ENEMY TURN

Railguns were pretty fast. The sheer acceleration provided to their projectiles was frightening to behold, and in space this effect was only compounded thanks to the lack of air resistance. Thus, the blue pirate machine was unable to respond quickly enough, the shell crushing the entire side of the HFV before exploding into a cloud of shrapnel. Yet before the blast had even settled to allow the OSDT pilots a view of the destroyed 'Rook', one of the other formation's machines flew past with blinding speed, firing a powerful beam into the cloud in a single, smooth motion. By the time the dust had settled, the surviving pirates were all in retreat, including all of those that had attacked the Sword Shroud.

There was nothing left of the blue machine. The pirates had seemingly vaporised any remains to prevent the OSDT from retrieving anything. The Bradley floated next to the G-Valkyrie, dead in the void.

The pirates had were moving away quite quickly.

"All HFVs, return to the ship," came in Captain Pajari's voice over the communications channel. "Do not attempt pursuit."

Jack Thor-Coming Home

As the final shots were being fired in the skirmish/dogfight (it really depended on which side you were asking,) Jack was slowing down and communicating with Control about his landing approach into the Jannah's bay. It lacked the speed of a normal combat landing. With the pirates retreating the large man in the small Ball figured that it would be better to be safe than sorry.

With a deft touch he floated through the entrance of the landing bay, jets pointed in harmless directions until a crane came along and magnetically grasped his vehicle. Another took hold of his passenger, taking it away to where a team of expectant technicians were standing.

As he was carried over to The Ball's specially designed cradle Jack went through the shutdown list. It was almost ritualistic for him. As each function of the war machine shut down it removed him step by step from the battlefield he had left behind. The adrenaline coursing through his veins petered off and stopped, his breathing returned to normal and his clenched muscles relaxed.

With a small whine his ride shut down completely just as it settled into the cradle. Jack opened the hatch and clambered out, sending a friendly wave at the mechanics already beginning to swarm over the vehicle as he did so.

"Nothing for you to fix today friends! Now, my apologies but I must go see how a comrade is doing."

His wide frame moved with surprising grace towards the remains of the Yukine.

The Yukine's cockpit opened at Jack's approach, although Henry didn't climb down right away; that would be a breach of protocol. Instead, the nineteen-year old boy said:

"Thanks for the save, Jack and everyone." A smile at that. "Don't worry, nothing is hurt except my pride." He would then bow deeply and say:

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for flubbing up and then making you worry!" Mistakes were made, mistakes were natural, but...this was not the way of making a good impression.

@Silvan Haven

It had all happened so fast.

The Blue Danube had fallen victim to the Lord's judgement with nary a whimper, finally confronted with a mandate from the Reaper that even his upgraded machine could not feint away from. Newly free, Rising Star finished off the Bradley pilot in one cruel strike, exactly as she had called it. The close-combat HFV and its Messer both fell limp, floating through space. Father Joan's throat rumbled with a cry of congratulations--

--which was aborted in her throat when the reinforcements came. To her eyes, the pirate HFVs numbered ten (Lumen only destroyed five?) and, though damaged, that may have been enough to turn the tide. But upon seeing the cloud of smoke that had become of their vaunted ace and his hyperkinetic mech, they had turned tail and fled like the men of Egypt in the face of plague.

Only Paper Tiger remained, up to their cockpits in the wreckage of dead machines.

Pray hard tonight, boys. For yourselves, and those I took from you.

...

My...my head...

Was it supposed to hurt this much? She felt as though she were a little kid again, whipping it from side to side and laughing airily as her long white hair swooshed around her...she felt as though she were headbanging to her first metal CD again...

She felt like she was going through the windshield again. Woozy. Confused. Afraid.

Six Rooks. More than anyone on the field. More than all of Lumen combined.

Blue Danube. Who had avoided death at the hands of Lydia Popova's enormous Mega Beam Cannon and Rising Star's lightning fast Waverider. She had killed him in one strike. Left nothing behind.

It felt so thrilling while I was fighting...

Yet now, as she flew back to Jannah in relative silence and began proper docking procedure in a numb haze, Joan Heidenreich felt a familiar longing - one that, though no doubt soon to be ameliorated by the munchkin in the hangar, was still aching inside her. She needed a hug.

I only signed up to help them pray.

When she had climbed into Judah minutes before, she was nervous about her place as the team's newcomer. Now, as her cockpit opened with a hydraulic hiss and she tentatively stepped out, she was afraid that she had just become their Blue Danube. The Lion of Judah.

This didn't feel like a positive change.

Her helmet came off slowly, floating in the air before her, artificial gravity doing what it could to fix her mussed-up alabaster hair. Joan lowered her head wordlessly chin pressing against her collar to avoid the gazes of new and old arrivals both within the hangar. She hung, transfixed, before the chest of her Lion...

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee...

...and prayed.

Jack Thor-Team Building

"Raise your head shonen young man. Helping one another is what teammates do. Although I see that you will be needing a new HFV." He said, looking up at the ruined mess of machinery towering above them. "And perhaps one of my Special Training Courses. You will need to learn how to fight as part of our team if you wish to once again fly with us."

Just then his Team Dad senses went off he noticed the good Father standing by her own battlecraft, her posture speaking of one who has just had their soul savaged. He wordlessly motioned for Henry to follow as he made his way across the hanger.

Assuming that Joan missed the sound of boots on the metal floor her first real clue about her visitors was the large and calloused hand that gently laid itself on her shoulder.

Jack Thor-Team Building

"Raise your head shonen young man. Helping one another is what teammates do. Although I see that you will be needing a new HFV." He said, looking up at the ruined mess of machinery towering above them. "And perhaps one of my Special Training Courses. You will need to learn how to fight as part of our team if you wish to once again fly with us."

Just then his Team Dad senses went off he noticed the good Father standing by her own battlecraft, her posture speaking of one who has just had their soul savaged. He wordlessly motioned for Henry to follow as he made his way across the hanger.

Assuming that Joan missed the sound of boots on the metal floor her first real clue about her visitors was the large and calloused hand that gently laid itself on her shoulder.

"I do wish to fly again as one of you, and so I'll have one of your special training courses -" Henry said before Jack went off to reassure Father Joan. Following the big man, Henry watched him begin to try reassuring the Female Priest, before offering his own words:

"As someone who doesn't like taking lives as well, as someone conscious of becoming like the enemy if one goes too far...I'm glad you were with us, that you chose to protect our team. You helped save my life today, and for that, I am grateful." He would then smile.

"I'm with you."

@Plank Sinatra

They didn’t get the feeling right.

Hanging in the void, the infinite nothingness that surrounded the infinitesimally small bubble of safety within which she resided, that was the only thought that persisted within her mind. They didn’t get the feeling back. Rising Star had been inside cockpits like the Valk’s since she was a teen. They had been video games, then, cutting edge simulator games. The tournaments she competed in for the fun, for the challenge. The same tournaments that landed her a position with X Corp. When she stepped into the cockpit of a real HFV for the first time it was like greeting an old friend. Solar Age had been an accurate simulation down to the minute tactile feedback the machines would give. Simulations, live-fire exercises, they had all been so similar to real combat.

But they couldn’t capture how it felt when the fighting stopped.

This was the sensation that consumed her being, that which seeped into every corner of her mind as she regarded the scene before her. The Bradley was listless, like a marionette with its strings cut. Shrapnel floated between the two machines along with, she could have sworn, droplets of crimson. An eerie mirror to the ones within her own cockpit. Everything was so still. The battle had been intoxicating, an adrenaline rush the likes of which she had never experienced. The stakes were real, the maneuvers were real, the need to succeed, the necessity of success, couldn’t be higher. Actual lives, her own, her comrades’, her enemies’, rode on the outcome of her choices. It was thrilling in a way she could never describe, on a level far above even the most exhilarating moments in her simulations. It made her feel alive in a visceral way that she would have never imagined.

Sasha had been intoxicated, once. On alcohol, not in the metaphorical sense. The buzz had been fantastic, but the hangover much, much less so. That was the only way she could really describe the complete crash that set in once the adrenaline started to die down. Most of her targets were not intact, their remains atomized by her beams if their entire machine had not consumed themselves in reactor failure to begin with. But the Bradley… The Bradley was intact, and floated before her. With its power core intact, the light behind its visor had yet to die out. The piercing sapphire visor regarded her resentfully, reminding her of what she had done. Knowing she would tow it back to the Jannah, that when she was inspecting it later and marveling over the magnificent machine the thought would remain in the black of her head that the ruined cockpit and the blood upon its seat was upon her hands as well.

They had not managed to harm her, not at all. Even the Valk would need only an hour’s work to repair or replace the rear fin the blue Rook had managed to graze. The droplets floating around her, the pounding in her head, that was all her own doing. Poetic, perhaps, given that the disquietude in her mind was her own fault as well. X Corp hadn’t ordered her to gather field data for the XC|PT-001. She had offered, as the machine’s normal test pilot. It hadn’t seemed right to hand her off to a stranger when she was going out for real. No one had forced her onto the battlefield.

But at the same time, she mused with a deep breath, the outcome might have been very different without her. None of her comrades would have been able to save the Yukine in time, not without great risk to both her pilot and their own safety, nor could a pilot without her experience necessarily have come out alive. The battle had been against a numerically superior foe with machines on par with the present generation. If she had not been there, if she had not acted, lives would still have been lost. And they would not necessarily have been pirates. It would take time to process what had happened, what she had done, but that thought was the best anchor she had; she was not the aggressor, nor was she the villain. She had done what was necessary to safeguard her comrades and the civilians of the region. Wasn’t that worth the weight on her conscience?

That question stayed at the forefront of her mind as, recognizing that she had been still for quite some time, she spurred her machine into motion. The G-Valkyrie took hold of the Bradley and its Messer and began the process of towing them both back towards the Jannah. She took a circuitous route back so that she could gather reasonably intact examples of the enemy’s equipment for study, pieces that could explain why these Rooks had performed so far above their usual specifications. Such information could be useful later.

Her cargo made her landing a little more complex, given that she needed to bring the Valk as well as its large trophies safely into the hangar, but not nearly as difficult as combat maneuvers had been. She completed the tasks almost robotically, uttering the proper signals and protocol for returning to the vessel without much enthusiasm. The hangar’s crews took possession of her salvage while the G-Valkyrie stomped to its service bay. It would normally be stored in Waverider form, but the transformation was not advisable in a confined space; she would reorient it later. For now she simply needed to rest.

System shutdown was entirely second nature, her hands bringing about the shutdown of the Valk’s systems of their own accord. She stayed in her cockpit a few moments, listening to the machine’s innards cycle down and quiet. Using the time to try and quiet her own mind, compartmentalize what needed to be pushed aside. Then she triggered the hatch’s release and climbed down carefully, upon which she was greeted instantly by her chief technician.

“Here,” He said as he pushed a bundle she quickly recognized as the clothes she had worn over her pilot suit into her hands. “You can put them back on behind the 001. You need to go to the medbay?”

Somewhat belatedly, Rising Star remembered the flow of crimson from her nose that, now that she was under more normal conditions, actually moved downward. She touched the base of her nose briefly, shaking her head. “No, I’m okay. Are the others back yet?”

Her tech nodded, gesturing with a thumb to the scene behind him. Star got the message immediately, once she glanced where he indicated. She gave only a nod before she ducked behind the Valk’s leg, pulling on her outer technician’s uniform to once again disguise the pilot suit beneath. The mask was the last to come off, and with it Sasha Mackenzie shed Rising Star to be herself again. With Star’s disappearance she pushed her musings down, towards the back of her mind.

Joan was upset. She needed, the whole team needed, the manic pixie. That meant putting on a big grin, bouncing back out there into the hangar and breaking the tension. Raising spirits with a big old hug. That’s what Joan needed. The old man needed a mood boost, and Husam would too. So the chaplain would get the biggest hug of her life, enough to maybe convince herself she was fine too, and the rest’d get some antics to roll their eyes at. She could sort out her own thoughts later. There were cute girls to raise the spirits of.

So Sasha took a deep breath, smiled, and stepped back out into the open.

The shortest member of Paper Tiger all but bounced her way across the other hangar, refraining from giving Yatogami a look that said what she thought of his consolations (was the ‘he who fights monsters’ line really the best call here?) and did give the old man a smile that said she’d take it from here before she crouched down next to the priest.

“Heyyy, Joan.” The technician greeted, a little softer than usual, before wrapping an arm tightly around the other woman. “How you doing, sweetie?”

--for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed be thou--

Ooof.

An attack!

An attack! They would need to mobilize for--

--realization set in.

No one else may handle this attacker.

Once the momentary shock and panic of being torn from her prayers for forgiveness had worn off, Joan's conscious had reasserted itself, turned off amidst attempts at absolution and thoughts of the pirates provoked by Yatogami. Thoughts she had been forced to confront all at once, pointless queries as to the moral standing of those they had been fighting.

What if...what if they really had been praying?

There was no time to wonder. She was being attacked. And it seemed like Father Joan would be making a habit of taking first pick of all attackers.

This one is mine.

Two arms wrapped around the short, sweet mechanic, drawing her tightly into the priest's lap as Joan hugged for several seconds. Faint relief began to wash over her, as expected. Her breath stopped up once, choking, as though she were holding back a sob...but released again in due time without any (fallen) tears, and after that it grew consistently calmer.

"Hi, munchkin," Joan greeted with quiet affection. Her eyes weren't open. "I'm okay, everyone. It was all just...quite sudden. Taxing, I'm afraid."

They opened up, emerald and clear - if, perhaps, a smidge watery. Her forehead pressed against Sasha's (oddly warm, feverish, the way it felt when Mackenzie was feeling devious and would pull the covers up over her head and lay in wait for Joan's arrival) and, as the tips of their noses touched, Joan got a good look at the mischievous blonde's face.

The small trickle.

"I knew you were a tiny little thing. But to get in fights with your own tools..." A knuckle gently brushed away the tiny nosebleed from the mechanic's face, cauterized by the warm smile of Jannah's chaplain. "How many times have I told you to be careful of letting things go in zero gravity? You'll walk right into them."

"Total write-off."

Aglaea Akechi stared up at what remained of the Yukine, evaluating the state of the prototype machine with experienced eyes. Of course, it did not require several years of working as a HFV mechanic to conclude that the mech before her had been brutalised to the extent where performing any repairs would be pointless, but the unfortunate financial circumstances of the OSDT meant that the half-Japanese woman needed to be extra careful when deciding whether or not to scrap a HFV for being unusable. Fortunately, however, the damage inflicted upon the Yukine made her decision a lot easier.

"You sure about that?" asked one of her colleagues, the olive-skinned young man casually sidling up beside her to the sound of metal clinking against metal. "The torso's relatively intact, so we could hook some new limbs onto it without too big of a glitch."

She glanced towards the younger mechanic, a tall brunet whose most noticeable feature was the metal prosthetic that had taken the place of his lower left leg. He was gazing intently at the Yukine's wounds, likely trying to think up a way to create some Frankenstein'd creature from the 'corpse' of the prototype. It wasn't likely his intention, but in her eyes, any attempt to fix up the thing would only spawn some ugly patchwork.

"No way," she replied with a snort. "We don't have any spares, and the Americans sure ain't going to make more parts for a defunct prototype like this thing. That's without mentioning the unique thrusters. We just ain't equipped for its repairs. At the very best we can probs salvage the cockpit."

"Damn. Not even the Rook parts'll work?"

"Buddy needs them."

Her colleague closed his eyes and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his the index finger and thumb of his left hand. "Did he lose another limb?"

She smiled humourlessly. "Yeeeep."

"Every goddamn time," muttered the other mechanic under his breath. "Am I in charge of doing its repairs again?"

"Unfortunately not, Stronin!" declared an exuberant voice from behind him. A well-calloused hand placed itself on his shoulder, and if he were to turn around, he would come face to face with the shades-sporting visage of their chief, an aged man who was colloquially known to them as Steakhouse (for ... reasons that were actually quite unknown to them now that they thought about it, but his real name was just Tobias). "You're in charge of the Bradley today. After all, you have the most experience with them out of us!"

The crestfallen expression that had developed on Stronin's face after the chief dashed his hopes was a source of amusement to Aglaea, a touch of mirth clearly dancing upon her creased lips. How unfortunate it was to have escaped dealing with the ever-dense Buddy Wang, only to be forced to work on a machine where he would need to dance around the meat jello remains of a well-done pilot. Luck wasn't favouring her colleague today.

"Have fun with the burger," was her offer of ... 'encouragement'. "Try not to eat him though."

Her daily quota of socialisation now complete, Aglaea began walking closer towards the Yukine, ignoring the annoyed cursing of her colleague behind her. There was a mech to be dismantled, and if the pilot was to remain with the HFV squads ... then there was also a mech to be procured.

It was going to be a busy day.

((Collab between Letter and Crimmy))

“Henry Yatogami?”

Quiet footsteps would alert the teenaged pilot to the approach of one of the Jannah’s crew members, a Caucasian brunette whose appearance suggested that she was somewhere in her late twenties. Her hair, however, was the most prominent feature, a large beehive that stood out amongst the crowds of mechanics and technicians milling around the hangar bay. She gazed at Henry with sparkling amber eyes, and a light smile had settled gently upon her face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, an apologetic tone in her voice, “but the Captain wants you in Meeting Room 3.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” said the nineteen-year old boy. “I’ll head there right away.” He had been given a map of the ship on his transfer, and had taken the time to memorize it. So he was fairly certain he knew the way. So, he would begin walking in the direction of the room the very next second, although in his heart, he dreaded what was to come.

It would not take too long for Henry to reach the meeting rooms from the hangars. Upon taking an elevator up three levels and a ten metre walk down a hallway, the pilot found himself standing in front of the door to said room. However, upon entering, he would not find Captain Pajari present, but rather, Lumen Team’s leader, who had yet to remove his pilot suit.

“Yatogami,” greeted Bertrand as he stood up from the table, nodding at the younger male in acknowledgement. “Take a seat. The Captain will be here soon.”

Henry sat, not bothering to hide his apprehension.

Silence filled the room for several minutes, interrupted only by the creaking of the chairs whenever the two pilots shifted position even slightly. Bertrand was waiting patiently, posture almost ramrod straight in his chair, hands steepled together and resting upon the surface of the table. There was a sense of professionalism to him, as if he had gone through such situations more than hundreds of times.

In fact, it was likely that he had.

However, the invisible barrier that seemed to insulate him from Henry immediately broke the moment he turned to face the other pilot. His metallic blue eyes betrayed little emotion, but their gaze was intense, fixating upon the other man.

“Was this the first time you have been shot down?” asked the leader of Lumen Team, his powerful baritone cutting through the silence of the room.

“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “I was...used to an enemy that was smaller in numbers and had armor of paper.”
“Where were you last posted, Yatogami?”

“OSDT Gungnir, sir,” Henry answered. “I transferred to the OSDT Jannah just recently; last month or so.” And, here was the main issue: He had transferred to the Jannah because of reasons that were ultimately personal, and personal reasons were an impediment to the proper running of a military outfit. And, if friends of the Gungnir's captain were in the Jannah, they would already have a bad impression of him, the pilot who still believed in Aliens.

“The Gungnir’s patrols are quite close to Vesta Base,” noted Bertrand, his inflections having adopted a slightly more curious aspect. “Pirates in that region are known to be fond of Rook variants as well. Not machines you could describe as having armour of ‘paper’.”

“Rook variants with the numbers, bravery, and clandestine upgrades that there were in the recent fight?” spoke Henry. “Point is, I was overconfident, and I had not been in an environment that would expose my inadequacies to this extent.”

“Thus you now lack a HFV,” concluded the older pilot, crossing his arms. There was no pity or condescension in his words. They were simply a statement of fact. “What future do you seek now that the Yukine has been destroyed?”

“To be honest,” a tone of sadness entered Henry’s tone, “I expect to be thrown out of the OSDT entirely, or at least not be deployed in the open ever again.”

“Those cards are not currently on the table.”

The sudden interruption by the new voice was joined by the sound of the door to the room opening and closing. Captain Radomir Pajari, an aging white-haired man clearly having passed into the latter years of his life, had entered.

“Henry Yatogami,” he began, glancing towards the pilot. “You will remain a member of the Jannah’s HFV squadron. However, I will be reassigning you to the Lumen Team.”

If the mild look of surprise on Francis Betrand’s face was any indication, it was clear that this was unexpected for him as well.

“You wish for him to join the squad?” asked the Polish-German pilot.

“Are there any issues with this decision?”

Bertrand nodded, before immediately transitioning into an explanation. “Yatogami’s inclusion into the Lumen Team, as it currently stands, is not one I can easily accept. I don’t know how he pilots, nor does he currently have a HFV right now.”

“Reasonable objections,” replied the captain. “However, your latter concern is currently being addressed, and it is my wish that you train him so that he will be able to function alongside your team.”

“Train him?”

“You are convening with Mr. Wang later for a battle report, are you not? Yatogami may learn something from the experience.”

The Rook pilot seemed to mull over his superior’s words for a minute, before he quietly nodded. It was clear that he was still in possession of some misgivings, but he would accept the captain’s demands without any reluctance.

“I…” said Henry, staring at the Captain. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to redeem myself. Thank you very much,” he gave a deep bow. This...this wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“Enjoy the opportunity,” was Pajari’s short reply as he began to turn away and exit the room. “I expect improvements the next time you pilot.”

Henry nodded.

"Having gravity was the problem, this time." The colonial native responded almost sheepishly, brushing what was under her nose with the cuff of her sleeve. Another stain on her work clothes, but it wasn't the first. She was more concerned with the fact that she'd forgotten to wipe it away the first time. Could have been a problem if Joan hadn't filled in the blanks herself. She squeezed the chaplain a little tighter, shrugging slightly while Yatogami departed. "Let go of a wrench thinking it'd float. Only works when you're in zero g, turns out. Newton can thank me for the peer review later."

"You feeling alright?" The question, so close to her first one as to almost be a repeat, was accompanied by casual attention to her friend's hair. One of her hands freed itself from the hug deemed necessary by her extensive on-the-job-spirit-boosting-training to correct a few blatantly errant bits of alabaster hair that she spotted. "And don't fib to me, Father, Jack'll give me a boost so I can scold you at eye level."

"Back me up, old man."

@Plank Sinatra @Silvan Haven

Jack could tell what the young pilot mechanic was attempting to do and agreed with it wholeheartedly. His formerly sombre face cracked into a wide smile and a booming laugh echoed from his barrel chest.

"I may just be able to get you that high, kid."

The disgusting scent of cooked flesh and blood mixed with steel was the first thing to hit Stronin as he approached the relatively-intact Bradley that the Paper Tiger team had salvaged from the battlefield. The second was no less a vehicle for potential trauma, being the sight of what remained of the unfortunate pirate after the Rising Star had thrust her hot, hard rod deep into his quibbling meat, utterly ravaging his body with reckless abandon. It was rather unpleasant, and Stronin justly had to look away from the unrecognisable cockpit, plucking a clothes peg from his pockets to snap onto his nose to keep the smell out. Which was actually a pretty stupid decision in hindsight, because now his nose was hurting like hell.

"Gohddammit, chief," he muttered out, words slightly distorted by the presence of a clothing peg on his nose. "Ahketchy wasn't jokin' when she sed he was a burger."

It was his unfortunate responsibility, you see, to oversee the cleaning and repairs of the Bradley for both research and deployment purposes. Having another modern HFV for use was a godsend for the economically disadvantaged OSDT, especially after the loss of the Yukine during the skirmish with the pirates. That the Paper Tiger team had retrieved it relatively intact (with most of the damage restricted to the cockpit and surrounding areas) helped too, because that meant they'd be able to spend less money on repairs.

Not that it wasn't a pain to fix up.

Stronin unclipped the peg from his nose, brow wrinkling in both pain and disgust, now that he was once again exposed to the scent of dead people.

"Alright guys, we'll start by pulling the cockpit out. The quicker I can avoid puking my guts out, the better off we all are."

'Bradley'.

It was a familiar name to the man standing in front of the spare repair bay, watching the techs crawl over the latest addition to the Jannah's mech collection. His eyes roved over the bulky backpack, the drone socket, the iconic visor (once bright electric blue, now dull and dark). Even with a big hole melted into the cockpit, it was easy to recognise the Mm C44 for what it was. The same could not be said for its previous pilot, most of whom was still inside.

James Harrison spared a small, brief grimace for the scorched and shredded remains.

"That's not gonna stain, is it?"

@Crimmy

"I sure hope not, because I don't want to work next to a dead guy's blood."

With the help of some hooks, the cockpit had been successfully removed from the body of the Bradley and was now lying flat on the ground, cockpit casing roughly ripped open to expose its innards to the tech crew. Most of them were in possession of varying expressions of disgust, but those were soon hidden by a set of masks as they began to drag over several high-pressure hoses. Stronin stood just to the side of his team, having rolled over some large canisters of bleach. Although he had been quite resigned at first to his work, he was taking it surprisingly seriously now that it'd started.

"It's uh ..." he continued, glancing over at James. "... Harrison, yeah? One of the reserve pilots?"

His words ended on hesitantly, as if he were unsure of the older man's identity. However, his hesitance quickly ended the moment the other technicians began to point their hose nozzles towards the cockpit. It was instead replaced by a sudden flash of worry, and he quickly began to take a few steps back.

"You might want to get out of the way. The water's going to splash everywhere."

"Duly noted," Harrison replied, matching Stronin's quick retreat. At a safe distance, he folded his arms and looked back up at the now-empty chassis standing in its bay, as the techs began hosing.

"Quite a prize Rising Star's brought back for us, eh?" he remarked. "I haven't seen a Bradley in years, let alone a command unit. Thought those'd all be in mothballs in some billionaire's collection by now."

@Crimmy

"There were a lot of squad leaders who refused to submit quietly after the war," explained the mechanic, watching as his team got to work. Water sprayed across the bay, spreading across the floor in pools tinged with red. Once the initial hosing was complete, they'd move onto the bleach, and from then on he could finally get to work fixing up the cockpit ... or at least modifying a spare Rook one to work with the Bradley. It all depended on how much damage had been done to the machine, and how quickly they wanted the HFV in action. "This actually isn't the first command unit I've fixed up."

In fact, it was his familiarity with the unit that had lead to Steakhouse assigning him this job. Most of the OSDT's members had likely never touched a Bradley before, and those who did were probably like Harrison or the Lumen Team's Prettyboy Duo: they had been busy fighting them during the war rather than actually having done any tech work on them.

"That so?"

Harrison had indeed fought Bradleys during the war: in fact, they had been his first taste of mech-on-mech combat. Back then, the Bradley wasn't the rarity it had since become but the backbone of the secessionist army, and not so much a target for capture as one for wholesale destruction.

That's not to say he hadn't come across them since. Larger pirate gangs sometimes had a couple of the basic units, and his old MSS squadmate Hills had flown one back when they were guarding mining stations in the asteroid belt...until it took a railgun round to the backpack, which promptly went critical. That time, there wasn't anything left to repair.

"How long will you boys need to get her operational, then?"

@Crimmy

"Shouldn't be too long," Stronin admitted. The team were fast workers, having already applied the bleach to the cockpit in order to remove the last traces of blood. Once everything was dry, he would get to work. "Are you going to be piloting it then?"

((Collab between Letter Bee and Crimmy over Skype))

Following his meeting with the captain, Henry would find himself sitting in another of the ship's rooms, one adjacent to the hangar bay. It had been converted into a makeshift debriefing room sometime ago, and had been often utilised by the Lumen Team as a place to write up battle reports, as well as for any lecturing undergone by either Lydia or Buddy (usually the latter, given his tendency to screw up in battle). Indeed, the Chinese pilot was in fact sitting right next to Henry as of that moment, semi-slouched back into his chair. There was a blank expression on his face, but it was quite clear to anybody that he wasn't exactly ... looking forward to what would occur next.

Across the table from them was Bertrand, who had left his pilot suit behind for the uniform shared by most OSDT members. His arms were once again crossed, but rather than merely professional, this time he seemed actually quite intimidating. His intense blue eyes were staring down Henry and Buddy (although admittedly, more the latter), as if he were sizing them up while pondering on how he could comment upon their performance during the previous battle.

In fact, he was definitely trying to think up what to say, although he was likely also taking his time to make them squirm. Mostly Buddy. Henry wasn't receiving the full impact of Lumen Team's leader's disapproving aura.

"Let us begin," he said finally, baritone voice breaking through the tense atmosphere. "Buddy ... submit a detailed combat report by the end of the day. Do not fail to note every single mistake you made during that engagement. Hopefully you will remember what actions not to undertake this time."

It seemed that Buddy's consistent fumbles during combat missions was quite a common occurrence, hence why the Lumen Team member seemed to take in his leader's words with an air of 'heard it before'. Not that it kept him from being cowed by Bertrand's tone. While not overly harsh, there was steel in Lumen 1's voice, forged from having to constantly lecture the subordinate.

However, there was something different this time, likely because of Henry's presence. Buddy glanced in the younger pilot's direction for a second, confused as to why he was present, before turning back towards Bertrand.

"Is that all, sir?" asked the Rook pilot, curiosity carrying his tone above whatever cowed one he likely would've possessed had Henry not been beside him.

"Unfortunately, I cannot spare too much time on you," was the curt reply from Lumen 1. "You are dismissed for now, Buddy. However, this session will be compensated for at a later time."

Bertrand had barely finished his sentence before Buddy had left his seat, immediately rushing out of the door before the Lumen Team's leader could verbalise a single objection to the impatience. Thus it was with a quiet sigh of irritated exasperation that he turned his gaze upon Henry, acknowledging the presence of the former Yukine pilot. While he had seemed quite reluctant to include the boy in the session at first, it was quite clear that he would undertake this request from the captain with the utmost professionalism and competency.

"Yatogami, I have perused through the battle recordings," he began. "Before I comment, however, tell me yourself what mistakes were made."

Henry nodded.

"My first mistake was to engage several enemies at once when the group was already outnumbered. I also overestimated my ability to pull out of every attack, as well as underestimated the capabilities of the enemy. And lastly...I was overconfident, as well as too focused on the end result; defeating the pirates as soon as possible." And getting the observation post built.

"You also overestimated the capabilities of your own machine. What made you believe that the Yukine could effectively combat so many foes at once?"

"My parents helped work on it, albeit as an advisory part to the development team." The excuse was weak, but Henry had genuinely believed it.

"Respect for your kin's work is admirable, but respect is not equivalent to blind faith."

Bertrand's tone seemed to soften only the slightest, but immediately the steel returned.

"A machine that your parents' developed ... you should have been entirely familiar with all its capabilities. Yet you recklessly charged into the fray without considering the Yukine's fragility. You failed to study the enemy before attacking. Your full-frontal assault was unsophisticated in execution and one that could have been easily countered, even had you known the capabilities of those foes beforehand. It was fortunate that you survived."

He paused for a second, allowing his words to sink in.

"You failed to even consider the presence of your teammates. There was no communication whatsoever between you and the Paper Tiger adjutants. On the battlefield, your allies can mean the difference between life and death. They are not psychics. They cannot comprehend your actions if you do not speak to them."

"You do not possess the capability to serve as an one-man army. Your tactics, frankly, are in dire need of improvement."

Henry stayed silent, knowing that his next words might be inane and stupid. But, he did comprehend; he knew that he had neglected his allies, a mistake he would never repeat again. Finally, he mustered the courage to speak:

"What would you suggest, sir?"

"God has seen it fitting to keep you in the world of the living to learn from your mistakes," replied Lumen Team's leader. "Educate yourself. Improve yourself in the fields you are weak in. Rely on your comrades. Communicate. Familiarise yourself with tactics. Work on your situational awareness."

Each and every phrase left his mouth like bullets fired from a machine gun.

"Yet these words ... by themselves they are meaningless."

Bertrand's gaze penetrated into the young man's. His blue eyes were hard.

"Words are nothing without action. Learning is nothing without instruction. How fortunate then, that I will take time to provide both."

He gestured towards the door.

"Henry Yatogami, show me your abilities using the simulators. It may not be a real battlefield, but it shall allow me to see if you are truly capable of getting good."

A nod from the nineteen-year old boy; he had an inkling of how he can prove himself, but it would dash his pride.

He would then go towards the simulations, where, he hoped, he would at least have a more varied choice of mechs than the OSDT had in real life.

Unfortunately for Henry, the simulators on the Jannah were not there to provide variety in mechs, but to provide the pilots a form of training outside of the battlefield. Variety was something found in video games. The combat data utilised originated from the machines assigned to the OSDT vessel, and thus the young pilot would have to select one of those mechs to use. However, from the intense gaze present on Bertrand's face, it was quite clear that there wouldn't be much time given towards the picking of machines.

In fact, there would be no picking at all.

"Choose the OSDT Rook," commanded the Lumen Team's leader as he neared the simulator. "I wish to observe your fighting style. A basic machine will suit that purpose."

Upon entering the simulator, Henry would find that it was an almost one-for-one replica of the standard HFV cockpit, ensuring maximum compatibility amongst pilots of any machine. When all the settings were inputted, the 'surroundings' immediately changed into a simulation of empty space, a void of darkness dotted with miniscule, twinkling lights that were stars. If the young pilot to take hold of the controls, he would be able to move the 'Rook' as if it and the world of the simulator were real.

And hanging a short distance away was a green OSDT Rook, one with three blue streaks present upon a shoulder shield. It waited motionlessly, single eye seemingly watching Henry with a strange intensity.

"Yatogami," said Lumen 1, igniting his beam saber. "Show me your moves."