[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center]
[hr]

[color=ff4136]<<Yyyyou got it, Boss.>>[/color] the planet's most serene flyboy to ever drop hot drawled, kicking off his plate like a pair of worn-out sneakers as the raven-black MAS folded its silhouette into something far closer to a traditional aircraft, afterburners flaring as he took an immediate, sharp bank off to form up with Sab. [color=ff4136]<<Commie, dropping plate and forming element. Rabbit, I'm your playdate for the evening— you keep the Garmrs off our guys, I'll keep 'em off you.>>[/color]

In contrast to the undeniably hectic comm chatter surrounding the 7th, once they had genuinely hit atmo Commie had leaned back in his seat, shut his mouth, and settle in for the long ride down. He had trouble explaining it, whenever he was asked why he settled into that lax silence, because it wasn't like hearing the metal creaking or feeling the insistent, sporadic shove of high-altitude jet streams slamming into your airframe for a moment before you burned past them was all that [i]therapeutic—[/i] he shared their CO's opinion on them at least that much. But maybe within those moments, where all you could really do was fall, he found his skill and obsession falling with it— a freedom that came with it all being out of his hands, for once. Let go. Sit back. Breathe, and appreciate the hues of flame. Whatever happens, happens.

But that was then. This was now, and well past kickoff. Back to work.

[color=ff4136]<<Tally ho on a flight of two Garmrs, five o'clock low from your position. Break right, I'll peel them off.>>[/color] he spoke again, his prized swaggering sangfroid once again on his tongue, throwing his bird into a tight corkscrew downward to engage the pair of would-be sneaksters. Riding the Gs like he'd slipped on an old glove, it was child's play to line up the shots with how the trajectories played out— by the time their Sledgehammers had caught up to where the Sparrowhawk had been before he'd spoken up, Roy was depressing the trigger.

The autocannon roared to life, directly below him now after the variable geometry had given him a plane for the price of a mech, and a tight salvo of 50mm rounds rained upon them, tearing into their control surfaces. The immediate smoke trail was a good sign that they wouldn't have a real chance of catching someone of the rich girl's caliber any time soon, nor indeed his own.

First, they'd have to survive the hail of crossfire between the ongoing UEE drop and the Coalition's own defenses.

[color=red]<<[/color]Carlos, what the fuck is that thing that just hit us? My camera's out, I'm gonna have to RTB![color=red]>>[/color]
[color=red]<<[/color]Some kind of prototype! Like those fucked up Sentries it was dropping with— Oh [i]no mames, speaking of fucking Sentries[/i]——[color=red]>>[/color]

Two fireballs bloomed from below, close to the city's ground level, adding small claps to the symphony of percussion and brass on high. The Shrike continued to loiter somewhere that kept it poised to intercept anything that wanted a piece of the Sparrowhawk, heedless of their fate. Eyes on the prize, and all that.