[center][h2]Ziska[/h2][/center]
[hr]

"You've got a lovely singing voice, Giggles," Ziska seemed to purr over the comms, but there was no warmth, no real humor, and none of the usual mischief in her words. She was calm. She was ready. She was focused again. Most of the alcohol she had consumed in the morning had been left with her breakfast. Stowed hastily inside of a repurposed storage bin latched to one of the remaining tanks. She had felt better. She had felt better the second she knew the mission was going to kick off. Ziska hated waited. She hated waiting on a base, on a DropShip, or in some hollowed out mountain. There was only one place Ziska had patience. There was only one place she could feel the distractions fading. A MechWarrior sickness, Terse Thomas had called it, the love of battle, the lust for fighting, and the singular inability to live a normal life outside of killing people for stacks of c-bills.

"ECM coming online," Ziska said, sending out a final encrypted broadcast as the souped up Guardian ECM kicked into high gear with a pleasant hum. The Diagnostic Interpretation Computer burned fresh chrome, sending a wave of feedback coursing through her neurohelmet. Ziska gasped, crumbling backwards against her seat for a moment and letting out a low scream as she clenched her teeth together. Clawing against her controls, she pulled herself upwards fighting against the flood of information. she needed to orient herself. It was almost too much too handle. Too hot. No, cold. Colder and faster than the connection going straight into her frontal cortex had been just days earlier. She could feel the hair on her neck rising. She swore she could taste it. A metallic tang that seemed to kick her neurotransmitters straight off the fucking wall and into overdrive. So much sensory input. So much data. She was fast. She was faster. They were faster. The RVN-3L didn't disappoint. Reya didn't disappoint.

Ziska smiled, a pointless gesture she knew, sitting alone in her BattleMech cockpit, but she felt the familiar embrace of adrenaline drawing over her. She could hear the music. She could feel the beat. The macabre dance had started. And she had only to find a dance partner.

"ECM active," Ziska hissed using point-to-point broadcasting. Compressed into microwave bursts, her voice was even colder. "Enemy comms, down. Enemy sensors, jammed. We're off the map. Make it count."