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[youtube]https://youtu.be/xuSIw_pfODY[/youtube]

[h3]Osgood Engineering Manufacturing Plant 22B, A. Ramirez Colony, Contested Jovian/Cronian Space[/h3][/center]

“Here he comes down the left lane, dodging the opposition left and right! The Olympians defense is running out of gaps to fill… a brilliant fake! Brown is unstoppable! Can he make it? It’s... it’s… IN! The Eusian Bolts move to the finals! What a spectacular finish!”

Camilla shoved another handful of crisps past her lips, staring lazily at the tail end of a Dasherball game. Her cockpit was littered with refuse - wrappers, empty cans, an old issue of Cronus Weekly and loose newspapers were strewn about her feet and the crevices of the compartment. She was crammed into the cushion of her seat, knees to her chest, as though she were reclining on a sofa rather than operating a million-credit, military-grade frame. 

The fact of the matter was both activities weren’t so different, if you were on a dead-end contract like the one the Ghosts had taken for the past several months. Osgood was offering them a steady but unremarkable income to stand guard over a remote plant, technically in the contested zone, although there was little incentive to fight over this rock. Osgood built cheap, reliable automobiles, motor vehicles and economy-class shuttles. The place saw as much excitement as watching flowers grow. Why they needed the Ghosts to safeguard it, Camilla hadn’t bothered to guess. 

“Bolts won,” she muttered over the radio. “Evangeline, you owe me.” Camilla brushed a few crumbs off her jacket and sat up, jabbing at the ‘Channel Up’ switch. Before she found something bearable, or before her apathy could settle on any given station, her headset crackled to life and interrupted her channel-surfing. 

“Captain Stavros?” an urgent voice asked. “This is Plant 22B. We’re seeing something on our long-range sensors. Please respond.”
[i]Why does a backwater manufacturing plant need a sensor array?[/i]
The employee at the other end of the radio hailed Camila two more times, before she finally tossed her empty crisp bag aside, responding, “Stavros, here. I see nothing on radar, what have you got?”
“By our estimations, there are three objects moving at high speeds from the west, bearing 288 from the plant. They’re frame-sized. We’ll send you our feed.”

A window popped up on Camilla’s HUD, revealing a cloud of dust and several grainy specks that were difficult to make out. They were thousands of meters away, yet closing rapidly. 

“We’re asking you to check it out,” the employee continued. “ASAP.”

Camilla brought her legs out from under her and strapped herself in properly. It was probably nothing to worry about, maybe a couple of kids zipping around in their grav-shuttles. But the urgency in the Osgood rep’s tone suggested otherwise. 

“Will do, 22B. Stavros out.” Camilla grabbed hold of her control yokes and eased her feet on the pedals beneath her. Her Gladiator groaned as it lurched from idle and began rolling.

“Alright, Ghosts, let’s go see what the big deal is.”