March 12th, 2014
Women's Barracks, Shattered Steel HQ
Malta, The Mediterranean

The disturbance at the door to the barracks roused Kat. The amazonian, scarred cycloptic woman's eye snapped open...
...and she pulled her covers up around her chin, turned over, and went back to sleep.

March 13th, 2014
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean

Scott had been greeted with a number of messages after he'd awoken. The squadron's transports had arrived, bearing with them the defence and security forces from Shattered Steel to reinforce the beleaguered Malta Defence Force troops and the handful of Italian personnel that had been deployed to the island nation. Air defence positions had been reinforced with more teams of MANPADS, and the transports were on their way back to the island to bring heavier defence vehicles, backup ground-based radar, and more.
The planes had also ferried across ordnance for the squadron's planes, their mechanics, spare parts, and other such necessary supplies, and over the night the pilots had slept, they had been busy. Sandbagged shelters had been erected around the planes, ammo dumps had been established, and various other measures put into place to turn the airport into a military airbase.
He'd reviewed the overview of specific information related to the understood strength of the enemy, their assets, and the allies they had on site, and got a good overview of the goals for the operation.
All that in mind, he'd called a briefing first thing for the squadron, intending to get them rolling right away, before anything else could happen.

Colonel Abela would be attending, and already sat in the briefing room, ready and attentive. Captain Hoffman, the officer in charge of the ground forces from Shattered Steel was also there, as well as Major Wolfgang, the commander of their maintenance crews.
Scott waited for the others to filter in, nodding and greeting them as they did so. The helicopter crew arrived; their machine having been transported there in the hold of the enormous Antonov transport plane.
As soon as everyone was there and seated and the door closed, Scott started speaking. His manner was much more brisk, formal, and stern than their first meeting - but there was a lot more to get through, as he started to talk.
"Good morning, everyone. Now you're all here, there's a lot to get through, and we have work to do. Our supporting elements have arrived, and have put in a massive effort to get things ready and in place for us to carry out our operations. In addition, Captain Hoffman's people have worked with Colonel Abela's forces and reinforced the defences for the airport. Once more of our people and vehicles arrived, additional early warning and defensive positions will be set up. But let me give an overview of our local situation first of all".

A projector screen behind Scott flashed up with an overview of Malta, showing the three-island archipelago, with highlighted areas of interest and concern.
"We are currently located at Luqa International Airport, as you well know. This is the only airport in the archipelago and thus the country. The only thing otherwise vaguely comparable is the heliport on the northern island of Gozo, which has no runway, taxiways, and is comprised only of a single, paved area that holds two helipads.
"The Maltese Defence force is also headquartered here at the airport. Their air wing has no combat aircraft; their utility helicopters have only door guns and small arms available, and they have no armed fixed-wing aircraft. The Italian Air Force are able to respond, but are - at best - fifty miles distant, and otherwise engaged and unable to be stationed here and respond or act as fluidly as we are.
"As such; it will be our duty to carry out both defensive and offensive operations against the forces that are targeting supply convoys via both air and sea to Malta".
The screen shifted image, showing the locations of previous incidents, attacks on aerial and ocean convoys. Another click, and the images showed frantically captured images of aircraft and sea-going vessels. Other windows flashed up, identifying the various marks and models. It was an eclectic mix of equipment; some European, some former Soviet, a small smattering US.
"Our aggressors are relatively well-equipped. Not the most modern or high-grade equipment, but nothing to be dismissed easily. Their combat assets are capable, especially when used well. Their tactics have notably changed over the course of the reported engagements; moving from simple hit-and-run attacks to organised, calculated pincer movements, attacks, and ambushes. The use of military equipment has likewise escalated. Initially, attacks were carried out by fishing or cargo vessels with improvised armaments and civil helicopters with small arms or man-portable heavy weapons. Once the ships started packing armed escorts and deck-mounted weapons, this escalated to naval vessels, and combat aircraft started to appear, and the tactics escalated to more military-oriented ones. This indicates - to me, and to the big brains at intel - as the involvement of professional consultants and trainers. Who, we currently have no idea. The variety of aircraft types might also indicate the presence of mercenaries".
He hesitated to let the information sink in and for the group to process what he'd poured out at them, before moving onto the next phase.
"While our hostiles seem to be based out of Libya and possibly Tunisia, their movements and what has been tracked on radar so far, as well as intelligence from our Italian allies points to them having taken control of the Pelagie Islands, or at least the harbours and airports there, and using the islands for shelter. As such, this will be our first point of focus".
The screen shifted again to show the islands of Lampedusa and Linosa, a smaller window showing Lampedusa airport.
"The harbour at Lampedusa isn't sufficient to berth or resupply large vessels, only smaller ones; many of which have been used in the attacks. However, the airport would make a perfect staging point for an aerial invasion of Malta. Linosa has no airports or large harbours. Though, that said; it is still possible it could be home to air defences or other 'surprises'.
"All this borne in mind - it's going to be our first objective for a recon mission. Although; not one without a complication, naturally".
A wry smile crept onto his face as he spoke, and another slide came up.
"Naturally, there's also a convoy inbound. But we're going to turn that to our advantage. A convoy will be entering our operational airspace at approximately 11:30 hours. Naturally, we're going to be up and providing a CAP for the ships against both aerial and surface targets. At the same time though, I'm going to have planes up and ready to pounce on the points of origin for those attacking air and surface targets and get us some valuable recon, in order to plan our next attacks".
Scott's eyes were firm, hard and intense as he looked out in the dim light of the briefing room, searching out and meeting the eyes of his people as he spoke their names.
"Here's the assignments: Cobalt 3, Cobalt 4, And Cobalt 5; you'll be our trackers. Skywatch will give you your vectors to the target area. Your primary objective will be to get recon images of the airport and harbour at Lampedusa. Secondary objectives to get as many recon images of the island and any other defensive positions or concentrations as possible. Tertiary objective; strike any targets of opportunity.
"The rest of Cobalt Haze squadron, we're going to be in two flights of two aircraft; loaded for both air to air and air to surface engagement. We're going to be the guard dogs. Anything comes sniffing around the convoy, we chase if off and either shoot it out of the sky, or send it to the bottom of the ocean.
"Rules of engagement are as follows: Recon Team, you're clear to engage in self-defence if locked on by hostile radar, or to strike high-value military targets of opportunity, if clearly identified. Do not linger, or make re-attacks. The recon is the primary objective.
Guard Dog flight; warnings will be broadcast to any vessels or aircraft approaching within five miles; any unidentified aircraft or vessel on an attack profile or on a direct heading for the convoy will be regarded as hostile until otherwise identified. If they don't turn away after the warning - we engage with prejudice. I'll be commanding Flight One".
He hesitated a moment, locking eyes with the relevant members of the squadron as he continued.
"Cobalt 6, You're with me in Flight One. Cobalt 7, you're commanding Flight Two and Cobalt 8 is your wingman".
He let that hang in the air a moment, making eye contact with all those involved, before moving immediately on to the next order of business.
"Recon Team; Cobalt Three will be in command. Captain Bouchard; I'm sure I can trust you and Le Armee de l'Air's experience and expertise as well as your own to know what's needed and exercise your responsibility well".
He gave the redheaded woman a brief, tight smile.
"Cobalt Hotel and Cobalt Heavy will be on standby should any rescue ops be needed, along with the Maltese forces helos and maritime patrol aircraft and vessels. Major Hoffman, Colonel Abela; Have your people stand ready in case the hostile forces use this as an excuse to attack here - but, I don't anticipate that issue. Major Wolfgang; what's the status on our aircraft and your maintenance personnel?"
The older man spoke up from his position in the rows of seats.
"All of your aircraft have been serviced after the flight here. Nothing needed; but they're in condition to go. My people are ready to upload weapons and fuel at a moment's notice, we'll get it done as soon as we're done here, sir".
"Excellent. Everyone, you've got your orders. Wheels-up in-" he checked his watch "-four hours. Get fed, get ready, and let's go kick some asses. Questions, comments, ideas?"
The lights snapped back on, and the screen went dim. Everyones' electronic flight assistants beeped or chimed with the information sent over as the briefing completed, and the burbling of conversation kicked up as the sandy-haired, odd-eyed pilot leant back from the briefing lectern and his expression relaxed.

March 12th, 2014
Malta Defence Forces HQ > Men's Barracks, Shattered Steel HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean

The rest of the squadron were already bunked down for the night as their final member touched down on the tarmac and taxied to the area set aside for his aircraft. A somehow even more last-minute addition, Illya had been reassigned to Cobalt Haze as the second replacement for the two pilots that had to drop out of the operation before they'd even left The Forge. Because it had been so last-minute though, There wasn't enough time for all the necessary preps and checks to be complete before the rest of the squadron went wheels-up, so he hadn't been able to leave with them...

The flight over was uneventful, but he didn't mind. It was peaceful, and quiet. Once he was back on terra-firma, he'd wasted no time before squaring things away with the ground crew and making for the Barracks to rest for the following day's operation. Seeking not to disturb the others in the room already asleep, he moved carefully and deliberately to the bunk in the quietest corner of the room and finally settled in for the night...

March 13th, 2014
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean

Illya was not happy. Perhaps it was his late addition to the team, but something had gone wrong or been forgotten and it had resulted in his wake-up call being neglected and he had very nearly missed the briefing. Hardly the best way to make a first impression, he'd gotten ready as quickly as he could and hauled ass to the briefing room, only to narrowly avoid having the door closed in his face; A quiet apology later, he slipped into the back of the room quietly to catch as much of the briefing as he could but he picked up on a glaring detail as the room lights flicked back on and, after taking a moment to swallow his nerves, spoke up as he offered a quick salute.

"Lt. Illya Sokolov, sir. I apologise for my late arrival, but I was under the impression you had already received my dossier and wished to ask about my role in the operation."

"Lt. Illya Sokolov, sir. I apologise for my late arrival, but I was under the impression you had already received my dossier and wished to ask about my role in the operation."

As the new pilot entered and introduced himself, Scott was taken by surprise. He checked his notes and notifications, flipping through to see if he'd missed something... and in the same instant he was doing so, a torrent of messages appeared in his inbox. With an exasperated sigh, the squadron leader rolled his mismatched eyes, before surrendering to a wry smile and shaking his head.
"No, don't apologise, Lieutenant Sokolov. It seems like I've only just got the information about you being assigned after we had two pilots drop out yesterday before we even set off. I'll have to catch up on your dossier double-time when I get a chance.
In the meantime, I'll give you the quick version of the operation:"

Scott quickly went over the specifics of their upcoming mission, what the objectives were, and where everyone would be deployed, before coming back to Illya's arrival and his question about his place in it.
"As for where you'll be; I'm going to assign you to Flight One with myself and Cobalt 7, to protect the convoy of ships. Wheels up in four hours; so get yourself fed, watered, and prepped. Mechanics and ground crews will be uploading weapons and fuelling our planes".
He quickly checked the electronic tablet in his hands, and then nodded.
"I've been sent over the details for your electronic flight book; all the details for the mission have been sent over to you as well, so you should have everything you need. Glad to have you with us"

March 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean

She would do anything for her family, and as far as requests went, checking in every now and again was pretty doable. International calls weren't cheap, but it wasn't like Fuka did very much with her paychecks anyway. No, what made her hesitate was not money but pride. Every time she got in contact with her relatives the same infernal question would be asked, a landmine nestled beneath the peaceful path of conversation. And what made it particularly annoying was that they never meant to needle her, they simply did not know how much their inquiry offended her. Fuka had often thought about explaining herself but could never muster up the courage, resigned to bearing her weight in silence.

It was early as all hell in Malta, the sun just beginning its ascent over the little republic, but in Japan the day was well underway. Thus Fuka could ring up her sister without guilt, leaning up against an old church dedicated to a saint whose name she could not read. The signage was faded to the point of near illegibility, the provenance of the place known to the locals and uncared for by anyone else. Fuka's run had taken her to the town of Luqa, a scant half-hour away from the airport but seemingly transported from another time. Densely packed with buildings constructed by the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those living in them, it was archetypally European in that way. So much history and yet so abandoned by modernity, a pocket dimension where people still lived in villages and relied on the tolling of church bells to mark time.

She was out of place in her running shoes and tracksuit, and the mechanical limb holding a high-grade satphone to her ear may as well have been artifacts from aliens.

The phone rang only once before someone picked up, a familiar voice filling her. It was Japan's Minister of Defense and the right-hand woman of the Prime Minister, the second most prominent voice in the JDSF and thus one of the most powerful people in the Pacific. Yōko was a born and bred war hawk, her long and successful career built off the back of military service and a vocal interest in making Japan not just a power player but the ultimate force in its sphere of influence. She was cunning, crafty, and at times domineering-, but Fuka still remembered her as the awkward teen she had watched grapple with high school romances and nightly curfews.

"Fuka! It's been a while."

"Yeah, I guess so. I didn't want to bother you; I know you've been busy."

"Not too busy for a phone call, or just a text."

Yōko laughed lightly as she said it, but her politician's mask didn't hold up under familial scrutiny. The lack of contact hurt her and Fuka didn't know how to apologize for it or even explain herself. So she didn't bother, the sisters letting the moment pass in favor of other topics.

"I got a call from another contractor, this one claimed they can deliver rifle optics for twenty percent less than what you pay now."

"Mhm. Sounds great...if I could believe it."

"I told them you'd say that, but they wanted me to come out to their factory and get the grand tour, see the setup so I could relay the good word."

"And how'd that go?"

"It didn't. I told them you had a secretary and it's not me."

More laughter from a hemisphere away, and this time it was genuine.

"Keep fielding calls for me and we might have to make it official."

At this point they might as well have. All sorts of suit-wearing strangers kept seeking Fuka out, ranging from slick Madison Avenue types representing this or that weapons firm to sweaty-faced, shabby-suited engineers looking for a trial run of their newest gadget. When every single member of your immediate family held influence in military or political affairs, plenty of suitors sought favors and friendship. Put in a good word for us with your father, ask your sister if she could listen to a proposal, hey doesn't your brother know people in the Ordinance Department, do you think you could drop our name to them?

No one ever wanted to talk to Fuka because of what Fuka did. She didn't get callers who wanted to grill her on her career path, no one ever sent emails inquiring if they could ask about the amazing journey from elite soldier to fighter pilot. Nope, she was just a stepping stone to the more important Astor-Nakanos. It was funny and irritating in equal measure, her wounded warrior status getting plenty of cred in bars and on dating apps but no love in the world her family occupied.

"But really," Yōko said dismissively, her shrug almost audible. "I'm not sure why they'd want to talk to me. The administration's hardly been the most interested in expanding our arsenal."

"Yeah, and everyone knows that won't be the case if you and Chieko get your way. They're saying you're looking at the PM position yourself."

"Oh my, I didn't realize I was speaking to the kingmaker. Tell me, Miss Backroom Dealer, who's saying that?"

Fuka snorted, watching an Egyptian goose hunt for crumbs on the church lawn.

"Mama and Papa, for starters. Your partner-in-crime Chieko for another, every pundit that mentions your name these days, and also anyone paying any fucking attention at all."

"...maybe I'm considering it."

Oh she was considering it alright, like the rooster considered whether or not to crow at the sun. Her boss was well-liked but considered to be too high-strung to keep the job for much longer, an assessment he seemed to agree with if the rumors were true. If he stepped down it was all but guaranteed that Yōko would be going to every Diet member she could reach to cajole them into giving her the okay, all while Chieko beat the war drums and Ayako would be off to the side in Arizona, waving a banner in support.

The question was whether Japan was ready for them.

"I guess you're going to have to campaign on a military platform, at this point no one would believe you if you said anything else was your main focus. That and the birthrate I suppose."

"Guilty as charged." the presumptive PM said, the pop of a beer top telling Fuka that her sister had gotten out of work for the day. "People know me and my credentials, and they know what I stand for."

An old-school warlord in the modern fashion, interested in strengthing Japan's position and undercutting anything that would threaten it. That's what Yōko was, and she was more popular now than she would have been twenty years ago.

"I mean, your odds are probably pretty good. You're not a shoe-in or anything, don't get a big head, but people like that kind of talk now. Fuck China, fuck their cronies; the Soviet Union doesn't exist anymore so maybe we can be friends with Russia so we have an ally that isn't a million miles away, expand the JSDF and put it to use offensively; it's a new age now."

"That's what I told Mama yesterday, but she's more conservative in her outlook. Hell, she was saying I'd be dead in the water because of the-"

"-nuke question, yeah. I mean, she's not entirely wrong is she? Asking Japan to jump into the proliferation pool seems a bit like asking an arson victim to buy lots of gasoline."

"It's more like asking someone who's been mugged to take up self-defense courses."

Yōko cut her off with an intensity that was uncharacteristic of her in private conversation but very reminiscent of when she held a press conference or stood at the podium. There was a dangerous sort of enthusiasm in her voice, a kind of controlled mania wherein she could acknowledge that someone disagreed with her but was sure she could make them see reason.

"Mama's from an older generation. Her brother was conscripted to fight in Manchuria, and she had a pen pal whose dad helped rebuild Hiroshima. In her time, the bomb was a no-go, totally verboten. But I don't know if you remember, a decade ago the sky fell on us and shattered everything. It's like you said, we're in a new age. People want security, and right now? We're not secure. The N/UN is a stopgap, and we need to be fearsome in our own right. We shouldn't have to ask for help from the Americans to deal with enemy planes poking at our airspace."

"Fuck me then, I guess." Fuka muttered, Yōko blithely ignoring the comment.

"-the enemy should be terrified of even accidentally crossing us. The people want security, and they want respect. This is how we get it."

Fuka pinched the phone between her head and shoulder, holding her hands up to the receiver so it could pick up a sarcastic round of applause.

"Is that the speech you'll give when you announce your candidacy? You practice it in the shower?"

"Ha ha, very droll. What about you? You have anything exciting in your life right now?"

There it was, the damnable question. Her parents and siblings, full or half-blooded, all asked her in various wordings and tones but it meant the same thing every time: Are you still pretending to be an action figure, or do you plan on settling down and stepping up in the world?

"I'm still flying planes. Now I just do it for a mercenary outfit."

"Right, Evan mentioned that. How's that compare to military life?"

"The pay is better, the gear is a mixed bag, the coworkers are a mix of laidback, greedy, and bloodthirsty. But overall, it's a lot of the same."

"Well, at least you adjusted easily."

"I guess I did."

"You deployed anywhere interesting?"

"I can't give you a location, obviously, but as far as deployment zones go this sure beats Juarez. It's a vacation spot usually."

"Lucky you!"

Lucky her indeed. Fuka eyed the early morning sun to estimate how much time she had before needing to leave, and mercifully it was almost none. If she hung up now she could make it back to the barracks with enough time to shower and grab breakfast before the meeting.

"Alright, I need to head out. Enjoy your evening."

"You too, and stay safe."
—----
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean

Fuka sipped her soda as Scott gave the run-down, finding the situation about as bad as she had expected. Malta's defense forces remained a joke in the wake of the Heavenstrike, a few ragtag ceremonial troops with outdated weapons and absolutely no artillery or aircraft worth speaking of. The closest thing to a real country was fifty miles away by water, and it was too busy dealing with its own concerns to have a fulltime contigent guarding the archipelago. That meant that the ragtag pirates or terrorists or whatever they were had free reign save for Shattered Steel, mercenaries and renegades duking it out with the fate of the islands hanging in the balance.

It was a bad time to be Maltese, but people usually didn't hire mercenaries when things were going well.

Peacenik visibly slumped in her seat when Scott gave the bad news, rather dissapointed that she was going to be on babysitting duty while the others got to have fun. Shooting in self-defense and at high value targets marked out for her was fine, but if most of the flight was going to be recon she was going to be very bored. There was nothing she could do about it except hope that the mysterious bad guys were feeling ornery by the time she made it to them.

She noted Sokolov's entrance of empathy, glad to see that she wasn't the only one who showed up to the squad late for a briefing. Another Slavic on the team, and hopefully not a Russian. Myk was liable to do or say something stupid if so.

"Heartbreak, question: How long have the Italians known about this? It seems hard to believe that'd they just miss some airports and harbors being taken over, unless there was literally no contact between them and the mainland."

Mykhailo Martinez

"I'm glad to have you, Lieutenant Sokolov - I've heard my Mom talk about you before, albeit in passing. Let's just say that she and Dad have a vested interest in keeping the behemoth to the east - Russia - from regaining its former power and has backed your Government," Mykhailo decided to be more upfront about his stance on that nation this time, even though it got him people's ire. So, you're going to be fighting alongside us in this mission? Good - Glad to meet new friends. Let's protect that convoy together, shall we? What are the specs of your plane and its customizations? I have an F16 Flying Falcon in sky colors..."

To be honest, Mykhailo knew he was socially awkward, which got him in trouble with his friends and relatives back home in the Philippines. However, he also knew that money and good looks can help smooth over his lack of social skills as long as he had them. Not that those worked all the time, but point was... He knew he was bad at talking to people in general of any gender. He was trying to fix it, or at least smooth over the rough edges, but at the same time, sometimes being awkward meant being endearing, and that sort compensated for lack of social skils so well it might as well be an extra skill.

@Damo021@AvaP@Kensai@Smike@Rhona W@Shadow Daedalus

"Heartbreak, question: How long have the Italians known about this? It seems hard to believe that'd they just miss some airports and harbors being taken over, unless there was literally no contact between them and the mainland."

Scott nodded to acknowledge Fuka's question, before he answered.
"Excellent question, and one I had myself when I saw the mention of the islands being all-but taken over in the briefing materials. The Italian government hasn't missed them being taken over, as such. Our operations here on Malta and the reconnaissance information we'll provide, along with any follow-up actions will act as the first strike, with a more permanent N/UN force to follow our initial deployment to hold the territory and act as a more permanent solution to our initial strikes to 'break the back' of the hostiles, as it were. Shattered Steel doesn't have the resources or manpower to hold anywhere long term. We deliver the initial strikes and provide a first, immediate response while the larger force is organised and deployed with a more long-term solution".

Scott gave a tight, small smile, hoping that answered her question, but was distracted as another message came through on his personal device, and shook his head with a frustrated grumble.
"More bad news, I'm afraid. Clown; looks like your Typhoon is unserviceable, and will have to be returned to intensive-level maintenance, more than can be carried out here. The next heavy transport that comes in, you and your plane will be on it, and heading back to the Island. On the upside, replacements for our missing pilots - Clown included - will be arriving, but not in time for this Op. So, we're going to have to do our best with who and what we have"

March 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean

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.

March 13th, 2014
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean

"Likewise, Lieutenant..." He pauses for only the briefest of moments to read the name tag of the younger pilot; having only been given a short briefing on the other members of Cobalt Haze he couldn't place a name to a face instantly just yet. "Martinez. Unfortunately, I can't say I might recognise your mother; I only flew the missions I was given, I didn't get involved with any politics... We can talk more about our technical specs later, after the briefing is over..."

In response to Mykhailo's outspoken opposition to the former heart of the Soviet Union, Illya wasn't sure how to respond and simply deflected the topic. In contrast to the other man, he possessed no such strong feelings toward Russia; It was his Father's homeland, but he felt no strong attachment to it even before Heavensfall, and after Heavensfall he was more concerned with trying to re-unite and rebuild what was left of Ukraine than he was worried about the fate of the other Soviet Nations. If anything, he felt put a little on-the-spot about it, like a schoolboy called to answer a question he had no answer for...