Mentions: N/A
Location: The Beach
[hr]The Shrike stood, ancient in its form and terrible in its visage. Long, claw-like, fingers bulked with immense armor plating into the horrible [i]Shrike's Talons[/i] of repute. Heavy arms loaded with the impossible density of myomer-muscle-like-chords that gave the S-86 its unparalleled strength. Broad shouldered, small of head, barrel-like in its chest... Its bulky silhouette was a far cry from the sleek outlines of many of its nest mates. It was one of the heaviest Shells in Vulture Squad and the prodigious layers of heavy armor upon its archaic form made its role and function abundantly clear. As its pilot, Shrike the Man, nestled into the cramped cockpit a woman's voice chirped onto the combat frequency in a short burst of direct, ice-laden, messages;

[i]"Clockwork on Comms; will monitor squad Shell status from the Nest. Touchdown with the crew post op. Ossifrage is running repairs solo on this one. Shrike status all-clear. Going Silent."[/i]

The Shrike, as opposed to more modern machines, required bulkier means of control. The already small cockpit seemed more claustrophobic than ordinary as the mass of its pilot filled the space. The heavy helmet came down upon his head, feeding sensory data into his eyes and ears. His hands fell onto the controls, the years of operating this one machine sending the ghostly sensation of phantom presses along his fingertips and arms. As he caressed over the worn buttons, battlefields of years past played across his vision.

Clockwork's voice chirped into his communicator band privately, bringing him back from reverie as the Vulture Squad began to dismount the Nest. He didn't have to strain to hear, but her voice was quiet in the privacy of their private radio band. There was no less ice in her words, however.

[i][sub]"The rain never stops. Don't scratch the paint on this easy shit, Shrike. If I have to redo the scheme before the job has even started I'll kick your ass."[/sub][/i]

He chuckled to himself, hearing his own voice muffled by the bulky neuro-helmet he wore. A swift ping of the radio band signaled his acknowledgement of her message, before he focused onto the combat frequency. When the Shrike stepped out of the hangar it was contradiction to the targeted dismounts of the rest of the squad. The Shell plummeted, as if wings pinioned, straight out of its hangar bay towards the beach below. The squad's movements filled his HUD, delegated into a burst of tactical data that took up minimal clutter in his displays. The comms chatter washed over him as he fell like a stone towards the sea.

A violent burst of the boosters signaled his landing. The mass of the Shell landing upon the surf, and the blast of superheated thrusters, caused the churning sea waters to hiss and explode into a cloud of water and steam around the Shell as its imposing visage touched down.

"Shrike Online." 

At last, his own voice cut into the comms chatter with an accent matching Owl's; but beyond that, Shrike spoke with a distinct authority and presence of self. His words were brief and carried the efficiency that decades of combat communications brings. The Shell began to move, powerful legs carrying it across the sands of the beach in a swift gait as its fingers snapped magnetically into place and fused into the immense driving spikes of the Shell's namesake. He was taking a central position amongst the scattered blips of the Vulture Squad, noting Gizzard and Ossifrage's intentions as well as the scattered Fire Support element of the squad.

"Anchor on me. Hammer to Anvil."

His swift words were accompanied by the Shell's sudden blitz of movement, powerful arms striking into the sands. In a scarce few moments the Shrike was, by all visibility, just another partially buried old Shell near to Hachidori's ambush position. A swiftly executed ping to acknowledge Hachidori deliberately was all the further communications offered by Shrike as they awaited their ambush targets. The constant drum of the rain was almost soothing in a moment like this. Beneath the sands one hand unfused its fingers and gripped its pistol in concealment, the shield-bearing left arm above the sands and ready to produce its protective barrier should the ruse fail-- or should his allies own shots fly danger close in the moment of ambush. Such was the way of war.