[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center] [hr] [color=ff4136]<>[/color] The harsh midday sun had painted his cockpit gold, as the Shrike circled the stricken Sparrowhawk's crash site, his presence thankfully enough to ward away most any bright-eyed Coalies that fancied themselves battlefield executioner. He had been busying himself with, putting it bluntly, staring into the sun— cycling through each sensor array and photographic filter he had available to him in those brief moments he felt safe to take his eyes off their foulmouthed Rabbit, the rubble of the poor building beneath her shifting as her systems came to. That shot had come from somewhere within the glare— new prey loitering on high, picking away at them and the Helldogs from a nasty angle for any attempts at reprisal. He had more or less triangulated where the shots were coming from, even as he squinted behind his opaque visor. But orders came in. His pound of flesh, once again, had to wait. That was... [i]fine[/i]. Not to his liking for a single second, but his [i]opinion[/i] didn't matter in an offensive of this scale, let alone in the face of their CO. They were here for the long haul anyway, so he didn't doubt his chances of this being far from the last bleeding edge Coalition opponent, same as thing werr up in High Atmo. He had a job to do— and he'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that it needed doing in a way that [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytHjdArnPJQ][i]didn't hold him back[/i].[/url] [color=ff4136]<>[/color] He had breathed in deep, after giving his hails through the comm line, barely a moment after Sab's lilting French tirade had assailed their ears. Bit of a shame, he'd not found any time to deliver her his favored ripostes as their usual repartee had spooled up before she'd gotten her flight surfaces thoroughly scrambled. But nevertheless, if she was treating their ears to it that meant she was more or less fine— and he had places to be. His targets were painted, at the far edge of the city. Rear guard, in the middle of setting up a sniper encampment. If allowed to persist, the high-caliber munitions would create an untenably deadly crossfire between them and their mysterious newcomer on high— and the latter was already evidently watching their movements specifically for the potshotting. He'd been keeping count of the lines of yellow while he'd loitered, whatever it was up there that was trying to pick them all off was being [i]particularly[/i] judicious. Fine. If he was on the lookout for the fast movers of the drop... then Kilmer knew how to get attention. His muscles tensed, his posture sank forward, his blood boiled as lightning ran through it... and he punched the throttle, like he was trying to rip it all the way off. As the Sparrowhawk dug itself out of the rubble, it would see the Shrike give a slight waggle of the wings from high above, like it were Commie's idea of a cheeky wave... And then it was gone, as a long-tailed Comet streaked through the dust-choked Gelcastre skies. The air ripped open with AA fire, flak nets and rotary guns trying their damndest to catch the blue-white line his afterburners dumped onto the picture. They had already netted their share of Sparrows for the day, so surely this wouldn't be [i]too[/i] different, they no doubt reasoned. As if taking offense to the notion, Kilmer yanked hard on the controls, and grit his teeth as he burned past the triple digits— [color=ed1c24]<<[/color]Stupid bastard must have gotten hit! That's another down![color=ed1c24]>>[/color] And the Shrike hit the deck, diamond dust in its wake as he dropped below the city's skyline, weaving his line of blue through the gaps in Coalition zoning code. His breath hitched, the corridors of residential and office buildings streaking past on either side of his cockpit, the wind that bounced off cement and glass whipping against his airframe. You had to feel for whomever didn't have the foresight to move their car the hell off the street before the Union offensive had gotten here— The pressure front in his wake was already wreaking havoc on some of the cheaper windowpanes high above. His head was on a swivel as he rolled his bird through the city's main streets, checking his clearance and course for split-second corrections. It was a tight weave, no doubt about it, but in Commie Math it was worth the risk— ducking down to street level kept him below the angles of attack the Coalie flak nets could muster, the buildings would conceal his vector of approach from the rear guard sniper-spotter and artillery teams he'd been sent to deal with, and... [code][WARNING: ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED.][/code] His arms flashed over the controls, firing retros even as he banked hard away from a city park, one splotch of greenery in the concrete jungle— one that was promptly torched by another beam of sunlight, a half-second (and thusly a couple towers of the financial sector) from nailing him. ... It limited their voyeur's opportunities to take a shot that didn't have a very ugly set of consequences attached. He blinked a bead of sweat out of his eyes, mind and body continuing to race as the Shrike chewed up distance, click by click, second by second, ducking its way through an unspeakable gauntlet of execution tests as Gelcastre's city center came and went. All that benefit, for the low, low cost... of just a few Gs. He strained even as he craned his neck to keep his vision active, muscles screaming out against the insistent momentum with each maneuver. His organs threatened to paste themselves against hius creaking ribcage, his heart pumped in double time, fighting to keep those dark corners of his vision from completely taking him... [color=ff4136]<>[/color] he growled, voice thick with exertion, as his screaming chariot cleared the last of the skyscrapers, a pair of 50mm salvos streaking out from his beak and colliding with the mobile missile platforms, detonating their payloads prematurely as the Garmr and Skollr, to their credit, tried to hop to when their enemy had suddenly arrived on their doorstep. The Shrike swooped high, finally gaining a little altitude for the first time in what felt like an eternity— [color=ff4136][i]This is gonna hurt.[/i][/color] And her psychotic man in the box ignored ache in his chest and the taste of copper on his tongue, as she unfurled from aircraft to MAS proper even as she tore through the distance between them. By the time the beam saber had sparked to life in the prototype's hand, it was practically atop the Skollr, too quick by half to allow it to tear itself free from the cannon emplacement. [color=ed1c24]<<[/color][i]FUCK! WHAT THE FUC[/i]--KZZZSSSHH—[color=ed1c24]>>[/color] Two shots rang out, drying the last of the flyboy's magazine even as the blaze of the cored mech billowed high, a brief second of a curtain between him and the ill-fated spotter— both rounds shearing through the monoeye camera. Barely a breath later, Kilmer's blade closed the book. Backlit by three blazes, the Shrike's visor returned to the sun, the spot of gold on black hunting for the spot of black on gold. [color=ff4136]<< Vulture, Commie. Long range bombardment teams scuttled. Requesting clearance to intercept.>>[/color]