[b]March 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean[/b]


He just never shut up about the Russians did he? Out of five conversations Mykhalio had while Fuka had been listening, two had brought up Russia. Fuka could understand defending one's borders, but the Great Bear was far from the juggernaut that had spearheaded an invasion of the supposed 'graveyard of empires.' Wunderkind's fear struck the more measured pilot as simple paranoia, and his supposed patriotism smacked of performance to her partisan sensibilities. If things were indeed so bleak, the proverbial Huns breathing down the collective necks of this poor Eastern European Milan, why was he far afield with Shattered Steel instead of flying for his own country? Pilots were investments just the same as their planes, trained to the tune of millions of dollars and hundreds of hours across simulators and actual in-air time. Surely Myk, the good Cossack he was, would be be in an airbase back home waiting for the call to cockpit?  

Nope. He was a mercenary like Fuka, sent here and there to squash problems unrelated to his nation's own, real or imagined. He was like many "patriots," happy to talk about duty but going off to do anything but that. As far as Fuka could tell, Myk was a decent kid but he ran his mouth a lot and was overwhelmingly naive, and that was all it took for her to write him off in the moment. It was mean-spirited of her, but Shattered didn't pay her to think pleasant thoughts or babysit boys not even out of college.

She sipped her soda as Scott explained the situation in more detail, glad that it wasn't a total clusterfuck. Whatever they were dealing with sounded too heavy-duty to be crushed by one strike mission, but a few thousand pounds of ordnance dropped on their surplus-helmeted heads would rattle them and hopefully take out their heaviest equipment. If not, then Shattered would repeat the operation and Peacenik would get to do what she did best.

"Understood."

Clown being out of action for the minute was concerning, but it also presented an opportunity. Less wings meant more weight for each pair to pull, and more opportunities to get into a fight instead of just being the eyes in the sky. Carbon fiber fingers drummed against Fuka's leg in silent recognition of the nicotine craving still plaguing her, the need to get up and do something steadily building. 

Hell, withdrawal probably wasn't helping her give Mykhalio any leeway. She had woken up pissed and queasy, a telltale sign that she needed a smoke. Talking to her sister had offset any healing powers fresh air might have had, and now she was sitting there grumpy and growling. 

In times like these, her subconscious reminded her that there was no one to stop her from grabbing a pack from the PX except for herself.