The titan fell, it's carcass of wrought steel falling away as it's pilot ejected from the lifeless mass. That thundering of distant artillery mixed with the gargling fry of comms chatter like coffee and cream. With the dust clearing, Han finally found time to process everything that had just happened. It was a brief flash in the pan. All over before he could truly realize it. This was not war as Han knew it. His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight. Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away. "Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like? [i]'Preposterous.'[/i] The boy growled in the depths of his mind. [i]'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'[/i] Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy. Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status. It was a [i]fucking embarrassment[/i] to his very name. Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father. Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of [i]one, two, three- one, two three.[/i] Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable. "Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes. "Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as [i]shaky,[/i] but it was getting there. His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view. This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.