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Fuka had rebelled against her family and her homeland, rejected their patriotic dogma in favor of pure militarism. They spoke of honor and courage and loyalty, trying to hide a lust for power behind sentimentality. They would never refer to it as such of course, such a soft word did not suit the mighty Combine, but that's exactly what it was. 

Sentimentality. Clinging to a way of life that was ancient before the DC even existed. Fuka found it quaintly amusing now that she was removed from it, but it had been enraging when it had controlled her life.

And yet, despite her drastic efforts to escape the Combine's clutches, she found herself succumbing to that same sin: sentimentality. She hadn't just enjoyed herself on the battlefield, she had identified herself by it. She was a pilot damn it, and a pilot without a war to fight was a whetstone without a knife. She craved purpose, a flight to fight for, and paychecks to covet! 

Strapping into the Dragon was like coming home, the samurai beaming brightly as she drummed her fingers against the controls. The weapons were hot and the armor was solid, the bossman's warning coming in through the comms. Fuka refrained from replying, simply clinging to her support straps as the lander clattered to a stop.

An uphill charge straight into enemy fire wasn't exactly an [i]easy[/i] task, but it was probably the one she was best suited for. Fuka had many flaws but a lack of self-awareness wasn't one of them. The fancy flanking maneuvers and tactical scouting were best left to more nimble folks, her lead foot would stay right in the thick of it. 

The valley was beautiful in its cold hostility, and had she been given more time Fuka would have gladly sat down to take in the view. But instead of a sightseeing tour, she got an ambush, a wave of antiquated war machines opening up on her little lance.

[color=Cadetblue]"Moving!"[/color]

A manic glee had entered her voice at the show of violence, her Dragon lumbering forward at speed. As long as she kept in a straight line she could just about manage to move without falling on her ass, but it didn't leave her a lot of room for error. As she charged up towards the front one of the bastard Goblins sighted in, a burst of gamma rays shearing off some of her armor in a spray of slag.

[color=Cadetblue][i]Shit.[/i][/color]

It wasn't a critical blow, the Right Torse was still relatively intact, but she wanted to keep the stress testing to a minimum. The tank responsible was reduced to scrap before she could turn her guns on it, Fuka making a note to thank Jaromir as she looked for a convenient object of ire.

An Edgar presented itself at an inopportune moment, Fuka raising her autocannon and aiming for its cockpit. At that range she barely needed the targeting system, cold eyes were more than enough to measure her shot. A squeeze of the trigger sent a shell straight through the viewport, all that "reinforced" glass doing nothing to stop the round from ripping it apart. 

Then it was on the next. The Dragon turned to get a better angle at one of those nasty little Goblins, Fuka's second shot smashing through the treads. Good hit, no kill.

[color=Cadetblue]"Tell me if we're pushing up boss, I'm doing alright."[/color]