[img]https://images.evetech.net/characters/2112987026/portrait?size=128[/img][h3][color=aba000]Hamazasp Sulser[/color][/h3]
The outline discomforted Hamazasp. A stationary Locust was scrap metal in waiting, especially when it possessed no far reaching equipment. His mount was equipped with sparingly little armor plating and only absorbed so much while motionless. Of the pilots present, his death was most probable. The crew's betting odds likely reflected that, though he wouldn't bother to check. Gambling was for those with assets to lose. Regardless, he had twenty minutes to make peace with the circumstances. He bore the same countenance as he climbed aboard, bade farewell to his spry mechanic, strapped in, and descended.

With landfall approaching, he identified two square buttons, respectively red and blue, each embedded in a sea of verdant light. Figuring those to launch the ignition, he pressed the former. He couldn't hear the engines turning over and so repressed it. His newfound layer of sweat proved the cockpit considerably warmer than his initial inspection. He punched the other button, and the water that accumulated on his person began to chill. Ah; those controlled the temperature. God bless the factory models. Already a mess, he murmured a brief prayer of gratitude that new units maintained functional air conditioning. He held onto the latter until the inner atmosphere was near freezing. He relished the cold; it kept him aware and awake. He'd squeeze every last joule before stray flak or errant debris would render the system inoperable. Doubtless the technicians would have larger priorities.

He found the actual startup and flipped it on. The familiar whir satisfied him. He inhaled and exhaled, perusing the book titles situated in the corner. They seemed properly fastened to withstand the upcoming shudders. A flurry of paper would be quite distracting. He retrieved his harmonica and played a string of notes. The reeds soothed him, calming himself on battle's eve. Thankfully, his microphone was muted; the preemptive melodies were his alone to enjoy.

The Centurion's rear soon filled his view, as per instructions. Stowing his instrument, the Taurian glanced around for maximum speed settings, hoping to cruise at a steady pace after his superior. Upon reflection, he gave up the search. Sloth was not a trait he desired, and he didn't want to rediscover and adjust that control during combat. These musings culminated into the Ayrshire thumping up to the commander's backside, pausing for a couple seconds for his leader to stomp ahead, and repeating. The first salvos flew once he'd completed a few cycles.

The seemingly contradictory orders of "follow from a distance" and now "spread out" meant that Hamazasp's cover vanished almost instantly. It was perhaps a perfect excuse to break formation and charge the adversary point blank. Nonetheless, he understood the importance of team cohesion. He tried to imitate his boss's jagged maneuvers, a difficult task with different velocities and skill levels. His joystick's trigger was never pulled, as his targets in either direction or range were all friendly. He'd be Ulrik's obedient lapdog as duty necessitated.

He was still miffed, of course, that his Firestarter compatriot blatantly discarded that post and rushed the enemy. Sulser detected a trace of jealousy but mostly repugnance within his own disapproval. He ultimately concluded that the flamer wasn't reliable. Conversely, as predicted, Jaromir's supportive fire confirmed trustworthiness. Would that he himself could mimic the assistance.

His unblemished hull was probably a testament to its current lack of threat. The retired farmer, growing bored on the battlefield, activated his communications. [color=aba000]"Sir Commander, my vehicle is ineffective from behind you. Permission to engage independently in close quarters?"[/color] It had the energy of a rookie eagerly exclaiming "Put me in, Coach!", but the loquaciousness mitigated the effect somewhat.