Persean Sector, Terimon System_

---

In another time, the planet of Skogsrå would've been a haven of growth and abundance- lush, thick forests and mountains teeming with natural resources, even and temperate climates, oxygen based atmosphere and naturally habitable without any need for significant terraforming, Skogsrå was a veritable pearl in a sea of desolate desert wastelands and cold uninhabitable rocks, that made up the system surrounding it. As it stood now, Skogsrå was just another battlefield, a planet trapped in the constant tug of war between Coalition and UEE hands. A decade ago, it belonged to the UEE, seven years ago the Coalition held it. Four years ago the UEE took it back, and three years after that the Coalition seized control once again. Its population had been dropped to a quarter of its prewar size, two decades of warfare decimating cities and population centers, its industries only kept floating by the boatloads of UEE and Coalition technicians and colonists sent to re-establish control over the planet over the years. The Persean Sector made up the narrowest stretch of the Free Economic Trade Zone, with the Terimon system set smack dab in the center, making it the perfect staging ground for either UEE or Coalition forces into the territory of the other- if they could only hold onto it for long enough. To boot, its abundance of heavy metals meant that ships could be easily repaired without need of transporting materials over large distance, and allied forces could be replenished and restocked in short order.

It was for these reasons the UEE had commanded the recapture of the system- starting with its Capital planet of Skogsrå. At the head of this advance was the Empire's 5th Expeditionary Fleet, the Fighting Fifths. Some half million brave souls onboard countless numbers of the Empire's finest warships and strikecraft, ready to take back what was theirs. The fleet had taken the Coalition defenders by surprise- a misinformation campaign leading the Coalition to believe the first attack was to take place in the neighboring Furindal System, and as such had gathered the bulk of their forces there. A small detachment from the 5th Fleet would indeed assault the Furindal System, though their orders were to merely keep the Coalition forces occupied- not extending themselves enough to get stuck into a full on battle, where they would surely lose, but just enough to stop the Coalition from being able to easily leave and reinforce the defense of Terimon.

Among those in the Terimon System proper, were some few hundred-odd men and women of the 101st Special Forces Group, though their objectives were slightly different than that of the 5th Fleet. For the 101st, the value of the planet itself was not its rich resources- quickly being drained in the passing decades, or even its strategic position in the FEZ, but rather what was left behind centuries ago by a unified humanity: One of a handful of working, undamaged, Nanoforges.

Nanoforges were not new technology by human standards, these installations dotted the industry worlds of the UEE and Coalition alike. Given enough natural resources, Nanoforges allowed for rapid, precise manufacture of consumer goods, hardware, military equipment- all of varying complexity. Old Empire forges however, were a rarity. Capable of goods of complexity outshining its contemporaries, and faster as well- presumably capable of manufacturing MAS parts, smart munitions and advanced stealth systems, all in a package capable of collapsing to the size of a trailer truck. It could be argued that the value of the nanoforge was greater than the 5th Fleet itself, and while the 101st were tasked with aiding the 5th Fleet where possible, their true objective was to secure Skogsrå's nanoforge and spirit it away to UEE hands- whatever the costs.

Perhaps it was frustrating then, for the 101st, that the 5th Fleet's supposedly sure assault on Skogsrå itself had bogged down in orbit. The assault was quickly turning into a siege as the Coalition beat back the UEE forces. What was supposed to take some 3 hours had turned into 6, that turned into 12. In a few hours, the UEE detachment in Furindal would have to pull back, allowing the Coalition defenders to jump back to Terimon, behind the 5th fleet- encircling them. A breakthrough needed to happen within the next few hours, or they'd have to recall their assault entirely and pull back to safer space.

The UEE had time for one last assault on enemy lines. One last chance to break through and begin the invasion of the planet.

---

Persean Sector, Terimon System_

---

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."

The Roanoke shuddered violently as it turned towards the planet of Skogsrå, a dozen UEE vessels flying out ahead of it. Behind the main battle line was a massive Liberator battle-carrier, the INS Abraham Lincoln. The main cannon of the Lincoln glowed a faint blue, the radiating hum causing the space around it to seemingly flicker before it fired, a trio of twisting, braiding pulses of energy flying through the great void. The space around them remained silent as huge orange flower of fire erupted from the top tower of the Coalition battle-station set between them and the planet- bits of solar panel, steel, and dish parts filling the local area as the force of the explosion ruptured outward. The station and its attached ships shuddered as gas, debris and concussive force rattled the local area. The explosion tore a great chunk out of the station’s superstructure, and the Lincoln must have scored a lucky hit, as a series of secondary explosions began to ripple across the station, slowly tearing the structure apart from the inside out.

UEE and Coalition Battleships alike detached their destroyer escorts, and turned to face each other, the space around them filling with cannon-fire, plasma and laser pulses moments later. Explosions rippled across both fleets as Coalition ships released their MAS squadrons- dozens of tiny specs in the darkness of space. The glint and light from their thrusters made them seem like swarms of angry fireflies in the distance as they flew towards the 5th fleet and its accompanying Naginatas and Sentries.

Onboard the Roanoke, alarm klaxons followed the announcement for general quarters, the entirety of the ship waking up, regardless of shift as the ship changed its vector and prepared to enter combat. The already cramped ship was now a flurry of organized chaos: Men and women ran back and forth, each fully aware of their tasks, sliding past each other as they made their way to turrets, control stations and maintenance decks. Marines armed themselves, preparing for boarding actions, security teams prepared themselves to repel boarding actions. The bridge a beating hub of activity as it sank down to the armor line, making itself a smaller target from any potential hit. The hangar was a veritable hive of moving metal and bodies, MAS crew sprinted for their machines and completed last second maintenance and repairs, while techs rushed to their stations, shouting things at one another and pointing at datapads and screens. Unnecessary or momentarily irrelevant materials were unceremoniously shoved aside as Ultra-light MAS lifters attached munitions and weapons to mechs that still needed servicing.

The pilots were not spared this chaos either- the synthesized voice of the ship VI echoing across whichever room they currently found themselves in.

"All pilots to strike craft. I repeat: All pilots to strike craft. Prepare for imminent combat."

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Outofthewayoutoftheway!" A pink head of hair cursed and spat, half sprinting, half jumping past crewmen, lifters and crates of munitions as she pulled her flight suit on mid-sprint, a bundle of crinkled magazines and mirror clattering unceremoniously onto the deck, a pair of cucumber slices stuck to her forehead indicating what she'd been up to beforehand- likely using the ship's hydroponics bay as an impromptu day spa. This of course made the expected 90 seconds from rack to cockpit Kodos had drilled into them a lot more difficult than it needed to be, but somehow, miraculously, she'd made it.

Half climbing, half throwing herself into the open chest cavity of her MAS, Sabine mashed a key on the side of her cockpit, shutting herself into the darkness. A bit short breath of breath, the glass fogged as she pulled her helmet over her head and sealed herself within her flight suit. The helmet sprang to life as it booted up and connected to her neural implant, painting a heads up display over the helmet’s faceplate. As the MAS slowly woke itself from its slumber, the walls seemed to become transparent, becoming what the ‘head’ of the MAS saw. Sabine turned her head left and right to check the Sparrowhawk’s calibration, making sure its movements mimicked hers- not that she'd have time to make any changes at this point.

Sabine looked up as the massive hangar doors above them began to pull open, leaving a thin oxygen shield as the only thing preventing the entirety of the hangar from venting out. Above them, the inky black void of space, dotted by stars, now occupied with dozens upon dozens of ships. Battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and the exploding remains of the Coalition station loomed above them, as flashes of light from railguns and plasma cannons streaked across the black empty. Tiny flecks of blue lights- the thrusters of MAS and aerospace fighters zig zagged and spiraled around in the far distance, lights flashing as their weapons fired, silent flowers of orange and white taking their place as weapons connected with them.

> Confirming Pilot Assignment: LT SABINE LAURENT_
> ...Pilot Confirmed
> Initializing systems...

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Shield Generator: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

"Hah! Fuck you Hex!" Sabine's sing-song and lilted accent crackled over the 7th Squadron's comms. "Told you I'd make it in 90- I mean- This is Rabbit, sounding off! All systems green, and incredibly mean. Ready to mingle with some capitalists."

Johann glanced at his hand, looking at the cards before eyeing up the others around the table they had set up out of the way. None of them were on duty right now, and with any taskings assigned to them between watches and sleep taken care of, they found a way to entertain themselves. A tale as old as time, playing cards and gambling, in this case poker. Johann preferred blackjack, it was easier to track numbers that way, but the rest of the group knew better than to play blackjack for anything other than fun around him. They had this little ring of gamblers set up for quite awhile, and he tossed a candy bar into the pot, drawing wary glances from the others. For their stakes, it was a large raise, but most of them matched it with varying items of value. Nothing monetary, it was a house rule among them, but valuable all the same. Grinning, he laid his cards out for all to see.

"Looks like this one is a full house, anyone got better?"

The general bickering and half hearted complaints around the makeshift table, a repurposed cargo crate, told Johann all he needed to know. His 'winnings', which included an untouched pack of smokes among a few different candy rations from various packs, were his to safely pack away for a rainy day. Mind you, said rainy day was to perk up one of the poor sods after a mission gone south, but they didn't need to know that. Taking another sip from the coffee cup, the deck was starting to be shuffled again while new talk of bets and the like resumed. It was a common pastime of his when not on duty, cleaning up at cards was far from a tricky thing, in fact it was something he was quite good at. The faces around the 'table' either didn't realize that, or did and hedged their bets to see the new blood get cleaned up. As the next hand was dealt, he glanced at his cards. Two of Spades, Six of Hearts, and he gave the assembled few a warm smile. The more seasoned among the group probably took that as a sign of a very sore beating they were about to get, metaphorically speaking, and Johann's voice practically dripped with anticipation. Of course it was all a massive bluff but given how previous hands had gone, they wouldn't believe that even if he told them.

"So, what's the call for this round, friendly or we starting another...."

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."

Johann tossed his hand in, the group scrambling in experienced movement, slamming back the rest of his coffee as he caught his helmet being tossed to him by one of the other card players. The duo, Johann and the technician who tossed him his helmet, took off at a brisk run, both heading for the hanger bay. Johann knew the drilled time to be ready to depart the moment General Quarters was called away, so they always set up their little gambling den within running distance of their stations. Dodging the other crew and pilots making their way to their own stations, regardless of where they were, was something that came with experience, and Johann was confident in his movements. He kept the way clear for the technician as well, both of them making good time to the hanger bay. From there, Johann was mounting up on his MAS, handily the largest machine in the hanger by no small margin, clambering into the cockpit and settling in as the technician down on the ground did final prelaunch checks before green lighting his end of things. Johann, for his part, strapped in and had his helmet sealed and in place, going through the motions with practiced speed. No needless rushing, of course, it wasn't like he was racing anyone else to the ready position, so he focused on making sure everything checked out as the information crawled across his various displays, the sound of munition storage whirring and systems priming a sound that would never get old.

> Confirming Pilot Assignment: LT CMDR JOHANN VON BRANDT_
> ...Pilot Confirmed
> Initializing systems...

"Oh they finally got my name spelled correctly, that's a drink I owe to admin, only took middle shelf to make that happen..."

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Shield Generator: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

"Reflex Shield looks good, she was drawing more power than usual last drill, looks like the lines were patched to fix that."

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

Johann glanced at his watch, just at the 90 second mark as two of the other pilots started shouting and bickering. Lt. Laurent and Lt. Vess, seemed they had been racing each other to ready conditions. The back and forth would be amusing to let keep going longer, but he waited patiently for the two to make their reports before chiming in as well, pleasantly professional and, by comparison to Lt. Laurent, practically sedate but far too energetic to match the defeated Lt. Vess. "This is Rhino, pre launch checks are green, ready to deploy. Don't worry Hex, there is always next time to get yourself in ahead of Rabbit."

Comparing himself to the other MAS units prepared ahead of him, Johann wondered if it was worth doing the math to see if they got close to his tonnage after combining them into one. Probably not worth the effort, given it was patently obvious the roles each of them served would be vastly different no matter the details of the operation they were about to embark on. Glancing at his own readouts, he began double checking each of the reported statuses of his equipment and systems, especially since the amount of armor he had on his MAS, even compared to other like models, would strain lesser reactors. He kept an ear on the comm chatter while he fine tuned and tweaked even the minute, otherwise inconsequential load balancing and power distribution throughout his MAS systems. It was an old habit from being a test pilot, fine tuning even the smallest detail during down time to make sure the Secutor could handle the various systems loaded onto it for testing purposes. In this case, it wasn't for testing purposes but for combat, but that was fine either way. It gave him something to focus on while waiting for the brief and deployment.

"Talk to me, Gunns. How's our TO&E look for this deployment?" They sat in the crew chief's office in the corner of the hangar, sipping sodas. It would have been booze and smokes, but it was still on-duty hours. That, and both of them knew one of them in here could be deploying at any time within the next seventy-two hours.

"Well, sir, it'd look a damn sight better last tour." Came the chief's response, to which Sagan sighed, removing his ever-present, non-regulation shades to pinch his brow.

"Was afraid of that. Can guess why too, between all the custom and limited production models."

"You said it, sir. Not me." Chief Gunns threw his hands up with a grin. "Let's see...obvious ones first: you're fine, we all know you're just gonna do that Vulture shit anyways. Laurent and von Brandt're good, they're piloting models close enough to production standard. We've got the specs recorded for the Sparrowhawk's tuning and the Secutor doesn't need anything fancier than more armor. Vess's Blackout is dicier: legs have to be custom spec. If she has to get shot, tell her to take it in the arms. Virtanen's Griffin's fine, we got enough spare parts. Now, as for the elephants in the room..."

"God damn nepo baby shit." Sagan finished for him, grumbling. "Dunno what's worse, Commie's new crotch rocket, which he's halfway to burning out already on training manuevers, or the new kid's fucking Venator. Which defense industry contact did his daddy blow to score that?"

"Can't deny it'll kick ass, Commander."

"If some Coalie doesn't core it. New meat hasn't seen a minute of real battle yet. He manages to total his ride and live, he's going in a Sentry-"

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."

"And here we go. Keep the hanger crew prepped, Chief. It'd take the baby Space Jesus Himself for us to make it outta this coming furball with all our mechs intact."

"Will do, Commander. Happy hunting out there."

___

> Confirming Pilot Assignment: CMDR SAGAN KODOS
> ...Pilot Confirmed
> Initializing systems...

Well. At least it looked like all that drilling he'd done for the squad to go from rack to cockpit in ninety seconds had paid off. Damn near everyone seemed to be on time.

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Shield Generator: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

"Hah! Fuck you Hex!"

"DAMMIT!"

Sagan took a second to take a deep breath, close his eyes, and think of the pension. Space Christ on a crutch, would it kill them to at least use private channels? He opened his eyes again, proceeding with final checks and startup while cueing his comms.

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

All systems green. He radioed flight control first.

<< Tower, Vulture. Green to go, moving to launch. >>

Next, squad comms.

<< Alright, boys and girls: this is your commander speaking. Sit down and raise your hand if you want to go to the bathroom, because class is starting. We had the briefing yesterday, but guess what? You're still gonna have to listen to me yammer on before we launch. High Command, in their infinite wisdom, has decided to send special ops units straight into the goddamn grinder. Most of you are familiar with furballs. A couple of you ain't. Few words of advice: stick with the rest of the squad. We watch each other's backs and fight smart, we'll break through. Try to be a hero in this shitpile, you're gonna die. That's why the rest of us're trying to make sure you don't. >>

<< Now, those of you who ain't given green lights yet, sound off! I want us in vacuum while the Coalies're still shitting themselves from the alarm! >>

---

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."



Elsewhere in the hangar bay, live video feed that had once been projected onto the hangar bay doors had been abandoned in the tumult that came with the call to arms overhead. Playoff season back on Earth. It had made for a fitting background noise to the "sports bar" atmosphere von Brandt's poker games always took, and a welcome distraction after his first three hands claimed their first victim— the man exiled from the table the very same whose beloved bomber jacket and aviators rested atop the abandoned phone, muffling the video feed as much as the commotion of the scrambling pilots and ground crew alike had drowned out the audio.

The owner in question of all that abandoned property rolled his neck, a snug fit within the cockpit of the 7th squadron's "Christmas gift" from Boeing. It was a good thing that he'd really broken the new bird in with their training exercises the preceding couple months— while he was a damn good pilot, getting used to the space and peripherals he had to work with was paramount. Even he made no bones about how little he cared for the idea of leaving the boat for a furball before he knew how movement felt, let alone maneuvering. Even as one hand slicked back straight blonde hair to pull down the helmet of his flight suit, the other danced along the controls, calibrating, flipping circuit breakers, rotating his control surfaces while the comms uplink took that extra second it always did to reconcile the training data his testbed was collecting in the background with the 5th fleet's encrypted channels.

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Flight Response Systems: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

His ground team and he had done a good bit of work on the verniers this go around— he was excited to see how well he could handle a wider thrust correction cone. He had half a mind for shelving the analytics while he was at it, if only to spare him those extra seconds it demanded on startup before he was ready to launch— but even then, four years serving under Commander Kodos had instilled a pretty accurate shot clock in his noggin for cockpit warmup. By his count, 54 seconds since the announcement had come over the P.A. Kind of slow, given how close he had been already. He opened comms—

"Hah! Fuck you Hex!"

"DAMMIT!"

And immediate feed spilled into his helmet, filling his ears with a surround-sound experience of the two squadmates he'd spotted scrambling into the hangar while his optics had roared to life, casting the mechanics of his ground crew and their finishing touches in a brassy orange glow. For their part, they were as used to the bickering as the pilot some 27 feet up, and took no pause before waving him the all clear. Among their number was the unmistakable all-white of their recent addition to the ranks from Boeing, a package deal with the new ride that had a heart attack any time he learned what exactly went on in here after-hours. Roy had long stopped telling him fro that reason. The man raised a hand to his ear—

<<Kilmer, I swear to God Above, if you're leering at me like that because you're getting ideas—>>

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

With an electronic snap, the radio feed switched to ATC as the sleek MAS's head moved along, eyeing its heavier peers. response was good across the board, and time was short— their sudden shift in vector would only have the Coalies caught with their pants down for so long. His hands took a mere fraction of a second to rest on the controls, feeling the power of the reactor at his heart flowing through the wiring, through the hull itself. This was the moment he always made sure to share with his chariot— just them, and whatever god or demon of war smiled upon the battlefield they would wade into that day. A shared prayer for good hunting, good fortune, and good understanding between them. Look alive, sweetheart. This one's for real.

<<Tower, 101-5. Systems green, Commie ready for launch.>>

As pilots went, he was fittingly old-school over the radio— clear-voiced, frosty as it came, smooth and swaggeringly calm even as the doors opened up to reveal the bedlam awaiting them. A cultural holdover anyone from aerospace could recognize, going as far back as radio and aircraft themselves. Any military pilot you could name made a point of sounding as crisp and professional as a man or woman could once the mic was hot. As he flicked over to the 101st's channel, he smirked to himself as he caught the tail end of the Commander's speech. Poor old boy had to have been sweating the new kid getting thrown straight into this mess— to say nothing of how much faith Rabbit and Hex must have inspired. It was a good thing they'd each gotten their pounds of flesh early, really.

Of course, there was an elephant in the room a hair under six feet tall and with his own track record for stacking up maintenance hours that was probably being spoken to that he was ignoring, but...

Y'know.

One problem to worry about at a time.

He opened transmission, finally presented with the lull he'd been waiting on.

<<Commie, up and ready. Sorry to worry you, Boss, I figured I'd just let everyone get it out of their systems while I ran preflight.>>

---

---

Ensign Braide it said, right there all shiny and polished. Elliot took a slow moment of relishment as he slowly reattached the shiny name plaque back to the dress uniform with an almost reverential touch. Elliot had dreamed of this for so long, for as long as he could remember really. Elliot had wanted to be a pilot since the day he’d first seen a picture of a MAS. Mommy! Daddy! he’d cried out, I want to fly the big boom bots! Of course his parents had brushed him off as usual and instructed Elliot to go play or find some other way to occupy his time. That had never stopped him though, and although they’d seemed to ignore his pleas there had been a certain specific change in the style of toys he would continue to receive and play with as the years went on. Elliot had fostered his own interest in MAS over the years and through a few strings pulled here and the influence of his family he’d finally managed to achieve his goal. Even still though it felt like not quite enough, Elliot couldn’t put his finger on why and as such shoved these feelings to the back of his mind. Here he was finally, a real pilot surrounded by other real pilots with an entire fleet of se-technicians and naval men and women standing by to service their needs and ensure that whatever they needed to achieve their goals would be theirs. Elliot should be relishing in his victory, his achievement. And so he did, dusting and detailing the dress uniform that he’d worn in his graduation ceremony. It had been the best day of his life. Those nagging feelings of emptiness would just have to get shoved in a box to be forgotten about, dismissed.

Elliot turned away from his uniform and surveyed the rest of his room; it wasn’t much, yet. Elliot would change that, with time of course; he’d just need to make some calls and a few demands, maybe twist a few elbows. The only thing that really showed any lick of personality in the room was the rough pile of books that Elliot had gathered on his bed, most of them being the only real possessions he kept. A majority of the books were about MAS, theory and practical knowledge; a portion were more generalized topics that Elliot wished to have a basic understanding of. More than a few had bookmarks, sticky notes, dividers, and all manner of things poking out of them as a way to mark important entries. A few of the technical manuals looked plenty more worn and opening any one might reveal an untold amount of handwritten notes between the lines of text. To an onlooker it was chaos, to Elliot it all made perfect sense. He knew where to find whatever he might need whenever the moment called for it, he’d read most of these front to back numerous times. Elliot's eyes landed on a specific one, one of the only fictional novels in the pile, with a particular sense of fondness. Elliot picked it up and dusted it off, surveying the cover and reminiscing about the days as a child reading through the adventures of the book's protagonist and his cheeky sidekick. This one in particular had a hefty bit of influence on Elliot’s desires as he was growing up and as such would likely never leave his side, a prized possession of sorts.

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."

Elliot was so locked into his memories that the call for quarters practically sent him flying out of his own skin. Thankfully the room was empty and no one heard the yelp of surprise he let out as the book he’d suddenly dropped landed squarely on his toe. With a splutter of curses Elliot quickly pivoted and burst through the door into the hallway already bustling with activity.

“MOVE IT! MAKE WAY! PILOT COMING THROUGH! THAT’S AN ORDER! MAKE WAY!”

Elliots voice boomed down the hallway like a fog horn, a sudden air of arrogance taking place upon his shoulders like a form fitted cape. This was everything he’d dreamed, techs and other service men and women scrambled to make way as he barreled down the hallway, those who didn’t move quick enough were not of Elliot’s concern. He did his absolute best not to step on anyway or cause any injuries, massive ones at least. The occasional slow mover may just have found themselves brushed aside in an unceremonious manner though and a couple individuals might have found themselves falling to the ground as Elliot shoved aside. Regardless Elliot wouldn’t let anything stand between him and reaching the pilot bay in 90 seconds. They’d made it very clear that this expectation was an important one and Elliot wouldn’t have his first operation starting off on the right foot, commoners be damned.

Elliot made his way into the bay on the heels of his fellows, unnoticed by the more seasoned pilots. Elliot knew they didn’t hold much of an opinion of him, yet. It was to be expected as the new guy and Elliot had no illusions of his place. To him it just meant he’d work even harder to achieve the respect he so desired. These individuals, his squadmates and the fellow pilots in the flotilla, this is who he’d always dreamed of being amongst. Likely the only figures he ever felt an inkling of respect for were pilots, everyone else was too weak or too useless to get behind the stick and to Elliot that meant they were useless or not worth his time. Nevertheless Elliot had learned to at least tolerate being around those beneath him for the use they could pose in achieving his own goals. These fellows though, his squadmates, were the real deal. Practically walking gods in his eyes. Elliot was tickled pink to finally be amongst their ranks.

Elliot scrambled into his cockpit without a word, sparing little time to admire his MAS. As reluctant as his family had been about his choices Elliot had managed to at least get him to spring for one badass piece of machinery. In the name of his safety, as he’d spun it to his parents. In reality Elliot just wanted to pilot the same MAS as his favorite book character, the one he’d been reading about for years. Elliot had a surprisingly intimate knowledge of the MAS based on that alone, for a fictional story the author had been surprisingly true to reality, or as true as they could be. As for the rest, well one of the more beaten up manuals back on Elliot's bed was for the Venerator.

> Confirming Pilot Assignment: ENS ELLIOT BRAIDE
> ...Pilot Confirmed
> Initializing systems…

Elliot was on time but slightly behind his squadmates as he listened to their friendly bickering, a smile coming to his face. Elliot always had trouble suppressing his joy when piloting a MAS, like a dream come true almost. Simply put, he was giddy as a lune.

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Shield Generator: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

Elliot wasted no time as he settled into the cockpit and ran through his pre-flight checks. So far all systems were coming back as expected and he was green across the board. Today was gonna be a good day.

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

“ROOK SOUNDING OFF! SIR!” Elliot shouted, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and might bit a tad too loud given the direct line to his squad's ears.

The ceiling above her was the color of a spoon, battered by too many hands, and run through too many dishwasher cycles.

Data pad in one hand, fork in the other, Virtanen sat by herself. The other pilots were elsewhere. And the rest of the crew still weren’t sure what to make of her. She didn’t mind. She enjoyed the quiet. There was plenty of coffee. Good coffee, by her measure,as far as UEE military grade brews were concerned. Better than the food the cooks were serving. The bacon was burned. The hash browns were half-cooked. And the eggs appeared to be composed largely of water. Virtanen accepted these culinary crimes stoically. She’d eaten far worse. She could eat almost anything. A useful talent in the UEE navy.

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."

Virtanen sighed. It was a shame to leave behind uneaten food. She knew the INS Roanoke well. It was home. It was her home. She could hear the voice of the ship. Not the AI or comms system. Ships were more than metal, she liked to think. They had their own peculiarities and mannerisms. She suspected they might have souls. But she was no philosopher. It was above her paygrade. She left such matters to others.

"All pilots to strike craft. I repeat: All pilots to strike craft. Prepare for imminent combat."

Coffee still in hand, Virtanen moved quickly. She dodged hurrying crew members easily. Most did not move like spacers. They were too slow, too clumsy, even under artificial gravity. Crowded as the corridors were, with crates and sailors, it was nothing compared to a derelict merchant ship on a decade-long trading run. Sometimes Virtanen almost missed it. The sights. The sounds. The smells. And the machine oil vodka.

Virtanen laughed, remembering, unhesitatingly dodging beneath the arms of an Ultralight MAS that was scrambling to secure giant bins of scrap metal for damage control. Quickening her run, Virtanen darted into the hanger. She saw the others. Moving with the same urgency to their assigned MAS. They had to move. They had to move quickly. MAS stuck in a hanger bay were dead meat.

"No time for coffee, LT," her chief MAS technician chided, taking the half full cup from Virtanen and handing the pilot her helmet instead. Rolling up her flight suit and sealing her helmet, Virtanen shrugged. Suitably attired, she climbed swiftly, racing along the scaffolding that led to the cockpit of her MAS. The Griffin was waiting for her. She could feel it.

Settling into the armored cockpit of the Griffin, Virtanen strapped herself into her seat before closing the heavy hatch with the push of a button. Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand over the controls, patting the main display panel affectionately. No more simulation runs. No more exercises. No more pre-mission rehearsals. This was it. The real thing. The only thing that mattered. The only thing that had ever mattered.

---

> Confirming Pilot Assignment: LT Emma Virtanen _
> ...Pilot Confirmed
> Initializing systems…

"Herää, it's time to go, we have work to do," Virtanen said, fondly addressing her MAS as battery powered systems began to light up the cockpit.

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Shield Generator: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

Virtanen could feel her hands begin to shake. A good omen, she thought with a smile. It had been too long since they had fought the Coalies. She didn’t want to lose her sharpness. She watched her reactor readings cautiously. A fistful of plasma required certain precautions. The commander was worried enough as it was with their flying circus of MAS. An additional unplanned explosion was unlikely to temper his concerns.

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

Parsing the information the sensors of the Griffin sent to her, Virtanen smiled. She felt complete again. She felt whole. She had her entire body back again. Satisfied with the automated diagnostics and her own manual checks, Virtanen keyed her mic.

<<Tower, preflight completed, Misfit ready for launch.>>

Listening to the squad comms, Virtanen shook her head. It amazed her that Rabbit and Hex could talk so much. They didn’t seem to need a bottle of vodka to loosen their tongues like she did. Commie was business as usual and Virtanen could guess that he was itching to redline his reactor. Rhino seemed at ease, he was an anchor for the unit, and Virtanen appreciated his composure. Vulture’s words woke Virtanen up from her social musing. He was right. The old man was solid, although she’d never call him old man to his face. To live as long as he had, a MAS pilot had to be smart and more than a little lucky.

<<Misfit reporting all systems green. Ready to launch, Commander.>>

Compared to Ensign Braide’s fiery comms Virtanen's voice was a breath of cold.

Persean Sector, Terimon System_

---

"Ooh! Watch your friendly fire there tiger, I like my eardrums intact before we get into a gunfight!" Sabine's lilted voice half drawled over the tacnet as their resident rookie shouted through the comms. At least he was eager. It remained to be seen whether or not Braide would be an adequate replacement for Sokolov, but at least they shared a few aspects- they were loud and eager. That eagerness had gotten Sokolov killed, but maybe this rookie would be different- he had a fancy new toy anyway. Maybe not as new as Kilmer's Shrike, but probably twice as expensive. The boy was basically driving a lambo to a destruction derby.

"Wouldn't want to question High Command, now would we, boss? Though, that being said- How come we get all the 'fun' sorties? I feel like they're playing favorites or something- they really oughta share the love." Sabine laughed over the crackling net as her machine began to stomp into the center row of the hangar, a set of panels already raising above ground level. Heavy mechanized feet placed themselves firmly in the center of a pair of panels, clamps locking its feet in place, as the panels centered themselves and lifted a few feet higher above the floor. Unlike larger aircraft carriers, with long chute-style catapults, the Roanoke didn't have the hangar space for such fancy gizmos. Instead, the pilots of the 7th relied on a short and primitive grav-launch system, a miniature catapult that could be combined with a micro gravity-generator that would launch them straight 'up' out of the open hangar doors and into zero gravity before their thrusters could kick in. It didn't get them into the fray or into maneuvering speeds quite as fast as a conventional rail launch system, but it meant the Roanoke could deploy its entire clutch of MAS twice as fast as a typical carrier.

Even inside the hangar, their sensors had already begun picking up multiple radar signatures, The Roanoke wasn't at the front of the battleline, but it didn't mean the Coalies were going to just let them go without trying to get their pound of flesh. It was going to be a relatively hot launch. "Hey Hex, bet you the rook pukes before VC does." There was a hiss as the cables connecting the Sparrowhawk to the ship were disconnected, removing the MAS from the Roanoke’s grid, and the hiss of hydraulics as the panels quickly propelling the Roanoke’s MAS’ into the black void of space in pairs. The Sparrowhawk’s thrusters activated as soon as Sabine cleared the threshold of the Roanoke’s hangar, banking off to get out of the way of other launching craft. Cannonfire had begun whizzing by them already, ricocheting off of the Roanoke's comparatively heavier armor, setting off proximity alarms as it passed.

---

Persean Sector, Terimon System_

---

Taking a moment to orient herself, Sabine remembered how free- and dangerous space combat felt. No solid ground or cover, fire could come from almost any angle- and at any distance. The only thing keeping her from dying in a vacuum was a few layers or armor and a shield generator. She didn't have any more than a moment however, as another volley of cannonfire flew past them, forcing the Sparrowhawk to juke out of the way to dodge a particularly close miss. Talk about a hot launch.

Space around them was chaos. The main battle lines had devolved into localized skirmishes and knife fights, pairs of UEE destroyers chased down Coalition cruisers, battleships traded fire as mechs and aerospace fighters zipped between lances of plasma and flights of missiles, opening up with one another with missiles and autocannons or making attack runs on ships. Directly to the Roanoke's 'left', a UEE cruiser, the INS Ibara leaked fire and smoke, its emergency lights flickering through tiny viewports as it lagged behind the main line. A blast of plasma from a Coalition Cruiser directly in front of the Roanoke struck its starboard gunnery deck, a massive flower of crimson and orange blooming from its side as it ejected debris and bodies into the void. To the Roanoke's 'right' a pair of destroyers were making a run at the cruiser but were being harried by a pair of Fenrir squadrons, their own MAS and Aerospace complement being cut to pieces.

Debris from the station had found its way in between the two formations, large chunks of station blocking direct lines of sight from MAS and ship alike, with smaller chunks threatening to pierce the cockpit of anyone flying into it too quickly if they were unable to weave through it. Flats of massive solar panels formed miniature planes to fight from and chunks of station debris functioned as both cover and firing positions.

Flanking Coalition cruiser was pair of light frigates, pushing forward, seemingly intent on crippling the small carrier before it was able to get a clean attack on their cruiser or before it could fall back to the carrier line. At the head of the small Coalition force was two full squadrons of Coalition MAS, Sabine’s targeting computers tracking a pair of Sköllr, screened by no less than 8 Fenrir IIs, flying in a wide wedge towards them. While the Fenrirs were a target the 7th were used to fighting, the Sköllr were rather resilient, and could prove to be quite the danger for the Roanoke should they be allowed to get close enough. A quartet of Garmr were moving in from the flank, thrusters peeking through the rubble and debris as they weaved their way ahead to intercept the 7th, trying to catch them in a pincer. At their current speed and distance, they'd be within weapons range in mere minutes.

"Talk about a warm welcome, non?" Sabine's helmeted face winked to life in the corner of the 7th's HUDs as she spoke. Leaning back, she pressed a button on her control panel, the Sparrowhawk's legs and arms folding in as it switched to its flight mode. Thrusters flared as Sabine sent herself careening forward, her wingtips spiraling as she rolled to dodge another wave of incoming fire. "I think they like me!"

---

"You know how it goes Vulture, we've made the mistake of being competent, so we get tossed headlong into it. No one's immune to it."

Johann had an easy going, friendly tone even as they were waiting to launch, though he did wince at the sheer volume of the FNG sounding off at full volume. FNG with bleeding edge tech, hope it kept him alive and well was all the consideration that he could afford for the kid. Lot of light to middle weights overall, something that suited him fine as far as possible tactics were concerned. Too much of any one thing left glaring weaknesses in such groups, even if none of them could appreciate standard issue. Wouldn't have gotten this far if any of them were, even the new blood's toy, and he kept relaxed as he waited patiently for his time to launch. Misfit sounded off last, another medium MAS pilot for the team but one that seemed like the perfect foil to the rather loud energy of the FNG, but they finally, at long last, got the green light to launch. Finally, even if it wasn't his preference of combat zones.

Rabbit and Hex went first, and it seemed the launch teams decided they wanted to get the Heavy MAS off the deck and out of the way. Decoupling fully from the Roanoke power grid, the far heavier tread of the Secutor locking into place made him mentally brace as he waited for the launch. He hated fighting in space, no proper orientation, no bracing against the ground, and the Secutor has been, at its most charitable, been described as 'a quite aerodynamic brick'. Even in space, maneuvering to evade was not the most practical strategy for him to employ. Fortunately, he didn't have to, and he was already preparing to fire off the thrusters the moment they sent the Secutor hurtling into the void, correcting his facing as soon as he was clear of the hanger, evaluating the situation as he got out of the way of the rest of his fellow pilots, moving as per protocol for the moment as to not entangle the remaining pilots in possible emergency maneuvers.

Ibara had been gutted by incoming fire and strike formations, MAS and more conventional craft alike, as a plasma shot rolled in to put the final blow into her, marking another casualty in the war, not much he could do for them. Pair of destroyers were working to try and make a run on the carrier, but their own compliments of MAS and fighters were in a losing battle as well, and too far away for Rhino to effectively cross the distance and engage. That left the 'front', quite a number of Fenrir II and, more concerningly, Sköllr Heavies, which could not be allowed to approach. The flanking Garmr squad was moving fast through the debris field to pincer them, while both Rabbit and Hex were already deploying to fight. Rabbit forming into a fighter configuration while Hex opened up and evaded missiles. Speaking of, system alarms alerted him of incoming ordinance, thrusters flaring to full life to evade the dumb fire, while several micro missiles from the Katar CIWS launched from his back shoulder, the smaller missiles darting out and causing the space between him and the debris field to light up with intercepted munitions detonating well and truly prematurely. Engaging the Sköllr units anywhere close was dangerous, but the debris field was too much cover to risk his limited 170mm ammunition.

"Vulture, Rhino, moving to intercept and tie down the main Coalition MAS force. Can't let those Sköllr get close." Having informed their leader of his plan, Rhino pushed the thruster to carry him increasingly towards the encroaching Coalition MAS units. Incoming fire from the 35mm autocannons was ignored, munitions that hit doing little more than scratching the paint of the dense, uparmored frame moving steadily towards the enemy. With his MAC-011 secured, he instead deployed the M81 out of the Secutor's right gauntlet instead. Tracking incoming targets, Rhino let loose a short burst of 30mm rounds, forcing the lead elements of the Coalition MAS units to either take cover or run the gauntlet of incoming fire. One Fenrir II was feeling bold, mistaking the Secutor's automatic fire for a Sentry's more modern assault autocannon perhaps. Breaking free of the debris field, more 35mm rounds deflected off the sloped armor that the Secutor boasted, and now that he had coaxed the Fenrir out of hiding, Rhino held nothing back.

The steady, shuddering barrage of 35mm ammunition steadily tore apart the Fenrir as it attempted to engage in evasive maneuvers, though it exposed its flight boosters which got torn apart by the Armor Piercing Incendiary rounds, taking out the bulk of its maneuverability and allowing the walking fire to tear apart the rest, sending it spiraling out of control back into the debris field. Dead or disabled, it didn't matter to Rhino as he began maneuvering the Secutor, screening his lesser armored allies from the encroaching bulk of the MAS forces. He would have to leave the flanking lights to another, but short of them trying to get into metaphorical knife fighting range and go for the joints, he was confident they had nothing that could do any lasting damage. His strategy was simple, block the Coalition forces, force them to engage him, and bring them out into strike range of his allied pilots.

---

---

Elliot winced in embarrassment as the squad chastened his eagerness and the blood rushed to his face in response. No matter, Elliot didn’t plan on making himself a fool on day 1, or any day for that matter. A little voice in his head reminded him that few planned such events but Elliot pretended not to hear anything as he focused on taking hold of the twin sticks that controlled the MAS. Elliot had a combined simulation and practical flight time of over a thousand hours but they always said nothing could prepare you for the real thing. Elliot couldn’t tell if the tremor making its way down his leg was from fear or excitement, and there was only one way to find out. Elliot pushed forward, aligning his MAS with the launch pad as the system locked him in and prepared for catapult.

Elliot’s eyes wandered until he was staring straight up towards the launch bay opening. Time had almost crawled to a standstill; it seemed as Elliots brain had begun racing. Everything Elliot had worked towards had led him to this moment, the moment he’d only dreamed of until now. It was here, seconds away. Elliot’s mind was seized up in a wave of Euphoria mere moments before the catapult released and sent him roaring forward at breakneck speeds. Elliot’s mouth flew open and a whooping holler of joy filled his ears as the Venerator shot from the launch bay narrowly missing the Blackout as it recovered from its evasive maneuvers. Elliot was briefly shocked out of his reverie and instinctively yanked on the controls to pivot away from the Blackout and the launch corridor.

"Welcome to the 7th, Rook. Get used to the chaos. It's all we ever do here." Hex called across as the Blackout made a cheeky salute.

Elliot was a bit taken aback for a moment and the handful of violations that his instructors had drilled into his head jumped to the forefront of his mind. Mr. Brok Would have had Elliot scrubbing the joints of the schools entire MAS contingent if he’d even dreamed of pulling a maneuver like that. Just as quickly as the thoughts came to mind Elliot shut them down, this was battle, the real deal. Elliot had no place to chasten his fellow squadmates on their flying, let alone in regards to evasive maneuvers. These weren’t the posh wimpy boys and girls Elliot had been forced to board with at the naval academy, these were tried and tested pilots. Elliot knew with each passing moment they were taking stock of him, trying to figure out what to make of his mettle. Elliot would do his best to not disappoint, he couldn’t dare look weak in front of his fellows.

”Thanks for the welcome and the shave, Hex. Been meaning to take a few inches off the top anyways. Glad to be part of the 7th!.” Elliot called back, attempting a smooth quip to show that he’d not almost pissed himself by the close call.

Alerts pinged across the hud and Elliot quickly began going on the defensive as he tried to get a handle on the battlefield composition. Elliot’s loadout wasn’t really specced for the distance they were at and judging by his fellows they were already prioritizing the protection of the Roanoke. Thus Elliot chose to direct his attention to the two destroyer’s in need of assistance. Elliot was still a good ways out from his effective combat range and thus engaged the Venerators boosters and swept out towards the allied destroyers.

Elliot pushed the Venerator towards the redline in an attempt to reach the allied destroyers before they or their retinue suffered too much more at the hands of coalie scum. Elliot’s arrival was swift and he took advantage of the coalies being focused on their current targets. Reducing speed enough to allow slight maneuverability Elliot quickly engaged the MAS’s rocket maul. Already systems were diverting energy to the head of the massive weapon as the penetrating spike energized as Elliot joined together the two halves of the haft to give the monstrous maul its full reach. Elliot was rapidly closing on a Fenrir who was wholly unaware of the destruction hurtling his way.

This was the moment when most would hesitate. Simulations never could prepare someone for the true depth of taking a life, for those who’d experienced this dreadful deed would say it was like trading a piece of your soul for each life taken. It was a hefty deed that would and should give pause to most. Elliot did it without a second thought, it was a coalie, nothing more. Elliot had already cared little for those he saw beneath him and didn’t even have a way to really measure what an enemy meant to him. The thought that he’d be ending human lives wasn’t really one that he’d ever really entertained, in fact Elliot wasn’t sure if he’d even call the Coalies human. Whether this coldness was a symptom of his upbringing or UEE indoctrination was hard to determine, but regardless Elliot spared no thought towards what would be his first kill.

Elliot appeared behind the coalie MAS at breakneck speeds, by the time the enemy MAS was alerted to his presence he’d already engaged the rocket maul in its deadly ark. Elliot pulled up hard at the last second as he swung the maul at an upward angle. The coalie MAS turned in surprise, attempting to face his newfound opponent before the heated point of the Maul penetrated the cockpit from beneath. The force of the blow carried through as the Venerator practically gutted the coalie MAS, entirely ripping the cockpit from center mass as the maul continued in its upward arc.

Of course Elliot’s move had been a tad high octane and left him with a lot of velocity to shave off, suddenly the focus of the kill melted away as Elliot rapidly found himself becoming the target for the remaining coalies harrying the destroyers. In a rush Elliot transferred his momentum into a set of evasive maneuvers that aimed to put him on the other side of the destroyers relative to his targets, either to give himself a moment to reorient or for potential backup to arrive. Elliot suddenly realized that he’d rushed off without ensuring he’d called for any sort of assistance and very well might have overextended himself out past the protective capabilities of his squad. Just as suddenly Elliot remembered the capabilities of Hex’s Blackout and quickly opened a line.

“This is Rook to Hex requesting cover if possible, I’ve overextended myself a bit here admittedly.” He called into the comms channel, trying to keep the embarrassment from his voice.

---

<<Commie.>>

Two birds of prey stood vigil, as a near-miss of abject disaster was fortunately scoured down to a comedy of errors on the catapults before them, letting the ensuing radio chatter between the two actors wash over them for a time before the tight, clipped voice of the Commander bridged the gap between Vulture and Shrike. Roy was dead certain he could hear the exasperated sigh in the cockpit opposite, in the three seconds before the comms channel went live— pilots of the same stripe as they were, he just about shared the opinion. The order that followed came as little surprise, even as they approached the catapult:

<<You're on babysitting duty.>>

<<Solid copy, Commander.>>

The personal line winked shut. Orders given. Kilmer took a breath through the nose, leaning back into the seat as the magnetic clamps secured his MAS's feet onto the launch platform. There was no plush cushioning to sink into— the prototype'd come out of the box already stripped down and light on "creature comforts" as far as any military hardware had them. After he and the mechanics' mad dash to strip all nonessential weight, it was far easier to simply say that he was relying on his suit's compressive gel and his body's own resilience whenever the high Gs hit————

<<Tower. 101-5 Heading out.>>

The brake system released, and the back of his skull fought to sink into the last bit of shock absorption the Boeing rep had fought him (almost literally) to keep as the platform rocketed forth towards the void. His last thought of the ground was that had they more time than this, he'd ideally be launching from the Naginata bay in fighter mode. Greater exit speed, greater combat readiness, nice and familiar feel...

A moment later, and he cleared the bay doors, the mere man from the ground with such petty concerns gone, replaced. Someone else was in the driver's seat— fundamentally the same, yet undeniably changed.

He hitched his breath, and pushed the throttle forward, solid-fuel afterburners silently roaring to life in the vacuum like a newborn star. Yanking back on the controls drew an impossibly tight arc out of the blue-white blaze as the Shrike swept itself high, heedless of those aforementioned G forces stamping themselves into the frame. The pilot within bore them without complaint, and pushed things a step further even as his HUD blossomed to life with the IFF Feed as the situation at hand caught up with him. His radar picture, fed via uplink from Tower, the location of his peers within the 101st— Hex providing overwatch fire for Rabbit as the latter began to peel an element of Garmrs off the flank, Rhino setting himself up as a one-man blockade point... Yeah, good. He could leave them to this, now that they were actually out of the gate.

Braide and his Venator, though?

He checked bearing, coming out of the roll and slamming a button on the side of his cockpit, nearly eye-level. supposed to be impossible to do by accident, to utilize at an "inopportune time", as deemed by the manufacturers.

Barely a breath after its momentum had rolled back to "forward" with the hard work of his thrust vectoring, verniers, and retros in concert, the Shrike folded in on itself, replacing the warrior made in man's image with the sleek profile of an aerospace fighter.

—And as quickly as the situation had "caught up" with Kilmer, he was gone, the comet's tail roaring to life anew behind him.

<<Belay that, Hex.>> he spoke, cutting into the channel as he painted a duo of Fenrirs that had spotted the new kid and his shiny, expensive production model a little too far from home, moving to encircle him even as their autocannons (and potshots from other, less directly engaged units) harried him through his defensive flowchart towards the other end of a nearby destroyer. Even as his speed indicator surged past the endpoint of triple digits, looking at the kid's piloting... it was textbook. <<I'll chaperone him. Just keep your eye on Rabbit.>>

Very textbook, very crisp, very well-ingrained in the way only consistent practice could grant. Long hours in the sim on the kid were about what Roy had heard since he'd first shown up. They showed. He had a lot of potential between that and the Venator he brought to the party... if they lived long enough to get any seasoning.

<<Rookie, smoke in the air.>>

As one, the Fenrirs let their Sledgehammer Racks rise and begin to track, two trios of heavy missiles suddenly about to begin bearing in on the Venator. Somewhat slow for MAS-caliber, but more than punchy enough to rip through anything short of Rhino's Secutor in one shot.

They then raised their rifles. Commie clicked his tongue, seeing the gambit as he closed into autocannon range. The thing about Coalition pilots was that they were, in most engagement, the older hands at MAS operations. Sly, wily, and experienced. Everything the newly-written textbooks their rookie had pored over wasn't— by comparison, the ink had barely dried before it made it onto the Academy desks. With the destroyer still at Braide's back, the missiles would force him into another evasive pattern over it, the obstruction limiting his movement before it could limit their firing patterns. They'd cover his exits. Riddle him full of holes.

<<Commie, defending.>>

He opened fire, the steady chug of 50mm fire forcing the Fenrirs to break off after launching the missiles and about-face, getting their ballistic shields between them and the rounds headed downrange. They raised their rifles again, trying to track the streaking newcomer—

But their vision was filled with light, as a billowing curtain of flares spread in the Shrike's wake as it soared past. The infrared targeting of the Sledgehammers that had previously keyed into the Venator's drive signature was now thoroughly confused, and unable to recalibrate after the Fenrirs had jettisoned their racks.

<<Braide.>> the more experienced pilot hailed, tone unchanging even as he brought his craft around in a hard bank, brow knit beneath the visor of his suit as the strain of flying tried to remove his senses from him. As the six missiles detonated prematurely, the blue of his afterburners was brilliant against the blooming orange glow. <<We're forming an element. I suggest you fly your ass off if you're this far out— Take it from me. Once we get back to the boat, you're not gonna have much of one left.>>

And screaming out of the turn through the curtain of flame the missiles and flares had left, the Shrike unfolded anew, bearing down on the first Fenrir behind the length of his beam saber the moment he appeared. Unable to react in time to the appearance of an MAS where he expected an aerospace fighter, the pilot loosed a couple rounds on pure panicked reflex—

But they sailed wide, and the saber struck home through the midsection. The Shrike barely lost momentum as the mighty thrusters shoved the plasma edge through, and it was all the second pilot could do to rip free his broadsword before the Shrike was upon him. Alone in the box, an indulgence only he was privy to, the Lieutenant Junior Grade couldn't stop a pleased grin from playing across his face.

Ionized blades clashed, and sparks flew, painting their section of the frozen black with a brilliant, shattered prism.

Some days, he truly did hate being the Roanoke's CAG. Like today, when the third pilot in a row decide to try to blow his eardrums out. And subsequently demonstrate that there was a high fucking chance he hadn't paid attention to a word of warning.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, fuck me sideways." Sagan grumbled under his breath as he switched his comms output to a private channel, hailing the squadron's other suicidal idiot. But at least this one could follow orders.

<< Commie. You're on babysitting duty. >> Kilmer would get the point. They didn't need to expand on the subject past that.

<< Vulture, Tower. Green light, green light. Launch! >>

Seemed his turn on the grav chute had come up. Sagan's previously put-upon expression suddenly gave off a devil's grin. For all the bellyaching he did, there really was nothing else like piloting. Even if he had to kill to take part in it. Well, it wasn't as if he was some fucking Coalie sympathizer. Much as he griped about his own government, they weren't the ones shooting at his ass.

<< Roger. Commander Kodos, GTM-21 Sentry "Watchdog". Launching! >> Was it necessary to make such an old-fashioned declaration before takeoff? Absolutely not, but Sagan was nothing but a sucker for the classics.

Takeoff came, and the Watchdog leapt into the void, shield already extended and targeting systems fired up as its pilot scanned the battlefield.

<< Smart-targeting suite active. Datalink established, syncing. >> He reported, starting to paint targets for the squad. As one of the only two suits with the suite installed, the duty fell to him nonetheless, given that he was barking out orders anyway. << Coming up on your HUDs now. Lock and load, people! Get those shovels out! >>

The Watchdog boosted forward into the fray, joining Rhino's Secutor in charging the front lines. Rabbit and Hex were already dealing with the flankers, and Commie would be busy bailing Braide's sorry ass out. A quick glance at the tactical readout as he advanced had Sagan rolling his eyes. Of course.

<< Rook! >> The fake-jovial, down-home mocking tone came out in full force. << Looking to crawl home to Pappy in a body bag already? Didn't think I was that hard on you in training! >> The techs and maintenance crew had been complaining about the kid's attitude too. Something to talk to him about after, if he made it through this.

The Watchdog boosted forward, getting a lock on another Fenrir-II about to try to flank Rhino. Not on his watch. There wasn't enough time to get tone, and Sagan would have preferred to conserve his missiles for harder targets. Guns it was.

The targeting suite's display overlaid his HUD, eliminating the need for a physical scope within the cockpit. AI targeting synced with his HPK's systems, giving a readout of the opposing Fenrir. Left chest would be the fastest way to core the bastard from Sagan's angle of attack.

<< Rhino, Vulture. Got you covered, focus on the big boys! >> The Watchdog opened fire, its bullpup's inbuilt plasma converter sheathing 20mm autocannon rounds within the barrel as they fired, hybrid plasma fire lacing the Fenrir-II in quick three-round bursts that had it cored in a few pulls of the trigger.

<< The hell are these? >> A voice came over the short-band comms interceptor Sagan had duct-taped into his cockpit. Best paycheck he'd ever spent. << The Imps brought elite units! Careful, squad! Don't go in thinking they'll be as easy as the last group was! >>

As if on cue, a missile warning blared in Sagan's cockpit as two Fenrirs got tone on him. Maul missiles came surging from their shoulder units, and Sagan yanked the stick back while pressing down on the pedals, sending the Watchdog screaming upward in a quick ascent.

<< Vulture, defending! >> The point-defense laser vulcan rigged up on the Watchdog's head activated, sending CIWS fire down at the pair of missiles while countermeasures activated. One Maul was set off by laser impact, while the other detonated harmlessly in the face of chaff and flares. Sagan grit his teeth, briefly glancing to see the flare readout on his HUD decrease by one. Not the best start, but it was that or risk eating missile right on launch. Fine, they wanted to play hardball?

Multi-lock activated, and the targeting suite quickly got tone on the two offenders. As expected, they scattered to avoid what they assumed to be an incoming missile strike, and Sagan took advantage of that, firing bursts at one Fenrir while madly boosting at the other, beam saber extended in the Watchdog's left hand. He'd keep the escorts tied up while Rhino focused on the heavies.