[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center] [hr] [b]<>[/b] 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 [i]hear[/i] 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: [b]<>[/b] <<[color=ff4136]Solid copy, Commander.[/color]>> [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZXq20hm1r8]The personal line winked shut.[/url] 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———— <<[color=ff4136]Tower. 101-5 Heading out.[/color]>> 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 [i]swept[/i] 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 [i]gone[/i], the comet's tail roaring to life anew behind him. [color=ff4136]<>[/color] 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. [color=ff4136]<>[/color] [i]Very[/i] 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. [color=ff4136]<>[/color] 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. [color=ff4136]<>[/color] 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. [color=ff4136]<>[/color] 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. [color=ff4136]<>[/color] 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.