[center][b][h2][color=f26522]Jonathan McCord[/color][/h2][/b][/center]


At the outset of the coup, Jon knew his relationship with the Crimson Fists was destined to go only a very few ways and after seeing the holovid footage and the grandstanding thereafter he was even more satisfied with his decision to ignore their invitations and keep that particular path mostly closed. Since the beginning, he afforded them respect as soldiers and they seemed to respond in equal measure despite his loyalty to Cassandra. Merc life wasn’t often glamorous. Sometimes you held the whip and sometimes you held the post. He’d been on both sides of the equation and understood the roles could reverse rapidly- as the Green Knights unfortunately found out. Outnumbered more than ten to one, he made peace with and reasoned if he ever had to throw down with the Fists, they at least weren’t going to get the jump on him the same way and he was going to go to Valhalla hauling brass like no one they’d ever seen. His face was its regular stoic mask as the thoughts passed. When he first considered his relationship with the other merc squad, it was also under the conclusion that he was dealing with a professional adversary, and they certainly were, however the holovid “production” that had been broadcast on endless loop all morning indicated they were something else as well. 

It didn’t make a lot of sense and it felt like something to which he wasn’t privy, had apparently made Espia [i]very[/i] personal between the Fists and the Knights for them to commit to action that just seemed… [i]desperate[/i]. He shook his head and rubbed the stubble on his chin as Cassandra’s underlings moved about her office level bringing items to her attention and then scurrying away on some new errand. He normally didn’t play these scenarios out in his head. Politics, espionage and propaganda were not his wheelhouse. Maybe he had overestimated them, both in projection and principles. The thought continued to gnaw at him. A side that was “winning” didn’t need to stage a frame-up against a merc company that barely had a complete lance. He knew if he had their resources, he could have tracked down the Knights long ago, as he’d personally demonstrated, and over a long enough timeline, even if the Fists’ couldn’t force a conclusive battle, attrition would favor the greater force if the Knights couldn’t secure a way off-planet. He shook his head a bit again, slower and more contemplative before dismissing the whole mental exercise. He wasn’t sure about any of it and it didn’t matter. The die was cast and the final path was becoming much more clear.   

A soldier was something of a medium between the endpoints of policeman and criminal. Decisions had to be made, often in precious seconds that could mean self-preservation or death. To become judge, jury and executioner, or [i]murderer[/i], over and over. A warrior made peace with that as he’d done his whole life as a fighter. He’d seen innocent people killed before, but never flagrantly or on camera for the purpose of deception. Killing people was hard, or it was [i]supposed to be[/i] for a man that kept himself centered in the balance. Having served in the infantry, he recognized being in a machine took an element of the personal out of the equation, but he told himself, in his soul, when it got too easy to pull the trigger that it would be time to stop. A still fresh image of the routed Heavenly Sword fighters flashed through his memory. Defeated men shockingly broken in body and spirit all at once- but they’d at least had the choice to put their faith on the line in the contest… then he again thought about the footage from the holovid, how there was even a certain flair about the presentation of the Firestarter as it scorched over unsuspecting people running for their lives.

“[color=ed145b]Jonathan, are you alright?[/color]” Cassandra’s voice asked poignantly. 

Though his face was neutral, Jon noticed he was gripping one arm of the chair so hard the fabric cracked under his grip, fraying it from the polished brass buttons that ornately held it. She looked at him from behind her desk, over the rim of her glasses. “[color=f26522]Yeah, sorry.[/color]”
      
Cassandra blinked, “[color=ed145b]It’s fine, we’ll get another one.[/color]”  

She had summoned him to her office building in North Nui Awa not long after he’d just made it in the night before. Caesar finished up the post-op and reload and he headed back out- meaning he’d only [i]just missed[/i] the Crimson Fists’ lance. The multitude of scenarios for that encounter played in his head several times as well. Cassandra pushed a datapad across her desk that Jon knew was intended for his eyes only without her having to say a word. She had a look and an aura about her that was different than any other time he’d seen her before. A vengeful energy, like an ancient witch delivering the dispatch of a wraith. A role he accepted as he took the pad also without having to speak. 

“[color=ed145b]This intelligence comes from Colonel Wayne and his sources; some of our people in the field have also verified it.[/color]”
 
Jon’s glanced narrowed over the text and images as they scrolled under his thumb. “[color=f26522]I know this pass.[/color]” The projected route of the Crimson Fists’ criminal lance was practically Jon’s backyard, traversing much of the territory still held by Cassandra and AVC properties. It was like handing a fugitive’s torn shirt-sleeve to a bloodhound. He could feel his pulse quicken slightly as he visualized the pursuit.

“[color=ed145b]Colonel Wayne’s forces will be there first in waiting, but you should be able to catch them not long after they find one another. I’m going to be taking a helicopter to the capital. I still have a good relationship with our Precentor. He’s a level man, not a fanatic. He will listen.[/color]” She rose and donned a pair of exquisite black leather gloves and collected an equally posh matching purse from behind the desk. Jon stood as another one her staff quickly appeared and brushed by him, placing what looked like a brand new jacket on her shoulders. She came around the desk, stopping briefly to appraise him. Her fingers straightened the worn AVC logo on the hooded sweatshirt she’d given him months ago and evened out the drawstrings. “[color=ed145b]Go there, kill them.[/color]” The words felt new and sharp. This was no longer a protection detail for the company. The players for Espia’s future were putting their cards down and now she was going to place her own. 

“[color=f26522]Yes ma’am.[/color]” 

She looked briefly like she wanted to say something else, but stepped away and was gone.