[center][h3]Ziska[/h3][/center]

"Haha, yes! Kill these bastards!" Ziska hissed, cackling loudly to herself as she watched Ingrid pop out of the snow and launch her attack on the lance of misfit toys.

Her amusement turned to outright loud laughter, laughter that shook her to her very core, and hurt with all the wounds she had collected, as Marit launched her own impromptu attack. She had always hated plans anyways. Her instructors had been right. The grizzled old drill sergeants back on Canopus knew the game. There was only one mistake. There was only one sin. The only mortal sin was to hesitate. Everyone knew that. All the way down to the lowest-ranking enlisted infantryman. To seize the initiative and act was the primary imperative. There was no priority higher than that of achieving the mission, of accomplishing the objectives the Colonel had given them.

Ingrid had acted. Marit had acted. And now, she, Ziska, would act.

Death, the old man wanted death, and he would get it, one way or another. Orders didn't matter. The rules didn't matter. Not anymore. Not as long as they accomplished the mission. Overkill was the only answer. 

Slamming the throttle of the RVN-3L until she felt the familiar thud of metal on metal, Ziska felt herself pushed back into her seat as the BattleMech leapt up from the crouching position she had left it in. Bursting into a full speed run as the ECM began to scream, sending lines of burning chrome, all the signal noise that Reya had harnessed, smashing into the sensors of the enemy lance. Ziska wasn't going to keep Ingrid waiting. She wasn't going to miss out on any of the party. Speed was what she wanted Speed was what she needed. Speed was what would keep her safe. And if not...then she'd at least die quickly.

Thundering over the packed snow, across the fragile bridge of rock and ice,  Ziska race through grid T6, taking aim and firing the entirety of the RVN-3L's payload at the Firestarter. Ingrid had made it clear, whoever the pilot was, he was going to be the first to die. Pulling the trigger, Ziska smiled, her eyes calm, and her heart cold.

Beams of green, two brilliant rays of light, burned ozone, and slashed at the light mech, as Ziska pulled her crosshairs over the Firestarter. As one medium laser dug a deep molten trench into the leg of the Firestarter, the pilot reacted, lurching to the side, and avoiding the burn of the other medium laser.

"Fuck you, you shifty bastard," Ziska shouted to herself, sweeping to keep her TAG center mass on the dodging light mech. Her SRM-6 missiles peppered the Firestarter. Slamming into metal slag, crumbling armor, and stripping the enemy mech down to the internals at several locations. It was a good start, but it wasn't enough. Ziska wanted to see limbs falling off. She wanted to see critical components explode outwards in maelstroms of fire. She wanted to see the fucker die.

Hit with everything the RVN-3L could throw at it, the Firestarter somehow kept going, it kept dancing, and didn't seem like it was gonna stop. The light mech was hurt, that much was obvious. Still, the pilot didn't stumble and didn't fall, much to Ziska's disappointment. The pilot was good, he was real good, and Ziska hated him for it. Even more than she had shorts moments before.

The NARC missile symbology that appeared on her HUD and blinked a pleasant green was her only consolation. Someone would have one hell of a shot. And if they didn't take it, then she intended to finish the job.