_{SDF-1 Hangar 0900 Hours
February 21 2009
5th Special Operations Team: "Fox" Squadron}

Today was the day. Those four words stirred no small amount of excitement in almost everyone on Macross Island- the small island city built around the SDF-1 that had spent the better part of the last 10 years working to restore the alien craft, or to support those who were doing the restoring. A decade of hard work finally complete and the city was nearly electric with excitement. The SDF-1 was one part warship, one part symbol or the world's ability to unite and take a great step forward together. While there was still a small number of notable dissidents who combated the new way of the world- and stood against the unification of the world's nation, but for the most part all eyes were on the SDF-1 as they prepared for humanities next step.

No matter how everyone viewed the SDF-1, it was still at its core- a warship. Not the first spacefaring vessel the world had invented, and surely not the last- but it was by far the largest and most powerful. While the SDF-1 was definitely a symbol for the people of Earth, its crew had no doubts that they had a bigger purpose than just to make a show. There were whispers and talk of top secret reports- but everyone assumed that they were heading into space looking for a fight- why else would the ship be packed to the gills with weapons and fighters. It was rumored that the lost contact with Mars and several colonies were not just a case of communications gone silent, but the Mars colonies revolting and seceding from earth.

The truth of those rumors were unknown, but the ship had been rapidly staffed and the crew had been conducting wargames for the better part of two months now. Though the rigors of those military exercises had already worn off for some- the majority of the ship's crew had been given a week leave the week before the launch. As a result, everyone was in relatively high spirits just coming off a week long vacation of merrymaking on Macross Island. The city itself was also in a state of festivities- the launch of the SDF-1 was cause for celebration and the streets were filled with noise and laughter, and anyone wearing the colors of the SDF-1 were often given generous discounts or even freebies.

McKnight breathed out an audible sigh. The past week had indeed been a fun one, but now it was over and here they were, getting ready for launch. The SDF-1's maiden voyage- a trip to the lunar base to meet up with the rest of the fleet. From there they'd probably fly to Mars in force. Might as well give the military something to do- all these resources built up building the ship and fighting off the now practically defunct Anti-Unification League had left the RDF with a lot of military personnel and hardware, and not a lot to do with it.

The hangar itself was a mess of activity- mechanics and technicians ran back and forth- some on bit auto-loaders moving military hardware. Throughout the hangar men in the drab olive green flight suits of the RDF Airwing crowded together by squadrons. Some stood in a highly regulated military line, with their squadron leader walking up and down like a peacock, other squadrons- like Fox- had pulled together a handful of crates and sat or stood in a rough circle chatting up their past week.

"Right then." The cockney accented squadron leader murmured to himself. Samuel leaned against a nearby crate, pouring over a clipboard in his hands- occasionally popping his eyes up to look at the pilots gathered in front of him. Like an old schoolteacher marking attendance, he'd flip to a dossier, match a name and photo to a pilot sitting on a crate, make a mental checkmark and move onto the next. While most of the squadron was old faces, he had a few new ones due to show up.

Newbies were always a mixed bag- some of them were just new to the squadron and had some experience under their belt- others were green as grass and fresh out of flight school. Some of the pilots loved to haze newcomers, others just wanted to see who they were getting and if any babysitting was going to be needed. Samuel generally placed himself in the latter camp. Fox Squadron- while composed of mostly high performing pilots wasn't all that different from other fighter squadrons, they just had a different set of rules to abide by.

She almost hadn't made it.

Macross Island, isolated as it was in the South Pacific, had nonetheless become a gigantic hub of activity in the past fortnight. Veritech pilots old and new had been shuttled in from around the world lately in order to fill their squadrons, and Cairo Casablancas was among the final wave of them; there had been some hangup with her file, something about a hang-up in her dual citizenship (so much for a seamless, efficient one world order...) that had nearly left her stuck in Tel Aviv while the SDF-1 left for space without her. She had been cleared (again) for Fox Squadron at the eleventh hour, and so it was that she was now ambling around the busy hangar, seeking out a squadron that had surely gathered up all of its other members but her.

Just my luck.

She had a large duffel bag of her things, including some very breakable bottles that had by the grace of God slipped through customs, slung over one shoulder, and her Aviators were pressed closely to her face, lenses disguising the bleariest of red eyes after the longest of red eye flights. She kept taking one hand and running it through her hair, fixing it and brushing the long, dark strands over one shoulder. Normally she had it tied back, or at least restrained somehow for the purposes of deceiving others regarding its length, but she found herself too wiped out to be assed about something so minor - especially when it was possible that her entire squadron had grouped without her. Her flight lead was probably gonna be one of the ones who reamed people like they did in the Full Metal Jacket days.

That would totally be her luck.

At least there was no way to fit a Veritech in your mouth.

Sure enough, when she found what looked to be her squadron - marked only by the characteristic red and white she'd been told to expect on a handful of their insignia; she'd need to find space on her own jacket for a Fox Squadron emblem of her own - there were already a few pilots gathered up around crates, in various casual poses. Behind her sunglasses, her eyes closed in long-suffering disappointment. She had to be late.

Silently, she began to sidle through the last few wayward bands of mechanics, pilots, and other assorted officials, on her way towards her particular eye of the storm. A few of the pilots were seated on the crates she'd spied, but one or two had remained standing. Cairo remained among them, drawing herself up to her full (if average) height and trying to shake any bleariness from her posture. Because she wasn't exactly sure whether this squad leaned towards uptight or ragtag yet on the Professionalism Alignment chart, she decided to go the True Neutral route - a single salute, directed at the only man present with a clipboard.

Am I being graded?

Oh, shit. When was I supposed to be here?

Wasn't it still 0900? What time zone was this?

"Casablancas," she said simply, in accented English, trying to make it sound like she was introducing herself instead of tepidly asking for confirmation on her own surname. "Cairo Casablancas...sir. My flight was...held up."

Just her luck.

Eighteen.

The hustle and bustle was music to the American pilot's ears. A crowded hangar was the next best thing to a real fight, in the air or on the ground. It was the same sort of anticipation, that tingling at the base of your spine and between your shoulderblades that made your muscles coil right up. The hype that made other squadron leaders posture and preen, seasoned pilots grin, and set newbie heart a' fluttering.

Nineteen.

Some of her peers perched on crates, much to the ire of the support crews, but none seemed quite so comfortable as Kat Staten laying atop a crate full of live munitions. She needed to do her situps somewhere, and if she did it from the floor she couldn't see people. The crate kept her closer to eye level, and away from being underfoot. Everyone vented that hype their own way and hers was to exercise. Do something to actually get her pulse going, not just thinking about it. She hated sitting still when that bug got into her system. Never seemed to bother McKnight, though. The blonde pilot hadn't been part of Fox that long, but long enough to be pretty familiar with the CO before he was the CO. Hadn't been that long ago, but not everyone'd remember. The old man, too. Monty had that thrillseeking blood running through him, but he'd been a lot more mellow while she knew him.

The rest were new, at least to Fox.

So they could be forgiven for thinking that the young woman doing situps was trying to work off some anxiety, especially on such a big day. But Joe and Samuel'd know better. She was keeping her excitement in check.

Speaking of new blood, though...

Twenty.

"Real buzzer-beater there, Casablancas." Kat swung her legs off the crate and planted boots firmly on the floor, following the motion into a seated position. She cocked her head a little at the newbie, green eyes glittering with curiosity above the most irreverent of grins. Her elbows were planted on her knees as she leaned in a little, grabbing her water bottle off the floor for a sip. Flight suits weren't exactly great for exercise, so she settled for keeping her tank top on and the suit near. Technically she wasn't on alert, so she could get away with it. Suits were too damned hot on this island, especially when they were for show. She felt for the guys lead by the peacock brigade. Probably were roasting.

"0900 dead on, I think." She made a show of looking at her watch, grin widening a little. "If you wanna set your watch, Flamenco. Welcome to Macross Island. Nice shades."

Ryan sat atop one of the crates the rest of the squadron had gathered around.
It wasn't his first new squadron; he'd been in others and been the new guy there, and it was a familiar dance. Just the steps were a little bit different each time, what with the different personalities, traditions, routines and the like. 'Relaxed' though, was something he could do; he'd been in front-line squadrons more than once, and there the standards were relaxed a little on a regular basis. As such, he wore his flight suit, but with the sleeves rolled up and his hair was certainly more than a few inches past what was technically regulation.

While he wasn't a total outsider, he didn't feel quite at home yet, or at ease, so the American sat on the edge of the group, attentive and with a modicum of relaxation as he perched on top of a crate. He'd reported in the day before, made a few introductions and seen the others around - just not yet had the chance to get to really speak with any of them, what with all the preparations for the Big Day.
The excitement and tension in the air ahead of 'zero hour', the SDF-1's big liftoff and departure, the moment where ten years of long, hard work got to prove itself was coming ever-closer and there was an electric thrill running through buzz of activity all around the hangar, and beyond.
He could see it in his fellow pilots too; the boisterous and pretty blond one was doing (quite distracting) sit-ups, the boss was a picture of concentration as he checked everyone in, and off of a list. For Ryan, it came out as his left leg jiggling. And when he noticed and stopped that, it was his hands and fingers tapping against the edge of the crate.
Huffing, he forced himself to sit still, and looked up as another female pilot arrived; dark-haired and small with tanned skin, she reminded him of some movie star he'd seen in a few action movies.
He gave a quiet smile at the thought, but kept quiet, only nodding and grinning slightly at Kat's words.
"Take a seat," he added after she'd spoken. "You're lucky there's a few left" He said with a smile.

"...if I could have, all the women in the world, I would take this time to leeeave..."

The engineers and support personnel emerging from the elevator grumbled slightly as Kalina weaved her way past them, the thumping bass line of her music player barely audible over the din in the hanger as she lightly sang along to the lyrics. As she strutted along, the duffel bag bouncing over her shoulder, it was hard to tell that the short Polish fighter pilot had nerves eating away at her like nobody's business. It was only the second squadron she had ever been assigned to, after all. Sure she was confident of her abilities and she spent the last day or two relaxing and enjoying the celebrations with her substantial extended family that came over to see her off, but it was hard to take note of that sensible side of her when the other half was screaming 'OH MY GOD YOU'RE GOING TO SCREW UP SO GODDAMN BADLY ITS NOT EVEN FUNNY'. Stupid nerves.

"Hard times, happiest days of my life, hard times gone by...hey, Taxi!"

The driver of the tug carrying what was undoubtedly very delicate and dangerous equipment swore violently as Kalina hopped onto the back, making the truck shake slightly.

"What the hell are you doing?!?" the driver spat back at her.

"It's okay, I'm only a missile..." Kalina said, waving her hand like she was pulling a Jedi mind trick. "Carry on, good sir!" The driver paused, irritation burning behind his eyes before he decided it wasn't worth an argument and just kept driving, mumbling darkly about clowns and pilots. Kalina lowered herself onto a flat surface as she sped along, looking over the other squads zipping by. A few of the more stringent commanders looked relieved as she sped by, recognizing the telltale signs of a troublemaker. Grandpa would be proud.

"Ah, Fox Squad Boulevard, right on schedule!" Stepping off the cart with a flourish, her first look at Fox Squadron made her feel a little better about the situation. The others seemed pretty relaxed, what with the one blonde girl doing pushups and the others standing or sitting around casually. She didn't even seem to be the first newbie, going by the look of the olive-skinned girl with the cool shades. And while she historically had trouble with commanding officers, the squad leader looked like someone she could get along with too. This was going to be an interesting assignment to say the least.

"Not too late for the fireworks, am I?" she asked, swinging her legs over the crate in front of her and plopping down next to Goldman. "And me without my camera. Kalina Dragomira, at your service!"

The pilots of Fox Squadron carried conversation in a relatively low murmur. Most were likely sharing stories about their escapades of the past week- some more embellished than others. More than one pilot seemed to be nursing a particularly nasty hangover. The fraternity that were the RDF Aviators- especially those stationed on Macross Island drank like college kids on spring break. The past week of festivities did little to curb their habits- rather the steep discounts meant that many of the pilots often spent even more than they normally would, and more then one squadron leader had to drag a crewman to a drunk tank this week.

As it was, McKnight felt lucky in that he had yet to have to drag anyone's sorry hide back to base this past week. In fact, his squadron could've been called exemplary in comparison to some of the chaos several of the other- notably more rigid squadrons got into. Samuel's eyes flitted from his clipboard to the pilots lounging around him, sleeves of his jumpsuit uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows, pen rhythmically tapping at the clipboard itself. Normally he wouldn't care so much for check ins and dossiers, but the big brass were going to be rolling through the stick jockey's kingdom- otherwise known as the hangar- relatively soon, and he'd rather not start their first real deployment in bad standing.

Most of the squadron were already doing their own thing at this point. Staten was busying herself with an exercise, Sam never knew where she got all the energy from. Montgomery was among their oldest, an Englishman like himself. Volkov, a big russian, Cho, a twitchy korean girl, and the Ryner twins rounded out the familiar faces of the squadron. The rest were new to McKnight, by a few days or weeks at most.

The only notable face McKnight saw so far among the newbies was Goldman- though older than McKnight he was still technically a rookie, having just passed through the evaluation squadron along with the rest of their rookies. The only notable difference was that he cross trained into the VF-1s, meaning he had prior experience, which was more than could be said about a lot of their rookies who were fresh out of school and fresh out of training, with puffed up chests and shiny wings on their shoulders.

McKnight's eyes glanced up from the clipboard as he heard the clack of boots against metal, and the subtle swoosh of air that was a hand rapidly rising to one's head in a salute. The owner of the hand was a short woman, with warm golden skin, dark hair and equally dark sunglasses. McKnight rapidly flipped through the clipboard, looking for a picture to match the face to and had just found it when Staten welcomed the pilot- callsign and everything. McKnight shot Kat a look. She'd been looking through his dossiers. Again.

"Ease up rook," McKnight replied to her as he checked off something on the clipboard, "You can salute me at my funeral- or whenever the big brass comes around. Whichever comes first."

He opened his mouth to continue but was distracted as another pilot swung into their midst. The pilot introduced herself as Kalina Dragorima. McKnight internally groaned. The other squadron leaders had been talking about this one, trouble and with a habit of rebelling against authority. Looked like Sam drew the short straw for this one.

"Well, I guess that saves me another round of introductions." McKnight muttered- a bit more to himself than anyone else. Looking at the two newest pilots to join them, he nodded at both. "My name is Captain Samuel McKnight, the boys and girls here like to call me Vapor. People like to call us Spec-ops pilots, but don't let it get to your head, you're probably about as average as the rest of us here."

"Around here, we like to keep it loose and casual" McKnight continued- gesturing to a couple of the more stringent looking squadrons in the hangar- Squadron commanders barked orders and welcoming speeches to rows of ramrod straight-backed pilots."Don't take that as a free ticket to mouth off, slack off and do or say whatever you feel like, or you'll end up on toilet duty for a week or two like Junior here." he added as a caution, jerking a thumb towards a scrawny, freckled blonde boy with brand new flight wings and a butterbar on his shoulder who crossed his arms and scowled when mentioned.

"Also, for the record, when we say meet at 0900, we actually mean 0855. 'Probably write that down." Sam half joked, as he finished up marking things on the clipboard and set it down on a nearby crate. "Brass should be coming to check on us relatively soon, so if you have any questions ask them now."

Pausing, McKnight turned around and opened up a nearby crate, pulling out a pair of black bomber jackets, electric yellow fox emblem stitched onto the shoulder and last name emblazoned across the back, and tossed one to each of the new pilots. Everyone sitting around in the squadron already got one earlier- and were either wearing them, sitting on them, or had them folded up nearby.

"Oh yeah, welcome to Fox: Never fly straight, and don't die. 'Probably write that down too."

Contrary to what one would have expected from his callsign, the cup of joe presently held in Montgomery Joe's left hand was not, in fact, a latte. The type of a drink hailed by some to be nectar of the gods that the oldest pilot of Fox Squadron was currently imbibing was instead of the instant variety, a fact that explained the mild grimace that was replacing his usual carefree expression. Slouched over with his bum resting on a conveniently-placed crate (one of many that was currently serving as a form of seating for his mates), he couldn't help but give uneasy looks at his blue mug (upon which was scrawled "World's #1 Dad") even while his squadron leader was talking. Yet he couldn't help but keeping drinking from it.

A chap had to finish his coffee. It was pretty barmy to keep drinking something he wasn't too fond of, but he'd finally gone to the effort of (after a bit of procrastination, actually) taking a look-see of the coffee situation on the SDF-1's mess hall today.

Didn't impress, really.

He drummed the pale fingers of his right hand against his knee for a few seconds, letting some of the black liquid roll around in his mouth. Nope, he wasn't a fan. Not in the slightest. He swallowed, a slightly discomforted huff leaving his throat as the coffee downed his throat. Even for instant coffee, it wasn't tolerable in the slightest.

Montgomery decided to turn his attentions to something else: the new meat on the team. They were young-looking lasses, weren't they? Certainly the that Dragomira girl. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was still just a schoolgirl! Or maybe he was just getting old. The middle-aged man stroked his chin in thought. Well, he was certainly around their age when he first got his wings. But that didn't stop them from looking like kids to him.

That sunglasses-girl (Cairo, yes?) seemed like she'd been called up to the headmaster's office! Montgomery mentally chuckled at that; Samuel McKnight was a far cry from a schoolteacher, even if he carried that clipboard of his around like a schoolmarm.

Still, they were old and (hopefully) trained enough, so he didn't need to worry too much.

The coffee, on the other hand.

Montgomery stared suspiciously at the mug. He took another sip.

Nope. Not a fan.

His blue eyes rose back up to meet McKnight.

"Have a question already, skipper," he spoke up, casually raising a hand (still tickled his funny bone that he was calling someone nearly a decade his junior 'skipper', but Montgomery Joe was perfectly content to be under Samuel McKnight's competent command; his fellow Briton had the chops for the job). "Will we still have to drink coffee this shite up in space? It tastes like dirt."

A smile found its way to his aristocratic-looking face.

"And it's not even freshly ground."

[h2]Kat Staten[/i]

"At this rate it will be your funeral, boss," Kat complained, folding her arms across her chest in exasperation. She rocked back a little when McKnight shot her a look, green eyes a little too innocent to really be true. Maybe she'd snuck a peek when he wasn't around. Just at names and faces, but if he really didn't want anyone to see, he should've locked them up. Service records were way too long to get a look at while the boss was out getting coffee, though, so that was a mystery. Still wasn't hard to see who was green and who wasn't. The momentum carried, until she rocked forward in her seat again. The repetitive to and fro, solely at the waist, seemed to have taken the place of her exercise. "We've been waiting too long."

Rocking wasn't enough to entertain her, so on the fifth motion she followed through and rose to her full height. When it came to Fox, people tended to look up to her. More literally than metaphorically, much to McKnight's relief, since her CO was one of the only people not shorter than her. It held true for the new recruits, especially poor Dragomira. The former Air Force girl started a series of stretching intended to loosen up her upper body, holding each for at least a count of fifteen.

Sitting still for so long wasn't really her speed.

It was a good chance to see the newbies, though. Dragomira seemed like a firecracker if ever she saw one. That was the sort of energy even Kat hadn't seen since she first had caffeine as a kid. A little quirky, from the look of it, but God the girl was tiny. She wasn't aware anyone had figured out how to shrink people, but here was the proof. Didn't mean anything in the cockpit, though, so she'd reserve judgement. Casablancas she watched out of the corner of her eye, remembering the way she'd brushed it over her shoulder. Like she was in a movie. It might have been intentional, if she wasn't wound so tight. Kinda cute in a dorky way, but Kat thought this was probably her first real posting. There was a hesitance to how she reported, one she doubted would have been there if she'd ever been on the front lines.

Goldman seemed to have a sense of humor and a feel for the excitement at least, even if he was one of the older guys. Maybe not Montgomery old, ol' gramps was a fossil, but he was older than everyone else. Time'd tell how he'd fit in.

Speaking of the fossil, though...

"I vote we chip in and buy Joe an espresso maker or he's gonna make us miserable. Amazon's gotta deliver to space by now, right? Dragomira doesn't need the caffeine, but what about you Casablancas?" The blonde flashed the assembled squad an infectious grin, aiming it at the Spaniard last. "Speaking of, boss, do you have any idea where we're headed?"

There certainly seemed to be a lot of energy to spare around her new squadron. A lot of sway with requisitions, too, if each of them got a mostly-new jacket like this.

Cairo tentatively slipped the new Fox Squadron jacket over her shoulders, which were already supporting an Israeli jacket - in a similar mostly-new condition - that she had worked hard enough for that parting with it would take some time and a lot of reluctance. On top of that, it was already hot and miserable in the hangar due to climate and the sheer enormity of the activity buzzing around them. So she didn't quite put her arms through the sleeves of her new Fox Squadron regalia, preferring instead to wear the bomber like a shawl over top of the bomber she'd worn on the plane.

The plane had been nice and cool. She'd gotten to fly first class on the UN's dime. They were pretty good about your drink orders, and they practically made it rain on you with those little foil pretzel packets.

She'd even saved a few.

Hm?

Oh, the crew was still talking about something.

"I brought my own stuff to make coffee," she replied without much intonation. "In the event that anyone needs Earth-quality coffee beans in the future, I would gladly barter should I believe the exchange is fair."

Ryan accepted the jacket passed to him with interest. He turned it over in his hands, turning it around and holding it at a distance to admire the embroidered squadron insignia on the back. The material felt good quality between his fingers, shiny and smooth. It was too hot in the hangar to wear the heavy bomber-style jacket, but he tucked it onto his lap and nodded in appreciation towards McKnight with a grin.
"Stylish and good quality? You're spoiling us, boss. I'll be sure to do my best to live up to it," he added sincerely, the grin turning to a firm-lipped smile.
The conversation moved on to coffee, and he raised an eyebrow.
"Never had much of a taste for it," he acknowledged with a shrug. "It's all brown muddy caffeine to me," he added. "Guess that probably makes me some kind of savage or something though, by the sound of the rest of you. Oh, and it's got to be Mars, right? I mean, there's not much else out there to see right now..." he grinned and a sparkle gleamed in his eyes. "...Unless someone's holding out on a secret base or the previous owners of the ship, of course". He tapped the deck plating with the toes of one boot for emphasis and winked.

"Sweet, new threads!"

Kalina's eyes darted over the insignia and her name on the back, anticipation tingling in the back of her neck. She suddenly had an unpleasant flashback to when she got a similar jacket back home, one that fit her about as well as an oversized raincoat. Sure it was an accident and her squad was sympathetic, but frankly the humiliation of having to walk around in that thing was NOT something she wanted repeated here. Bracing herself like she was ripping off a band-aid, she opened up the jacket and threw it over her shoulders before tugging the sleeves on. To her surprise and relief, her hand emerged from the end, feeling snug and secure from the perfectly sized sleeves. Was it juvenile to feel all warm and fuzzy from a new team jacket? At the moment, Kalina didn't really care.

"...Dragomira doesn't need the caffeine, but what about you Casablancas?"

"Well, I don't NEED caffeine per say..." Kalina remarked, poking her nose into the coffee conversation. "But if you're brewing I won't say no to a nice kawa biała either. That's a white coffee, for those who don't know," she remarked, seeing some obvious confusion at the use of her native tongue.

McKnight rolled his eyes exaggeratedly as Montgomery and some of the other started talking about coffee. It was commonly joked that aboard various ships- both space and seafaring varities, the coffee was always terrible. To be fair, whether or not they were in space mattered little, the coffee was still military grade coffee, which meant cheap, easily obtainable, and as a rule, rather bland and poor tasting. That was unless they were smart like Casablancas, the new girl. Fresh or high quality coffee beans were always in demand onboard ships, and depending on how much she managed to bring on board, she was sitting on an inevitable gold mine. Though they were all technically officers, high-grade officer's rations weren't readily available to stick jockeys.

Kat asked him where they were heading. McKnight offered her a shrug. "Huh, and here I thought you stole a peek at my orders. You're slipping Kat." McKnight chuckled as he finally sat down on one of the crates himself. "Launching up to the Moon base to meet up with the rest of the RDF Fleet, from there its to Mars to shoot up some pirates and back- a little victory lap as the world figures out what it wants to do now that its garage-project car is done. The ship is carrying some infrastructure supplies, so chances are we're looking at setting up an orbital colony at Lagrangian 4 or 5."

Barely heard over the din of their conversation, a voice echoed through the SDF-1's hangar.

_{Commander on deck!}

The hangar instantly quieted, feet shuffled and voices hushed. There was the loud clang from a technician dropping a missile on the floor, but other than that, absolute silence. McKnight coughed and roughly jerked his head at any pilot that was still sitting, but made no effort to put them into anything resembling a formation. It was doubtful that anyone cared- from this distance, the ship's captain was barely the size of a coin, and used a shipwide PA to communicate with the men and women in the hangar.

Ladies, gentlemen, officers and soldiers of the Robotech Defense Force, the SDF-1 shall soon begin its maiden voyage, to liberate Mars. I expect each and every one of you to serve your stations with the greatest capacity you can muster. We stand at the forefront of united mankind, both it's spear and shield. We are the vanguard of nearly a decade's worth of rapid technological evolution. Adhere to your commanders and serve with distinction. We are here to protect and serve humanity with pride and honor above all."

Though it was quiet, McKnight could hear more than one scoff- disguised as a grunt or cough. There was no way the pirates up at Mars could warrant this much firepower. There had long been rumors that pirates and insurrectionists were responsible for the loss of communication with mars base 5 years back, when the RDF's space tech was still rudimentary, but there was no way they could be of any serious danger. Mars' hydroponics were medoicre at best. It was doubtful that any of the insurrectionists/pirates were still alive, as necessary resources from Earth had stopped going to Mars as soon as contact with the colony was lost. Even if they were still alive, the best that they had were obsolete destroids- not a match for the RDF's Valkyries.

"As we reach the Moon, we shall meet up with the rest of the RDF Fleet, from there we shall perform our first field use of the Space Fold Engine. Commanders will disseminate safety information as required. Remember-"

A large warning klaxon cut through the Captain's speech. Moments later a rumble was heard in the distance. A female voice came across the PA system.

Captain to the bridge, Captain to the bridge. All hands to battlestations, all hands to battlestations.

Within moments, the hangar was a hub of activity again. Pilots scrambled for their flightsuits and helmet, technicians hurriedly loaded munitions onto Valkyries that hadn't been serviced, and loaders cleared the hangar floor as best they could. McKnight cursed to himself as he stood up, hands grasping at the nearest crate and shoving it out of the way of the red painted veritechs that sat parked a nearby service bay. He shoot a look at the rest of the squadron.

"Fox, in your cockpits and ready to launch in 5!" As pilots stood to begin scrambling, McKnight grabbed at Casablancas and Dragomira. "Casablancas you're in bay 19, Dragomira 22. Try to be on time this time."

---

"Commander!" McKnight's crew chief bellowed as McKnight half jogged half ran to his fighter, the red and white fighter bulkier than the usual Valkyrie, as it was currently equipped with an armored booster/weapons back. Jamming a red and tan helmet into the pilots arms as he ran by, thre crew chief jogged to keep pace with the pilot. "FAST Pack is fueled and loaded, and you're fitted out with Micro-missiles and AMMs."

Two more crew members pushed a moving ladder to the cockpit of his fighter as he approached. McKnight flew up the ladder, skipping every other step, and vaulted into the seat in the open cockpit. Right arm flicked switches and powered on the veritech as the left shoved the helmet over his head, sealed it to his suit, and attached the air-tube to the front muzzle of his helmet. McKnight breathed in as the tube began pumping air, and his helmet visor began displaying diagnostic information.

"Fox, this is Vapor. All signs call in."

Ryan listened in to the developing conversation, and sprang off of the box he was seated on when the voice of the commander started to ring through the hangar. He peered up at the distant figure, glancing aside at his new comrades a moment as he listened in.
Mars... it was a long way from anywhere he'd flown before, that was for sure. And space was about as out of his element as he could get, as a former A-10 pilot. He'd had more than a few training flights to get used to the idea though, but it still boggled his mind; going from moving mud to... well. There wasn't exactly a space-based equivalent of close air support and interdiction. Though, maybe Mars would have some similarities. Red dirt was still dirt, as far as he was concerned. A shiver of excitement rose through his chest, and he turned to murmur to the pilot nearest to him to share his thoughts, and get theirs- before the rising alarm cut him off, and the situation shifted abruptly.

The next moments were a blur; within minutes he was in his flight suit and survival gear, buckling a helmet strap under his chin and checking suit seals as the bay had become a blur of activity; loaders hurried past with trailers of missiles or other ordnance and supplies, flight crews waved tow vehicles in complicated dances through the bay to the launch bays, and pilots ran to and fro to their waiting craft.
Ryan jogged to his waiting VF-1, the sleek fighter marred by the bulky augment packs on the dorsal surface. Unlike his CO's ship, his had the bulbous and intimidating quad-barrels of particle beams jutting over the cockpit. No bombs today, he thought as he made a quick visual inspection. As always, the plane looked pristine - or, as pristine as any active war machine, at least.
His crew chief nodded, giving him a tight and reserved smile. "Don't break my plane, Goldman," the older woman said with a gruff tone, and a jerk toward the shark-mouthed red VF. "...and kick the crap out of whoever it is interrupted our big showoff today".
"Sure thing, Chippy," he acknowledged to the short-haired brunette as he climbed up the ladder and swung into the seat. She stepped up and helped him strap in, and attach his hoses, before slapping the side of the cockpit. "And it's my plane, not yours," he quipped back with a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, but gave a short smirk as she returned it as the canopy came down. "I just let you borrow it!" she yelled over the sound of rising engine noise.
His machines' engines started, the grumbling vaccum-cleaner whine rising to a higher note as he flicked switches and ran a rapid preflight check. He touched one hand to the side of his helmet as McKnight's voice came through, replying in his own calm tone.
"Vapour, this is Lawnmower. Looking good here, over".

Ohhhh, she has coffee...

The comment got Kat's attention, but she didn't have time to say anything before the ship's captain made his presence known. She hauled herself to her feet, ass was required, but she didn't bother looking especially formal; at this distance even she wouldn't be visible. For the most part she listened silently to the usual spiel, but the moment he referred to a 'united mankind' she scoffed. Quietly, but she did. It had been four years since they finally stopped skirmishing with anti-union forces? Ten since the whole goddamn planet stopped fighting?

She hadn't been there for it, but she knew the old men had been. And she'd been there to fight the AUL. And they were on their way out to fight insurrectionists, maybe pirates. Some unity. Her face stayed neutral, but she didn't bother to hide the roll of her eyes.

The klaxon, though, got a reaction.

Kat slipped her arms through the sleeves of her flight suit before the announcement was even done, zipping it up and nodding McKnight's way. The American started towards her Valk without missing a beat, giving Cairo an encouraging slap on the back as she passed, but otherwise staying silent. Now that she had an outlet all that energy was going towards something, not welling up in need of a way out. Her walk became a jog with a few steps, ducking and weaving in and around pilots and technicians alike rushing around the hangar. The tingling between her shoulderblades spread like wildfire, every muscle felt electrified; this was no drill. She'd been excited, for sure, but this was different.

Someone was making a move on their home turf. No idea who, not yet, but someone was making a statement.

She'd make one right back.

"What've we got, Sanders?" She barked, grabbing her helmet off a table as she approached her Valk. The crew chief in charge of its maintenance barely spared her a glance at first, barking instructions of his own, but he turned and nodded as she got close. "How's she doin'?"

"She'll fly fine, ma'am. Fuel's topped off, munitions loaded, FAST pack's mounted."

"What about the control deviance from yesterday?" Kat jammed the helmet on over her hair, fastening it securely and finishing the last few fasteners on her suit. A jerk of her head towards the craft illustrated her point. "Got that fixed?"

"Aye, boss."

"Good, if it gets me killed I'm haunting your ass." The quip sailed over her shoulder on her way up to the cockpit, but it wasn't quite the usual bluster. There was something feral about the way she moved, now that a fight was brewing. A readiness and an eagernesss to throw down with whoever was crashing the party. To feed that adrenaline already pumping through her veins. Pre-flight checks were automatic, rattled off without much attention as she secured the oxygen mask to her face. Diagnostics rang up green on her visor, matching the readouts in her cockpit.

It'd be her first real fight in a Veritech, but she'd gotten pretty used to them. No Falcon, maybe, but her job was the same; outmaneuver, outperform, and outhink the enemy. Control the airspace. She just had some new tricks, and a really, really big cannon to introduce them to.

A satisfied noise reverberated deep in her chest when all checks came back normal, just barely preceding her checkin.

"Centerfold, all systems ready."

Dragomira already began to zone out when the commander on the PA began his little speech. Nothing she hadn't heard before back home, she mused as she idly flipped through the tunes on her music player. Perhaps more about Poland then the entire human race, but still, all the same notes were hit. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little inspired. Like Grandpa always said, idealism like that was worth fighting for.

The klaxon, however, definitely grabbed her attention and kept it.

"Kurwa, they certainly don't waste any time here do they?" Dragomira exclaimed, jumping to her feet and swinging the duffel bag around to her back again.

"Fox, in your cockpits and ready to launch in 5!" McKnight ordered as the others scrambled to reach their planes. "Casablancas you're in bay 19, Dragomira 22. Try to be on time this time!"

"Up we go!" Dragomira didn't even waste time to think of a snarky response as she darted off towards the bay, expertly weaving her way through the crowd. Maybe if and when this became common she could spare some snark, but now it was time to take the training wheels off. To jump in that brand new hi-tech jet and fly off into outer space to knock the snot out of the enemies of the RDF.

Boy were they in for a fun time, Dragomira mused to herself with a confident smirk.

Clearing a mob of engineers making a mad dash for the exits, she spotted her baby. The sleek and elegant VF-1, complete with snarling hyena adorning the nose, distinctive checkerboard design, and the bulky FAST pack strapped to the top. Easily spotting the Polish motto adorning the Veritech, she was reminded of the old naval story she once read where a Polish destroyer, the ORP Piorun, fought against the largest warship in the world, flashing the message 'I am a Pole' throughout the battle. With any luck, she'd do the Piorun proud today.

"Everything's, uh, all set, ma'am," Dragomira's crew chief piped up, a timid looking Korean woman with her hair tied back, glossing over her clipboard. "Fuels topped off, ammo's filled, bit of trouble on the FAST Pack connectors but we managed to get them work-OOF-."

"Absolutely perfect!" Dragomira exclaimed, tossing the duffel bag roughly into the crew chief's arms before scurrying up the ladder to the cockpit. "Don't lose that please it's super important!"

"Uh...okay," the Crew Chief said meekly, trying to shift her balance to look at her clipboard again. "So, uh, are you ready?"

"Born ready!"

Feeling at home again in the pilot's seat as the engine roared to life, Dragomira flew threw the motions of the preflight check, her crew chief stumbling once or twice but keeping good time regardless. Getting the final thumbs-up from the nervous Korean woman, Dragomira double checked her fastenings and oxygen mask as diagnostics sprang to life in the neon colors of the display.

"Right...one last thing." Reaching beneath her new jacket, Dragomira pulled out a small envelope, delicately opening it with one hand. Removing what looked like a photograph, she paused to read the writing on the back, then turned it around to see the front. Smiling, fighting back tears in her eyes, she wedged the picture into a spot of prominence on her console and gripped the controls once again, feeling more determined then ever.

"Hyena here, ready and waiting for an ass that needs kicking."