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

The footpad of Jon’s Marauder came down firmly on the frozen body of one of the former Crimson Fist pilots. If there had been a way to articulate the reverse-jointed mech’s step to emulate grinding out a spent cigarette, he probably would have done it. How the man got there instead of dying in his cockpit, Jon didn’t really care. As he watched the crescendo of the Crimson Fists’ lance destruction, he reckoned the two mechs that fell when the Knights blasted the ancient stone bridge into rubble probably hit a decent velocity before they impacted the jagged rock below. It was fitting that their pilots were headed in the correct direction for their journey into the afterlife. 

Unfortunately, his path was also cut off, which meant it would cost him about an hour to doubleback down the mountain and take the long way around before he could pick up another trail that would put him on the Knights’ path back to the tunnels. He waited momentarily as he recalled the path from memory simultaneously listening for the sound of some bad news that was yet missing. He glanced up, waiting, and after only a few seconds at a break in the clouds, caught a glimpse of the second Mechbuster already high enough to be pulling contrails behind its delta wing. “[i]Shit.[/i]” He grumbled as its high afterburner finally echoed through the pass, nose pointed directly back towards Balya Gora. 

Even though the presence of the aircraft had been unexpected, it still felt like a failure letting one escape, which as he watched the Knights depart for the second time since the dam, he remembered the Warhammer had got away as well. There was an urge to head back down the mountain and track it down, but he knew it would be a foolish attempt at this point and his instructions from Cassandra were to proceed to Uncle Mack’s once the mission concluded. Whether or not Cassandra had informed Colonel Wayne of this deviation was another matter, but that was above his pay grade. Sending those pukes straight to hell did carry a certain level of satisfaction that would be best enjoyed with a cigarette later. 

[i]Ossie[/i]’s torso and legs turned away from the remains of the battle like an animal that had lost interest. Jon briefly glanced at the main display mounted near his left knee to again verify his BattleROM had been recording. Zapping that Mechbuster mid turn had been a pretty slick shot and he was looking forward to rewatching that particular footage. He tapped a few commands to review the route to the scrapyard. He’d never been there, but at least it would be something somewhat similar to home; though he had heard a few rumors about the proprietors, they couldn’t be any worse than what he’d grown up with on the Periphery. He waggled the stick like he always did out of habit, checking the twist for slack and causing the mech to shake off a light dust of snow before heading back down the mountain.