Talk of the war was distant in the morning, with the hazy heat of the Australian climate mixed with the hustle and bustle of the metropolis. Tensions were high, especially when newspapers reported on the nearly billion deaths in some of the colonies. Nuclear arms, nerve gas, mass murder...there was a solid question of exactly who were the villains in this situation.

Many newspapers held exposes on the Zabi family, and the drama surrounding their rise to power in Side 3. The Australian Times even had the charismatic Ghiren Zabi front and center; with the tagline ”Ghiren Zabi, the Next Great Orator? Or Next Great Dictator?” There had been a sense of excitement around the major cities. Would there be a great war? Would they see federation fighters flying overhead? What would the 80’s bring?

They were only 21 years away from the end of the first century in the Universal Century. Would they need to rename it after all? The Universal Millenium? Life continued on. Cars honked, birds flew, and it was peaceful. But in some neighborhoods, dogs seemed nervous, pulling at their chains. Rats scurried out of alleyways. Something was coming.

And then it broke the sky, like a devil descending in the fires of the apocolypse. For those on the ground, they would be unable to even make out the name “Island Iffish” from the side of the superstructure. It fell, but its velocity seemed stagnated as if the inevitable end was coming in slow motion, increasing the terror from below.

Screams. Prayers. Silence. It was all deafened by the nuclear explosion as the reactors went critical on the colony piece. And in seconds, the city was gone. The continent would shake; tsunamis would break down flooding coastal areas in Asia, Africa and even North America. But worst of all was the effect of the animals: the fragile ecosystem of Australia would be ravaged by the effects of the colony. By U.C. 0082, most of the species in Australia would be extinct.

---

The house stood atop a small hill, and overlooked more hills of green. It was comfortable, it was beautiful and it was nice. The father had worked for years to save up enough to purchase the home, and he was happy, if only for a moment, to find himself away from war and conflict to celebrate with his family.

”Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Jon-” The earth shook, and the singing stopped. The singer, a large man with broad shoulders and a bushy beard, quickly set the cake onto a table and took his child into his arms. ”It’s okay, it’s just an Earthquake,” he reassured his son, as he pulled the elementary-aged child under the large wooden table of the house.

The shockwaves came next. Glass shattered; the windows, the television, picture frames; everything. His son began to scream. He held him tighter. The walls of the house creaked. The sound of wood splintered broke through the deafening ringing in the father’s ears. And then, everything began to collapse. The world broke into thunder, and the roof fell in with an earth-shattering crash. No one knew what had happened; but only a hundred miles north, sections of the Island Iffish colony had fallen onto parts of southern Canada and the United States. Even though they were far away from any major chemical damage, the shockwave itself shook the land, and caused mass destruction in its wake.

Darkness enveloped the two for what seemed like hours. The boy roused first, barely able to move. There was so much weight over him. His father’s weight. ”Dad,” he grunted, shaking the older man, ”Dad, wake up.” It was when he noticed the blood dripping from his father’s bushy beard that he realized what had happened. In the darkness, with only his father’s body keeping him warm, the boy began to weep.

How long had the boy been in the darkness with his father’s corpse? Hours? Days? Weeks? Time lost meaning in the pain and darkness. But eventually, after an eternity where tears could no longer fall from his face, the sounds of life returned. And then, after the fluttering of bird wings, the howling of dogs, he heard the sound of tires, the slamming of doors, and the sounds of human life.

“Check the rubble! The Major is supposed to be here!” Wood, stone, the shifting of the world buried on top of the boy filled his ears. Light began to trickle from small holes above him. He wanted to speak, but he could make no sound.

“There’s someone here!”

Light erupted around him, and the cold wind of day beat the cold darkness away.

The Federation Carrier Belarus had been traveling for six weeks now. Six weeks of quiet, boring travel, and most of the crew on board enjoyed it. This was your standard trading mission; delivering supplies and gear for Mars in exchange for food supplies for the colony. An easy trade; and something they were happy to do. After the events of the second Neo Zeon war, things had been stressful over the convoy lines. Fears of terrorist factions emboldened by the war brought an air of tension for these low-armored convoys. They had no need for a heavy escort, after all, they were delivering frozen corn and potatoes, not weapons. Still, they had whatever old suits they could spare. A few GM-IIs, old relics from the 80s. They were still better than a Ball.

“Sir,” the communications officer spoke on the bridge, “Sensors are picking up heavy Minovsky particles in the area. Should we go on-”

Something shook the craft. An explosion?

The captain grimaced. “All stations, let’s go ahead and enter red alert. Everyone needs to put on a normal suit, now.”

One hour later…

“Uhhh….Remia? Can you check the navigation charts? I’m getting a lot of minovsky particles in the area. Like...a lot.”

”Kellen, you are the biggest coward in the entire universe.” The young woman sighed, pushing up her glasses. ”Our job is to salvage combat sites. There’s always going to be some residual particle-oh.” The woman was surprised to see the density of the particles. They’d just missed a battle. She clicked a comms unit. ”Salvage team 1, go ahead and suit up. We’ve got some fresh corpses to gut.

In the hangar bay, several suits began to power up. One eye glew from a mobile worker, Another from the head of a Rick Dias.

The Rick Dias head, attached to a patchwork body and other MS parts, stepped onto the catapult first. “Marlowe Voltus,” the voice from the junky mech echoed around the hangar bay, “Launching!”

***

”It looks like a massacre,” the voice from the Ball echoed in Marlowe’s cockpit. “There’s a feddie ship and a zeon ship. But the weird thing...they’re both cargo vessels.”

”Do you think they fought each other?

”No. Looking at the angle of the damage; it looks like they were both attacked at the same time. Still, there’s no sign of any other craft or mobile suits that aren’t Fed or Zeon.”

”So it was a total wipe.”

”That means keep your head on a swivel. Go ahead and call the others and the retrieval team.”

”Wait! Look!” Marlowe raised his mobile suit’s arm to point at the wreckage. “There’s someone there!”

In the open hangar bay the broken ship with a Republic of Zeon crest, a gray Geara Doga pressed against the bay, its beam machine gun held ready to fire at anything that came too close. As they approached, the Mobile Suit aimed at them.

”Wait! Wait! We’re salvagers! We’re civilians!

”Wait, look in the distance! It’s verniers!” The color of the verniers of multiple mobile suits appeared in the field, all becoming smaller and smaller. Perhaps the sudden arrival of the Cathartes and its crew was enough to scare them off. For now, at least.

***

Two hours later

The survivors of the both ships were huddled in the mess hall of the Cathartes, alongside most of the crew. At the center, sitting on a metal chair, was an old man. His hair had long gone gray, and his face was wizened. His hands were gnarled from years of working on machines, but the crew gave him enough reverence as the head of a family. After all, he was the captain.

“Welcome to our home, the Cathartes,” the old man began, addressing the survivors. They’d given them warm thermoses of coffee and soup; something that several engineers complained about. “We’re sorry to hear about your encounter with pirates. It seems this sector is becoming more and more dangerous. Our job is to salvage destroyed ships, and to re-acquire important documents, materials and people that have been left behind after battle. Since the attacks from this mysterious pirate group have become more regular around these parts, we’ve been sent here to clean up, so to speak.”

He motioned to the various uniforms, and the accusatory glances several gave to one another. “On this ship, we gave up our affiliation when we became salvagers. We ask that you treat this ship like neutral ground. Here there is no Federation or Republic of Zeon. It’s just this old Vulture and her crew.” He stared down the people in the room. “That means we leave our egos at the door and we focus on the job. Which now-” he said, pressing a button on a round disc set on one of the tables. A holographic star chart appeared in front of the crowd. “-is delivering you all, and our salvage to the Mars station. There you can contact the Earthsphere and charter passage. We won’t charge you for ferrying you there, because we’re kind and-” the old man grinned. “Your scrap is worth enough.”

---

It was a convenient fate, the red-haired woman supposed.

She didn’t comment as Isaacs shuffled out of the room that had been designated as Cathartes’ mess hall of choice, though Gaida had always considered it more of a lounge. It was too small to be a proper mess hall and too ineffective to be a dining room. That about summed up the Cathartes and its unseemly captain. But she didn’t forget when she had her own scuffle with federation hunters that it had been that very same unseemly captain that had taken her in and helped her with the repairs to her suit despite the Zeon engravings it had littered across its torso at the time. He had been charitable, but not generous. A former ace from the Principality of Zeon was something he couldn’t look away from and all these months later she reflected on it often.

“Could use some more muscle.” He had commented casually at the time and here he was basically doing the same to a new motley group of individuals.

As long as they didn’t cause trouble she supposed it was wise enough of a decision.

She very nearly corrected the old goat about calling Zeon a republic, not that it had never been one, she just didn’t recognize the bones of the Principality being used for means that were not in line with a true successor. A neo-republic. Pretenders. She pondered the thought as the chattering continued until the old man gave them his ultimatum. Though it was less a ultimatum and more of a certainty unless they wanted to be spaced in the middle of the sector. She kept her arms crossed as she nodded, maintaining eye contact with the captain.

“If that is all, I have a post to attend to.” She commented, taking her leave as well.

---

This sucked.

Ezmy entered the mess hall just in time to hear captain Voltus say they were going to ferry the survivors to Mars. A forgone conclusion, but nevertheless, the thought of sharing what little, cramped space the Cathartes had with a bunch of weepy, paranoid space-mailmen did not, to put it mildly, excite her. More bodies to clog the narrow halls, more mouths to suck up all the air. There were already enough morons onboard as it was.

And they were drinking the coffee, too. Great.

“Move,” she muttered, as she made her way to the long counter towards the back of the mess. Most of the survivors hardly registered her, even when she pushed past them; she was below their eyeline and wasn’t exactly built to bowl people over. Still, a few indignant snorts and distasteful grumbles lingered behind her, something she wouldn’t have taken so quietly if she weren’t dead-tired.

“…Your scrap is worth enough.”

A smirk tugged at Ezmy’s lips as she swiped a mug from the table. What Voltus suggested would have sounded almost like charity to the stragglers, but she knew better. Was what he was doing nice? Sure. But people did nice things all the time—when there was something in it for them. This was just business, plain and simple, and their geriatric captain was nothing if not a good businessman. Most of the crew owed him in some way or another, that was how you earned a bed on the Cathartes.

That or nepotism, she thought, and scanned the crowd briefly for the younger, dumber Voltus.

Ezmy brought her mug to the jittery old coffee machine, shouldering past another clot of survivors, and filled it right to the brim. They had a bit of a journey ahead of them to Mars, and she wasn’t sure there’d be enough for a ship actually full of people. That done, she hopped up to sit on one of the tables and listened to whatever else Voltus had to say, or whatever woes the people would throw at him. Someone would probably try to leverage their misfortune for recovered items. Hah. Good luck with that.

Disker dipped out quietly, which wasn’t a surprise. The man was usually reserved to a degree that even Ezmy found frustrating. He was a thinker, she didn’t like thinkers. She didn’t like anyone, really, but especially not thinkers.

Gaida dismissed herself as well, though she did it like a soldier—asking permission even if she didn’t actually want it. She was a bit like Disker; she was a thinker, too. Thinker and soldier. Blegh.

There wasn’t much for her in the mess, but she stayed anyway. She could have passed time rifling through the scrap, or finding one of the few quiet, secluded places onboard that would very soon no longer be either, but she didn’t want to. Being alone was boring as fuck, and there were people here. They were miserable, and disgusting, and they probably wouldn’t shut up about their bad luck as long as it took them to get to Mars, but fine, whatever.

At least it was company.

Several Griffon mobile suits floated around a refuelling station attached to a large asteroid; though a better name for it would be something akin to a small colony. Mobile suits floated around the superstructure, as did various vessels moving in and out. Fuel, ammunition, supplies. Everything was being gathered at this point, ready to perform something incredible. The small squad of Griffons that had attacked the cargo vessels were busy refuelling, and the squad’s leader seemed preoccupied speaking with his own commander.

“So, you came back empty handed?” The voice inside the pilot’s cockpit was dark, masculine and calm. But there was an undertone of disappointment from the voice. “Why?”

“We were getting low on fuel and a new ship and mobile suits appeared. We decided it would be best to regroup and-”

“And lead them back to our location?”
“No sir, we weren’t followed. They seemed more concerned with the wreckage than us.”

“Once you refuel, you need to double back and take care of that new ship. There’s no need for survivors at this point. We’re almost ready to move into the final stages of Commander Brinz’s plan.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Odo.”

“Remember, these small sparks of conflict will fan the flames, and end the wretched story of all those who cling to the sight of earth.”

The pilot responded in the affirmative, but the idea of Commander Brinz’s plan was...well, it bordered on insanity. Man of the pilots in ARES had some reason to hate the Federation, and others had reason to hate the weak politics of the colonies, but the concept of Brinz’s plan scared many of the pilots who still had some tinges of loyalty to their old home. None of them ever had a reason to return, but to burn the bridge in this way…

“Sir! We’ve finished refuelling.”

“Alright, let’s head out! No more playing it safe. They all think that the worst is behind them, let’s really ruin their day!”

---

Marlowe walked through the halls of the Cathartes cradling something in his arms. He’d picked it up along with the rest of the salvage from the two destroyed vessels, though he was unsure exactly what it was or who it belonged to. It looked almost cartoonish, a heavy round sphere with two eyes, and little flaps on the sides. It was cute, like a child’s toy. Who was the child, though? There were no children of families in the group of survivors they’d rounded up. Was the owner of this little thing lost out in the debris field? The idea made him shudder, and he wondered exactly who would do such a thing to such lightly defended freighters.

How many years ago would he have played with something like this? Probably no more than seven or eight years probably. So how old had the owner been? His head began to hurt, another problem of his constant over thinking. He’d decided to skip his grandfather’s “welcome” address to the survivors. He knew that there would be a sense of animosity and annoyance from these interlopers, after all, they didn’t belong on the Cathartes. The vessel was home to outcasts, misfits and those that lived on the fringes of society, not to honest working people like those in the freighter. Still, Marlowe was excited, because new people meant new stories to hear. What was going on back towards Earth?

He noticed Disker Issacs leaving the “mess hall”, and stepped up his pace to approach him, before he nearly collided into one Gaida; apparently leaving the briefing as well, ”Oh! Excuse me, Miss Gaida,” he said with a hint of deference; another tick of his that tended to annoy many of his fellow pilots. He referred to everyone as “Miss” or “Mister” regardless of how few years separated them. The only two he didn’t give the honorifics to were his grandfather, who he simply called “grandad” and to Ezmy, who simply was referred to by her own name.

He waved to Disker, cradling the green sphere against his chest. “Mister Disker! Can I talk to you for a moment?” He motioned to the green toy in his arms. ”I found this during the salvage run,” he began, ”And I wanted to know if you’d be able to repair it.” He’d learned early on not to badger Irma with things of this nature, especially when there was actual salvage going on. Around her, he risked getting smacked in the head with a wrench. Disker was at the very least an affable sort, and less likely to cause grievous harm to Marlowe.

---

”Well, if there are no questions, the crew will help you settle into your quarters. You’ll be using the extra bunks towards the central hub of the ship. It’ll be cramped, and usually uncomfortable, but it’s better than floating in space.” With that, many of the survivors shuffled around, some out, following Kellen as he led them to the bunks, others mumbled and talked amongst themselves. But one person approached Cornell, an older man wearing a Federation uniform.

”Sir, I’d just like to thank you for assisting these people,” the man said, extended a hand. ”I’m Lieutenant Commander Spare Infield, from the EFSF.”

”You’re welcome. But my suggestion is to relax the military attitude around here,” Cornell noted, giving a knowing wink to Ezmy as she scowled in the corner. ”My ship welcomes all people who’ve given up their homes. I’d like you to ignore any disrespect you’ll probably get if you keep up with the stuffed shirt routine.” The old man was wily, but he was damn honest as well.

”I take it you have issues with the Federation as well?

”I was the head engineer of a little colony named Texas back in the ‘60s, during the big economic bubble in the colonies. Of course, that didn’t last very long, and by the time the 70’s came around, I found myself out of the job until the Yashima company picked up the bill. But when you lot and those Zeons took up war, Texas and all of Loum got brought into it. You know the rest of the story.” Cornell took a small tin of coffee and downed it.

The Federation man stood there in silence, closed his eyes and sighed. ”I understand. I promise that I nor anyone under my command will cause problems on your ship. Just get us to Mars safely.”

”Now that, I can do.” The old man gave the officer a toothy grin.

---

As the captain finished up his spiel, and the survivors began to disperse, Ezmy found her interest waning. No one had tried to press their luck, or whined about their shitty accommodations—which were only marginally less-shitty than the crews’ own—they all just seemed happy to be breathing. Which was stupid. They were attacked, stranded, and now they were essentially being robbed in exchange for their lives. The fact that a few of these idiots would consider the Voltus company heroes when they got to Mars was one part hilarious, and nine parts fucking annoying.

Some Federation roach skittered up to Cornell and introduced himself as a Lieutenant Commander. The captain shot that shit down pretty quick, and Ezmy scoffed when he winked her way. She hopped down off the table and made her way to the back of the mess again, but did it without hurry so that she could still hear the conversation. There was no reason to eavesdrop; Cornell was just telling the same story all of them had heard before about his past rodeos, and the suit just groveled compliance. Nothing special. Besides, even if Spare Change or Tire or whatever-the-fuck his name was did say something interesting, even if he’d just started spilling Federation secrets, so what? Who was she gonna tell? Who was anyone on this bloated iron tub gonna tell? She quickly found herself tuning it out.

Some of the survivors followed Kellen out of the mess to where they’d be bunking. He was easily one of the most aggravating people on the Cathartes and, probably, in the whole galaxy—an opinion shared by other crew-members, she was sure—however, through the doorway she caught a glimpse of first-place: Marlowe.

He was badgering Disker about something, showing off a…toy? It looked like a toy. Had he picked it out of the wreckage? She felt herself growing annoyed with him already, a familiar feeling when it came to the lesser Voltus. Pirates ambush a pack of helpless traders, and Marlowe manages to salvage a toy rubble.

With effort, Ezmy suppressed the urge to yell “grow up!” through the door, and chugged the last of her coffee instead. Her face twisted at the taste, and for a moment she thought she might not mind if the newcomers did drink it all.

But the moment passed, and she went back for a refill. There were still enough people in the mess for her tastes; she'd stick around here until that changed, or until someone barked at her to make herself useful. No one ever got away with loitering on the Cathartes for long.

”Councilman, the representative from Delgriz Corporation in Riah is on the line.

Barrick Torres smiled at the news. Not that he never had a reason not to smile. Everything always went his way. He was the youngest Mars Councilman in the planet’s short history, he was leading the biggest radical movement the planet had ever seen, and fairly soon, he would place himself squarely in the center of history in the Universal Century. With his guidance, Mars would become an important player in the universe, and both the Federation, the Colonies, and Jupiter would see how useful the red planet truly was. ”That’s excellent Ms. Gilman. I’ll take the call in here.”

Laser-link communication was difficult with the number of asteroids moved between the belt and Earthside. He knew he’d only have a few minutes to press the weasels on the colonies, but he’d do it easily. The pressure from ARES in the area had everyone worried about Mars Space, and with the Jupiter Fleet now being targeted, questions were raised on if a safe supply chain could be made. After all, the closest military base to Mars was Luna II, and even then there was no guarantee supply ships could make the trip unescorted.

But if the Mars Defense Force had access to better Mobile Suits, better weapons, and a stronger foothold in the sector, they could strengthen security in the region. It was simple logistics, after all. Most of the mobile weapons on Mars were ancient, dating back to the 80s. Or they had refurbished models from recent conflicts, repurposed, and barely any tactical use in combat.

They needed real weapons. The kinds that several of his colleagues had brought during their Mars emigration after the Gryps Conflict and the Neo Zeon wars. And once the Earth Sphere weakened…

Barrick grabbed his receiver, and spoke quickly, concisely, and with a sharp wit. He’d cornered men like then countless times. And he’d corner hundreds more before he was done. All he needed now were the tools.

Marlowe smiled and nodded along with everything Disker said to him and the group. Disker had always remained quiet about himself and his past, and Marlowe was never someone rude enough to start digging for answers about people. It’s why he had barely any knowledge of most of the crew’s histories. He knew that they’d open up when they were ready, and he was always willing to listen to new stories of the places people had been and people they’d met. He’d extended the same respect to Gaida, Ezmy, and Leon. They’d all come to the crew with different skills and mobile suits, and he knew they all had their reasons for joining a crew like the Cathartes.

Even he had his own reasons, beyond his grandfather running the entire operation. As others approached, he gave a friendly nod to everyone. Ezmy, and then Leon appeared. Disker invited them along, which was always a joy for Marlowe. Being around others made him feel better, even being around Ezmy, though when he was alone in a room with her, he felt something just being around her. Nothing hormonal, but...something he just couldn’t quite get. Like a fuzzy, lost memory hidden behind something that needed to be jostled out of place. He assumed that he’d know exactly what it meant, in time.

As the group entered salvage, Marlowe spied a man in a Federation uniform talking to one of the engineers. When Disker asked, "Did any of you get a good look on what caused this?" he knew he’d only seen the readings from the assailant’s verniers in the distance.

”They moved fast, that’s about all I could tell,” he noted, then eyed the Federation soldier and waved him over. ”Excuse me, do you remember anything about the people that attacked you?

”Yeah,” the man grumbled. “They were piloting these souped-up mobile suits that looked like a Marasai. I’d seen one, a mothballed unit from the Gryps Conflict on display on Earth. But these didn’t work like the mobile suits I'd read about. These struck fast and their weapons tore our ship apart in a matter of minutes. If that Zeon Freighter hadn’t come along and took the next round of fire, I think we’d have all died then and there.”

Marlowe listened and wondered why the name Marasai felt so familiar. Another distant thought crept into the back of his head and then disappeared. He looked to the others, Disker, Gaia, Ezmy, and Leon, to see if they had their own take about the information.

---

Ezmy was relieved to have traded the crowd of whining rescues for the usual junkyard entourage of the Cathartes’ crew. They weren’t that much better, but she’d found a begrudging comfort in their company over the months, especially compared to the people they usually did business with. Watching Cornell guile respect out of Feds and Zeons made putting up with all the creeps and freaks on his payroll worth it. There’d be no escaping war—that the Cathartes existed at all was proof of that—but meeting its horrors with self-serving indifference was a pretty close second, in her opinion.

They came to what was left of the scrapheap. Ezmy hopped up onto a pile of flattened debris and watched as Disker went to work doing…Thinker things. To her it just seemed like he was obsessing over ash-marks and slag, but she’d come to understand that there was usually more going on behind those eyes than might appear.

"…Because whoever jumped our guests are certainly packing tech that shouldn't be in service right now."

Wow, or maybe not?

"You mean the pirates are using illegal weapons?" she asked dryly. "Killer detective work there, Disker."

Beside them, Marlowe dragged a Fed over to ask him some questions. She found herself scowling again, already—it never took long when Marlowe was nearby. The younger Voltus had an effect on her, like the effect a cheese grater might have on the side of someone’s face. She could practically feel the headache coming on as soon as he opened his mouth. Sometimes he didn’t even need to talk, just his presence was an irritant.

When the Fed shut up, Marlowe looked to the rest of them. Ezmy rolled her eyes.

"I don’t get it," she said. "If we’re worried about the pirates coming back, we should just suit up and get out there. The trash isn’t gonna tell us anything that seeing them won’t."

---

“Normally, I’d say we don’t have the numbers to play seek and destroy.” Gaida smiled warmly as she put her hand on Ezmy's shoulder, “However... we aren't exactly lacking in people or suits.”

Gaida understood the logistics of tracking down pirates when their orders were contrary to that, but the red-haired woman would remind that she signed up to protect this junk-rig of a ship. Nothing more and nothing less. She didn’t have any skin in the game with the pirates, though she knew the shortstock beside her most certainly had a sort of axe to grind. She was certain she yearned for action rather than protecting the ship or scanning around junk fields hoping that something interesting happened for once.

She looked back toward Disker as she released her hand from the girl’s shoulder.

“I can power up my suit and join your group. At least, as long as our defenses here are ample enough. If we end up not doing little Ezmy's plan.”

---

Ezmy’s fists balled up on reflex the moment Gaida touched her, shuddering like the temperature had suddenly dipped into the negatives. She shot the woman a hard look, eyes flicking from her to her hand, as if, surely, it was just some tragic mistake that it had landed on her shoulder. But no, it wasn’t, and Gaida went on to agree with her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Ezmy might not have been a very socially-conscious person, but she knew when she was being patronized.

“…little Ezmy’s plan.”

Oh, she’d be paying for that one.

“Gee Gaida, thanks.” She said through teeth grated in the closest approximation to a smile that Ezmy could muster. When the woman took her hand away, Ezmy brushed imaginary grime off of her shoulder. She wasn’t done with her, but Disker’s sharp interjection reminded her that there was, in fact, an actual conversation of import going on. Fine. There’d be plenty of time for getting even later.

“Okay, and?” she snipped back at Disker. “If the pirates come back, the options are run, or fight, and you’re out of your mind if you think this hunk of junk is outrunning anything. Fuck’s sake, you don't have to stall like this, you can just say you’re scared. Not like anyone’d be surprised.”

That was a bit of a low-blow. Ezmy didn’t have much respect for Disker’s…“cautious” piloting style, but that didn’t mean he was useless; he was a coward, she thought, but even cowards could be good shots. Still, with how quiet the man usually was, it was worth snatching at the opportunity to get a rise out of him.

“The real question is whether or not we’re gonna sit around scrapbooking until they get the jump on us.”

The old man sat in his captain’s chair, eyeing up the bridge crew. Remia was busy studying monitors, while Kellen seemed overly focused on navigating. It was obvious that there was tension in the air; everyone was just waiting for these pirates to return and attack them next. Cornell expected that, but to send out every available pilot to guard the Cathartes would only exhaust them by the time the enemy finally reached them.

“Sir.” Spare Infield walked into the bridge, nodding at Cornell. At the very least, he was being respectful. ”I thought I’d do my best to give you whatever information I had on the attack.

Cornell nodded. ”Any help would be appreciated.”

Infield nodded. ”The enemy attacked quickly and disabled our ship. They didn’t give us a chance to fight back, and the few mobile suits that were able to launch were destroyed in minutes. If it wasn’t for the Zeon transport and the pilot that kept them pinned for the fight, we’d probably all be dead.”

Cornell nodded. ”I think we should talk to this hero pilot. Remia, go ahead and find out where he’s hiding out and get him brought to the bridge.”

***

”Hey, Mr. Hotshot pilot.” The female engineer shook the cot that Bareback was sleeping on. ”The captain’s asked to talk to you on the bridge. Wants to know about those suits you were fighting.” She wrinkled her nose. ”Maybe you could...also clean off first? You smell awful.

---

Marlowe listened intently to everyone arguing about exactly what to do about fighting. He thought about it for a moment, wishing he could help in some way. But his grandfather refused to let him pilot in combat. It didn’t help that even in the piloting sims, he refused to go for any actual killing blows.

”You’re too soft boy. If I let you pilot in a fight, you’d be killed in two seconds. The old man’s words rang in his ears constantly. Why should his friends fight and risk their lives while all he could do was stand around and hope for the best? It just wasn’t fair.

”I know everyone has an opinion on what we should do about the enemy, but I think we should just be ready for when they come back. Because something tells me they are coming back.” He knew it, somehow. As if he could see the tiny dots far in the eternal blackness of space, making their way towards the Cathartes as everyone argued.

Dustice lounged back in his chair smoking a cigar while sipping his father's favorite drink. The bottle of James Donnels reflected a twinge of the light from the room, but that wasn’t his focus. He would puff on the fat cigar, take a sip from the whiskey, and lean back to enjoy the “view”. His chair allowed him to look out the 'window' of his father's room, though it was really just a viewing monitor set up to mimic a window it still offered the same comfort of stargazing while enjoying a drink and a smoke.

"How many people did you manage to protect?" Came a voice on the left side of the window. He glanced over to see the older figure standing beside him. Of course, this is how it always went down when he had this dream. His father, always there to confront him.

"I haven't counted yet. We lost some good pilots but as far as I can tell none of the civilians were killed."

"See kid? Being a bodyguard, it’s in your blood!"

The younger man furrowed his brow. "Don't. I'm exhausted." Even in his dreams, he felt the aches and exhaustion from days of constant piloting. He couldn’t escape it, just as he knew where his father was about to steer this conversation. This dream always went the same way.

The old man let out a raspy chuckle. He had been smoking those cigars since before the One Year War and it might have been catching up to him. But despite the advancements when it came to smoking, the old man preferred to smoke something natural instead of electronic. His son was less interested in ruining his voice but that particular night before the final battle of the Gryps Conflict of course he was going to share a smoke and a drink with the man he had been seeking out for over half a decade.

"Just think...if you're able to protect a whole crew by yourself so easily.."

"Drop it."

"Imagine how easy it would be to protect one Zeon Princess?"

The young pilot removed his cigar from his mouth and whipped it angrily at his father. Though in zero gravity it would be easy enough to not just dodge it, but catch it and safely put it out, which his father did.

That was what made these dreams so weird, instead of the nice, nostalgic conversation he had with his father the night before the old man died during the war, his dreams kept returning to this strange argument that never really happened. An argument about the old man’s last request.

While Dustice has heard instances of people making contact with others from the afterlife, most of those anecdotes came from alleged newtypes. Plus, they said the spirits were friendly. While it could be argued that at the very least, the elder Behrbeck was not malicious if he truly was a ghost, Dustice never enjoyed the conversation because it always ended up coming back to Princess Mineva Lao Zabi.

"You're absolutely right!" He'd bark at his father. "I'd do a damn good job at protecting the princess! But I'm not risking my life only to find out I've been getting shot at over a decoy ever again!! Do you know how humiliating that was?"

"I understand that. It was wrong of Lady Haman to abuse your trust that way."

"Yeah it was, but she did that to everyone that worked for her."

"Well Commander Char did promise to--"

That's when Dustice slammed his drink down and stood up. "Char Aznable is dead, vanished in that axis shock, and good riddance too! I'm sorry old man, I know you really wanted me to look out for her but I dropped a colony, an asteroid, and almost our former home onto the planet, all in her name. And the universe itself stepped in to stop that last one, I'm not doing it anymore. If you're gonna insist on bothering me about this, then give me names of former zeon buddies of yours that won't screw me over!!"



Instead of an answer, he'd be rustled awake by a lady engineer. It looked like his power nap time was over. It was a good thing he chose the nap before the shower because he'd have had much less sleep if he took the shower first. The pilot politely gestured for the engineer to back away, he knew how he probably smelled. "Unfortunately the pirates weren't nice enough to give me bathroom breaks, or nap time." He grumbled, looking over his suit. It was one from the second Neo Zeon War, back when he worked for Char. Well, it didn't really hold any emotional value to him, truth be told he'd prefer to wear a normal suit that matched the grey of his Geara Doga but he had spent most of his budget on a beam tomahawk shield. "Uh..." He'd look around. "I should have a spare normal suit around somewhere. Where's your disposal? I think I'm just gonna pitch this suit, it'd be a waste of your water trying to clean it out."

About half an hour later, Dustice was showered and in a spare normal suit and he managed to grab a fresh pair of undergarments and a black short sleeved undershirt, but he didn't really have time to get the rest of his casual clothes from the ship. Though he had a hunch that the pirates might try and come back so he figured his normal suit was fine for now. He kept it unzipped down to the waist to let his torso breathe for once. After all, this was a civilian ship. Who the hell cared about regulation?

The pilot knocked on the door to the bridge, and when given permission to answer the first thing he would do is apologize. "Hi, I'm so sorry I just went straight to bed when you rescued us. But I didn't want to have any sort of business-related conversations on no sleep, I don't trust myself to not mess up the paperwork side of this job."

---

Ezmy was a bit disappointed that Disker didn’t take the bait, but she’d come to expect as much from him, boring as it could be. Sometimes she suspected a good chunk of the crew had been secretly lobotomized, but then she remembered people like Kellen and Irina, and decided maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Leon intervened on Disker’s behalf, and she rolled her eyes. Fuckin’ white-knight manlet, she thought, but decided it would be best to keep that to herself. Ezmy didn’t usually shy from getting on people’s bad sides, but pissing people off before a fight wouldn’t do her any favors if they were pissed off at her. She wasn’t going to lick any boots, but she could do her best to keep the snipping to a minimum. Maybe.

“Vanguard,” she said, staking her claim. Now that they had something resembling a plan, fucked if she was going to sit in the ass-guard while everyone else did all the hard work—she wasn’t Disker.

Ezmy shot Gaida one more venomous glance, and then hopped down from her pile as Disker wandered off with the toy. He’d be staying aboard on his usual roost, as far from harm’s way as possible. Surprise. The only pilot who’d be safer than him was Marlowe, and though normally the good ol’ Voltus-nepotism would have pissed her off, she never felt the urge to argue over this particular point. The truth was that she didn’t want Marlowe out there with them. He wasn’t cut out for it. He was just fine at picking up trash, but his incorrigible pacifism didn’t just make him fucking insufferable, it also made him a liability to everyone else.

“Yeah, something tells me it’s not gonna be hard to get permission for this one,” she said, starting off for the hangar. “Guess I’ll suit up for the green light. Maybe we’ll finally get some fucking action.”