[b][color=ed1c24][i]PROXIMITY-PROXIMITY-PROXIMITY[/i][/color][/b]

Web could do nothing but endure the blaring call of Old Crow’s incoming threat alarm as it filled the cockpit with its banshee call. His hands were locked to the control sticks of Old Crow, desperately trying to outmaneuver the approaching barrage of Coalition munitions. 

The MAS’s directional boosters fired continuously in response to Web’s commands, deftly contorting the giant machine of war in an erratic dance of life and death. ‘Above’ him, the gargantuan form of the [i]Solace[/i] illuminated the battlespace with bright lances of energy, as it exchanged salvo after salvo of fire with the Coalition capital ships. These flashes of color made the swirling viewscreens of Old Crow into some morbid caricature of rave lights making it nearly impossible for Web to continually orient himself spatially to the incoming missiles.

In the midst of it all, Old Crow’s Matchstick proximity guns had reset at least three times since the engagement had begun, with even their highly advanced tracking programming unable to compensate for both the movement of Web’s MAS, and the changing trajectory of the missiles. Even now only two of the guns had any ammunition remaining in their dedicated hoppers.

[color=0054a6][i]This shit will be over sooner than I would’ve liked,[/i][/color] Web said in the back of his mind. 

Then words so sweet that he could barely fathom their realism cut through the battlenet: 

[color=f7941d]"I gotcha, Web!"[/color]

Nat’s declaration of impending salvation was quickly followed with the destruction of the missiles that were hot upon Web’s tail. Riding the shockwave, and with a flick of his wrists, Web managed to flip Old Crow around just in time to see Nat’s MAS shift from the dissipating explosions of the missiles, and into launching a barrage of her own towards an unprotected Ferir. A damn good shot. 

[color=0054a6]“Thanks, Jack,”[/color] Web called out as he worked his MAS towards acquiring another target; there was no time to acknowledge his savior further. The battlespace was all but filled with approaching Coalition targets, and their accompanying fire. 

Web worked to bring Old Crow’s battle rifle to bear, while at the same time keeping tabs on as many Coalition threats as he could. The battle had evolved into a mixture of MAS duels, dogfights, and longer range munitions exchanges, and it was nigh impossible to be aware of it all. Skill accounted for a lot in combat, but an engagement such as this came down to just as much chance for the individual pilot as anything else. 

The cry of Jenks over the battlenet brought Web into a frenzy of searching his viewscreens. Illuminated missile tracks on his HUD crisscrossed in all directions, and Web only found the green bracketed MAS of Jenks just as the missiles detonated around him. Before Web’s eyes, his fellow Wargod disappeared in an all-encompassing ball of flame.

Web forced his attention away from his fallen comrade, the hatred welling in the back of his mind to plague him at a later time. Old Crow’s battle rifle got off a few ineffectual snap shots at Ferir’s close to where Jenks fell, just as the blinding blue-white flash of the Ulysses station’s core going nova blotted out the whole battlespace. 
 
Web’s jaw fell open in stunned silence. For a time everything seemed to stand still in a surreal freeze-frame of doom and disbelief. The elevator attached to the giant platform buckled, framed by the blaze of Coalition plasma, and began its long and inexorable descent towards Cerol. The figurehead of the great UEE fortress-planet had just been lost.

The rest of the battle was a dim blur to Web. Admiral Bishop’s call to retreat was a distant buzz in his ears, and the call of XO Rexer to return to the [i]Solace[/i] followed in an equally disembodied haze. What came next was fire, obsidian, and the skill born solely of desperation and instinct. 

By the time Web was climbing his way down from the kneeling Old Crow inside of the hangar, he could barely remember how his feet had come to be on the metal decking. The MAS behind him popped and groaned, as the superheated directional surfaces, gun barrels, and heat sinks were at last given a reprieve. 

Looking up, Web noticed two of his fellow Wargods standing together, not. Nat and Erwin. With his mind still fuzzy from the adrenaline and shock of the last engagement, Web tucked his hands into the waist pockets of his sweat-soaked flight suit. Making his way over to the two pilots, Web looked to each in turn, his face blank and slack. Web’s signature Mohawk was plastered onto his head, and his beard was matted to his jaw. 

[color=0054a6]“Coffee.”[/color] He said to the two, his voice low and hoarse. [color=0054a6]“I could use some. You guys in?”[/color]