[center][h3]LT Emma “Misfit” Virtanen[/h3][/center] 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. [code]"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."[/code] 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. [code]"All pilots to strike craft. I repeat: All pilots to strike craft. Prepare for imminent combat."[/code] 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. [hr] [code] > Confirming Pilot Assignment: LT Emma Virtanen _ > ...Pilot Confirmed > Initializing systems… [/code] "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. [code] > Reactor: Online_ > Life Support: Online_ > Shield Generator: Online_ > Weapon Systems: Online_ [/code] 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. [code] > All Calibrations Complete > All Systems Nominal > Standby for Launch [/code] 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. <> 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. <> Compared to Ensign Braide’s fiery comms Virtanen's voice was a breath of cold.