[center][b][h2][color=f26522]Jonathan McCord[/color][/h2][/b][/center]
He hated the tunnels. Miles on miles of the [i]Maruader[/i]’s lights painting the same picture of unremembered ferrocrete, cracked pavement and in some places, solid, mineral rock. Occasionally, he would pass a dingy sign or some graffiti, maybe even a stretch of warped railway. It was easy to remember, because there was nothing else to look at. A while back he thought he saw a mildewed SLDF banner painted in the corner of a large switchback and gave a huff of amusement before glancing down at the route plotter next to his leg as the meters continued to tick away slowly. Not a lot easily bothered him in the pilot seat during his career as mechwarrior, but these tunnels just didn’t agree with his blood. He could feel it in the controls as well. [i]Ossie[/i] didn’t care for it at all. She was an open field hunter and these subterranean routes were nothing more than a narrow cage. Not that he was expecting to draw down on anyone while several stories below ground, but the monotony was nigh unbearable. Nothing to keep you sharp or weary, just walking and walking and unfortunately, [i]plenty of time to think[/i]. 

For a while he had thought about what he could have done had he gone back down the mountain and tracked the Warhammer that separated from the group. Cassandra had technically given him an “order” to follow the Green Knights back to Uncle Mack’s, but ultimately she wasn’t his commander, just his benefactor and he was pretty confident he could have justified his position particularly with bagging another mech. It had a head start, but the tracks showed clearly that it was wounded and its dragging stride was like blood in the water. He thought about it several times. That pilot was the last survivor of the massacre and he had let him slink away. Sure, that guy could have made it wherever he was going, but there was also a chance he didn’t. Then there was the Mechbusters. Jon knew he got pretty lucky with that initial snapshot, but sometimes he could just feel, even before it came out of the barrel, that it was a strike. That would be some BattleROM footage worth watching later. The one that got away though, was going to spell trouble. He failed that objective. There needed to be no survivors. Granted, no one even knew they were going to be there, but that was just how it went sometimes.    

He thought about his dad most of all and it was hard going for a while as his thoughts darkened. Cassandra kept a private line open with Comstar, but there had still been no news, though he wondered if she found out anything on her visit today. She would have checked for him. She said as much. Cosmopolitan as she was, she kept her word. At present, he had more than enough saved from this job to settle up what was left of the debts, the family business and keep the farmland- He just had to give off this God-forsaken shithole planet. The FPA, the NPDRE, the Guard, the Crimson Fists… they could all do a flying backflip from the hotel office as far as he was concerned. He started to add the Green Knights to that list, but stopped short as again. Marit, as usual, was the first to drift through his mind. It felt like years since they’d met in the cave and then the raid on the dam, but that was just how war and fighting weighed on a man. He considered himself, now past the age of his dad when he was born and he wondered how his ancestors would see him as a man and as a warrior and he was never satisfied. Seventy-five ton steps pressed beneath him.

When the ramp for Uncle Mack’s came up, he got an odd feeling, like entering a room and finding a monitor unexpectedly turned on. The doors widened into the clear night sky above as the [i]Maruader[/i] stepped up, the angle steep enough that he had to lift his chin slightly to look over the A-frame through the top of glass. Then he heard it: Shouts, screams and the unmistakable raucous of an excited gathering. The cockpit cleared the threshold and for a moment, he legitimately wondered if he had taken a wrong turn somehow, but no, there were the Knights’ mechs, surrounded by absolute bedlam, right at the foot of the Phoenix Hawk.  “[color=f26522]What in the fuck…[/color]” He murmured. His floodlights cast hard over the throng of chaos and Jon’s unseen face looked back in bewilderment as some shielded their eyes while others seemed completely uncaring or unaware. He looked around. Rivers was visible, mouth running, which was no surprise and again confirmed he was in the right place. Sgt Dalton was visible as well, along with a contingent of his platoon and appeared to have a man by the shirt collar in each hand tossing them around like pool toys. Jon shook his head and made ready for shut-down. It was beyond time for a cigarette.