Beads of sweat trickled down Han's forehead, flowing like tiny rivers down the curvature of his cheeks and jaw. Bjornson's Wolfhound was operating at minimal heat levels; he hadn't even so much as touched his weapon systems. Yet still heat bore down upon the Nobleman. It assaulted his bare flesh and drenched his golden locks in sweat. Training in Mechs back on Tharkad, Han only ever worked up this kind of a sweat during an intense firefight. He was usually sitting in the center of a laser boat- it only made sense that the cockpit would turn into a veritable sauna.

But Steelton was different. Han didn't need to be in combat to work up a sweat. All it took was the residual heat of the sun beating down upon his Mech for Bjornson's cockpit to reach such temperatures that he was sure he was going to be fried alive. This was what he hated most about the joint training exercises with the FedSuns from the NAIS: the [i]heat.[/i] They dragged Han out into the middle of some backwater dust world and expected him to adapt to the environment. It was the polar opposite of home. Snow and ice were replaced by sand and burning stone. The twisted rock formations looming overhead were a poor substitute for the towers of Tharkad City that kissed the very heavens in all of their splendor.

And in the place of the regal and proud noblemen he called his peers, he had Mechwarriors like [i]Rall.[/i]

Han could hear the poorly contained mocking in her voice as she sent a laser comm to his Wolfhound. There was a bitter twisting of his lips downward at the insult offered to his name. Bjornson debated simply ignoring her. She had been insufferable the last few weeks and continued to be so even now. Brushing off the remarks of an ignorant should've been a simple thing. Han had endured far, far worse treatment at the hands of the Nagelring's more bigoted students. However, the nobleman had little else to do at the moment except stare ahead at seemingly endless stretches of dust and rock. Against his better judgment, the Lyran let his digit slip down to the comms panel.

"Oh, yes. Hilarious as always." Han dryly retorted. "What ever would I need a book for when I have a Canopian [i]hora[/i] constantly screeching in my ear? It's like I have my own personal jester."

Letting his thumb slip off the comms switch, Hand returned his hand to the piping hot accelerator. For a moment, he wondered if he was too harsh with the rat. Han assumed Rall was just trying to get on his nerves with her prattle, but he couldn't be totally sure. The Periphery was a strange place, and it's customs were wholly alien to someone like Bjornson. 

[i]'It's possible the rat was...how do they put it in English...Ribbing?'[/i]

Trying to juggle two languages was difficult enough, but the Nagelring had been pushing the tongue of the FedSuns on him since he was accepted into the student body. Han was still getting a handle on it, admittedly; but he ha committed himself to learning it. If Bjornson wanted to succeed as a Mechwarrior and a nobleman, he would need to be able to communicate with the FedSun pilots effectively. To that end, Han had committed to speaking in English alone. He had broken that personal rule only to mock the rat's use of a German insult against him. [i]'Presumptuous little thing.'[/i]

Before the boredom of the assignment could truly set in, Han's attention was arrested by a warning klaxon playing in his ear. He turned toward the source of the sound in his cockpit, the bulky neurohelmet making it difficult to do so but he managed. "The probe...?" He muttered to himself, flicking a few switches. It had to be a mistake. The sensors must've been acting up. There wasn't any way these readings were accurate. Han forced a reset on the sensor suite, yet that didn't stop the warning bells.

"Holy shit." Bjornson cursed, fumbling for the main radio. "Captain, I'm picking up seismic activity!" These readings...It could only mean one thing. Han thought it impossible before, but there was no denying what the instruments were telling him. "We have multiple contacts two clicks ahead of us. Range from twenty to fifty five tons. They have mechs."

Was this part of the training, somehow? An ambush by the Star Guard would certainly make for an exciting change of pace from a dreary escort, yet...they had loaded live-fire weapons before heading out. A mock battle couldn't be fought with real weapons. Han hesitated, his hands hovering on his controls. [i]'Is this real?'[/i] He pulled back on the accelerator, commanding his titanic steed to slow it's trot. Standard procedure dictated that the lead unit slow and allow the rest of the lance to catch up. Moving forward alone in a real combat situation was damn near suicidal.

Mattlov confirmed the contacts that the Wolfhound had picked up as being genuine, as well as confirming visual on a dropship of some kind. [i]'A dropship, out here?'[/i]

Finally the voice of the Captain returned over the tactical comms, confirming the dropship and the contacts to be hostile. He wanted Bjornson, Eichberg and Rall to move ahead with him while the other units sought out a fire support position. That meant Han was going to be meeting the enemy head on.

This was real, then. Someone was attacking them and Han would [i]actually[/i] be in a fight. Grim determination set in on his expression. If he were totally honest with himself, Bjorson didn't know how he felt. He was terrified of the concept of being shot at for real for the first time and exhilarated at the prospect of engaging proper opponents all at once. It was a rush of adrenaline that caused his fight-or-flight instincts to kick into overdrive. "Are they pirates, sir?" Han could only assume so. The sector was supposedly crawling with them. But what madness had overcome them that a group of poorly equipped brigands would think they'd stand a chance against Steelton's garrison? The Star Guard alone could wipe the floor with any rogue unit. And it wasn't like Steelton was some treasure trove of riches to be taken...So what were they doing here?