punching at Gerard. With a single motion, he cracked the haft of his axe into his forehead, knocking him out before rejoining the melee.

In the aftermath, the deaths were tallied as the soldiers anguished over their loved ones, relatives and friends. Out of the original 26 members of squad 19, only 4 remained in exchange for 19 coalition soldiers. A heavy price, but one that the top brass thought was well worth it. Fuck them. Walking around, doing the tallies, it doubled as searching for the wounded. Allied ones were given medical attention, while enemies were...finished off. Gerard himself was not allowed to be part of these details, mostly because he was believed to be unthorough, but in reality he was simply trying to be merciful. He would finish off those who were too badly wounded but others he would instruct to keep comatose until they could escape. Sitting in the mud, water soaking through his fatigues, Gerard recapped his flask. His body was covered in seveal cuts, bruises and that he had been shot in the left shoulder, also that he had dropped his pistol somewhere in the mire. With extremely few medical supplies, amongst other things, Gerard had to make do with simply licking his wounds and having the bullet extracted at a later date. "I found a live one," he heard through the pouring rain. Gerard's head snapped around. No...Scrambling to his feet, he ran off in the direction of the shout.

As luck would have it, it was. The 12 year old boy who he ahd knocked out. 'Stupid child,' he thought inwardly, 'if only he had stayed cold for a little bit longer.' Berger lifted him up by the scruff of his uniform, causing him to shout and gibber as he tried to release himself. With disdain, the sergeant threw him into the mud again, where he came into contact with the corpse of one of his comrades. He screamed in horror as he crawled away from it, only to flipped around and stepped on by Berger, who levelled a pistol at him. Almost immediately, Gerard slapped his hand away. "Delacroix! Back in line!" he barked, spittle and bad breath being washed away by the rain. "He is only a child, Sergent," Gerard replied, "I am sure he just wants to return home to his mother." Berger grabbed him by the neck of his fatigues and dragged him towards him, causing Gerard to wince in pain as his bullet wound's pain grew more obvious. But he wouldn't show it in front of Berger. "An enemy, is an enemy, Soldat Delacroix, and you would do well to remember that!" he hissed before dropping him back into the mud, "in fact, this was probably your doing, wasn't it?" Gerard looked away, unwilling to speak or meet his eyes as he rose back to his feet. He could feel Berger's cruel smile. "Then you know what?" he said, "since it's your mess, why don't you finish it?" Gerard's head snapped back around, his eyes widened. "Sir...I-" he started before being cut off by the sergent. "Do it, Soldat, or I will have your family indicted for treason!" Looking around at the other conscripts, none of them would meet his eyes. They were all thinking the same thing, but none of them would say it. Berger stepped off and handed his pistol to Gerard, forcing him to stand in front of the Coalition soldier, a wide grin on his face. "Go on then, finish the job." he said with a smirk,

Looking down at the soldier, Gerard could see him snivelling and crying as he tried to worm away from him. "Mutter, mutter! Herr, erbarme dich!" he managed in between sobs. Closing his eyes, Gerard turned his head and pulled the trigger. With an ionising whizz-crack, he sent a laser bolt through the boy's head, leaving a smoking crater. "Well done, Soldat," Berger said as he patted him on the back, "now let us leave this hell hole." taking back his pistol, Berger walked away, leaving Gerard standing them alone as the other conscripts followed. He lingered in the same position for more than a few moments, looking down at the corpse. Tears welled up in his own eyes. A glint of silver caught his eye. Leaning down, Gerard loosened the corpse's fatigues and pulled out a holster which bore a silver revolver. It was beautifully crafted, but marred with mud and dirt. On the handle, a message was engraved onto it in another language, but he could tell that it was a gift from someone close to him. He looked down at the corpse again. "I will return this to your family...if I ever see them," he said sadly, before turning away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


His mind snapped back into reality as he heard a speaker message. He never did find out where that invasion had come from, so he could never return the revolver, but it now served to humanise him and anchor him in the madness of this ever lasting war. Once more, he looked over the revolver. How had this Matheld reacted when she learned of Jerry's death? Anger? Sadness? A desire for vengance? How would she feel if her gifted revolver took the life of Jerry's killer? Pointing the revolver upwards, Gerard closed his eyes and put the barrel beneath his chin. Pulling back the hammer with an audible click, Gerard took a deep breath as his finger rested on the trigger. As the pressure built on the trigger, thoughts continued to race through his mind. Would Jerry have done the same if their roles were reversed? Would he have been in this same position? Probably not. With a sigh, he pulled the trigger.

Click

The hammer smacked onto an empty chamber. Nevertheless, Gerard kept the revolver barrel under his chin. His problems would not end that easily was his thought as he leaned back in his seat, feeling the cold metal of the revolver press into the base of his head.

Trapp grasped the cold piece of metal in his hand and slowly turned the worn edges in his hand. The flask looked beaten and old as if it had seen as much of the war as the owner had. Though the commander kept the metal polished so that it cast ghostly reflections of the world and made one wonder if it was showing the observer a separate world, a happier one. Those that were insightful might of noticed an inscription one it, the shaky lines seeming as if it was done by hand and in a hurry. The script was far flung from the commander's own bulky and direct printed words but was rather in a flowing style, waves of the oceans that spelled out simple words that probably held the most meaning to the commander.



The name signed upon the bottom had long been worn away as a result of the commander continually running his finger upon it. But he knew the name by heart and even still looking at the metal today it brought him back to a certain time and place far, far away from the cramped spaces of the Lincoln. The incandescent wind blew without purpose over the windswept grassy fields, carrying with them motes of dust and pollen that brushed against his clothes. It was not yet summer and the wind still had the chill of the dying winter that ran tiny dances up and down his skin but he did not care. He did not care because she was there, a smiling face and long thing blonde hair that floated around her head like a halo, as petite and delicate as porcelain. She was Micheal sent to give Lucifer one last chance, and she was laughing. Dancing in the field of flowers atop the hill a spirit unbound freed by her passion. She beckoned August to come over with a laugh as always and as always August moved to be with her. But he never could, no matter how fast his feet would take him she would always move just out of his reach. He tried to cry out to her and yet his voice was lost somewhere in his throat, a sharp pain in his leg and soon he fell the ground refusing to let him go and she drifted further and further away beckoning him to catch her. He tried to call her name but it was lost as the wind picked up once more. He should have expected it, it always happened the same way and yet each time he felt the weight of the world finally slam into him.

The scene changed quickly as was the norm as he was swallowed into a pit of darkness. When his eyes opened he was in the middle of a city, fighting against the rush of people that slammed against him as they all ran away screaming. From somewhere high above in the sky hot metal screeched across the sky before colliding into a building to his right exploding in a cloud of fire and smoke. From somewhere behind the torrent of screams, worried faces and crying babies he could hear her calling out to him. She was looking for him, she sounded scared on the verge of tears. He was so close and he just needed to reach her, he just needed to make sure that she was safe. August pushed against the crowd of people getting shoved and pushed as he did. They were all faces he recognized men and women he had let die, men and women that he himself had killed, all the litle boys and little girls that wouldn't be going home to their mothers to be tucked in at night because of him. From somewhere far above a chorus voice boomed and echoed the words of the soldier's hymn each verse punctuated with another shell slamming into the ground and denoting. Yet he forged on he had to save her, he just had to save her. The ghostly specters of his past beat him as he ran by with bottles, fists and bats as he fought through them screaming to her that he was coming, to not worry.

He breached the crowd and there in the middle of the road she was on her knees, tears stained her face. She looked scared but her face lit up as she saw him. She whispered the last words August heard as a shell landed a foot away from him and detonated sending him flying through the air. He did not feel the pain that should of came from his legs being blown off and pieces of shrapnel being embed in his neck. He felt nothing as he slammed into the ground. When he finally stirred he was looking up at the sky as a rocket raced far into the sky leaving a trail of smoke far below. All August could mutter were bitter and struggling words. "Don't leave her you idiot! Don't go you goddamn fool! Please.... don't leave."

As he lay there calling out to himself that was already far above somewhere in the sky, her words from before as the shells came raining down came back into his mind.

---

Commander Trapp averted his eyes from the flask as a voice asked him a question as reality came back into the present. It was Trent asking for permission to be dismissed. He looked around and noticed that during his spell most of the others had taken their leave as well. He wondered if he ever acknowledge their responses to his speech or if he just sat their in silence. He looked up at Trent and was perplexed for a moment as Trent did not seem like the type to ask for permission of anything really. But never the less Trapp appreciated the gesture and figured that maybe his speech ahd done some good. Nodding he give him a curt and simple of course as he pocketed the flask back into his inside pocket right up against his heart were it belonged.

His attention to Sokolov, McKnight, and Astelion. The three of them inviting him to participate in their blood sport. As McKnight shot a look over at him he wondered if his melancholic expression was so obvious. Somewhere deep within his brain had already made up his mind within his head. Punching something would probably do wonders on his mental state at the moment. After the fact it would be a good way to get to know the members of his squad better and maybe make the divide between them and him less apparent. No better why to do that than by beating the crap out of one another he figured. The boxing itself was a long 101st standard that started with the sparring competitions back at basic and stuck with most of them. It was intend to train discipline and combat awareness but also inspire respect and loyalty among the recruits. For it was fimrly belived you didn't really know a man until you punched one another in the face.

The commander smiled as he heard Astelion's snide comment and shook his head giving a small chuckle. His voice was jovial and even a little bit playful farflung from the stoic demeanor he had when he had given his speech previously. If Trapp was good at one thing it was burying his hurt psyche down a twelve foot hole in the ground. "You know what McKnight I think I may just end up taking you up on that offer. Maybe kicking the shit out of Astelion here is just what I needed."