[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center]
[hr]

[color=ff4136]"[i]h-choo.[/i]"[/color]

Not far away at all, Roy Kilmer realized someone must have been talking about him as he reached below the seat for a spare packet of rip-gel, tearing it open with his teeth even as he moved the Shrike's maneuver surfaces through their range of motion, a small corps of technicians milling about around him and his half-opened cockpit. The ailerons responded in time, he could tell by the feel, and his eyes were thusly kept busy by the video feed populating a small, cordoned-off section of the Shrike's visual suite. The fruity, caffeinated nectar of battlefield gods slid down his gullet easily, keeping the edges of his alertness and focus sharp. When the familiar voice of his crew chief piped into his right ear, he had no fear of nodding off now that he'd sat down and given his body a little time to get done aching.

"Alright, Man in the Box. How's she looking?"

[color=ff4136]"Peachy keen,"[/color] the pilot intoned, wiggling the Shrike's fins twice in demonstration. [color=ff4136]"She's all smoothed out. I told you we wouldn't need to source new metamaterial bullshit or whatever the rep was trying to sell. All that's left is a little visual occlusion towards my port side— I don't think the screens liked having to render out the Coalie's afterimage bit."[/color]

"Hell, try rebooting it."

[color=ff4136]"Might. Other than that, it's all just the usual. Buff out my dings and scrapes and then mosey on over to the research teams for your turn with the sword. Hail me if you need me for anything else, I'll be in here."[/color]

"Yeah, we thought so. Still, next time up keep an eye on how hot your frame is running, and do us a favor— mark down strafing the plasma beams as something to [i]cut the hell out.[/i]"

Of course, as if it'd be anything else, the video playback he'd been poring over incessantly was his own handiwork— the black box recordings of his most recent combat sorties. Film study, by any other name; Commie always made a habit of reviewing how he'd flown as close to the aftermath as possible, while the impressions were still fresh. Regardless of how he'd performed relatively spotlessly in both the orbital and city assaults, he still needed to find improvement where he could— it meant little to come home only with token scuffing after seeing the same combat that had the Sparrowhawk go into a nosedive, or the Venator run so wildly out of position. He'd not really pushed too much of the envelope with his maneuvering or ingress into enemy lines today—

His formation flying, though, needed to be tidier, no doubt about it. So there he would sit, reliving the skirmishes, finding the gaps the man he was then had left for the man he was now to close.