Sagan sighed, eventually giving the session up as a bad job and joining Sabine on the other end of the barracks tent as Johann sat as well. The offer of fresh coffee was gratefully taken, the commander eagerly pouring himself a mug before sighing at Sabine.

"Alright, no fucking with the support staff. First I know damn well we've all got a stash in our mechs. Hell, I'm pretty sure Commie's cockpit might as well be using the stuff as crash gel. And second," He let a mercenary gleam shine in his gaze, somehow visible through the aviators he wore while off-duty.

"Already reserved us a whole pallet. It's being stashed in the back of the mess tent." Entirely true. "Course, that was bought with the promise that you don't fuck with the guys in Procurement for a whole month. So don't make me a liar or you're getting triple the PT and sim drills." A complete fabrication. But if it got Sabine to fucking behave like a human being for a month, he'd take it.

A swig of coffee. Overly roasted char-blasted industrial crap that it was, it was still probably healthier than the Rip-Gels that every but Johann, Sagan included, were practically addicted to.

"Anyways, let's hope the Blackout gets repairs in time. After the last poor bastard to pilot it, god rest his soul, the techs must be in goddamn conniptions about it getting beat up so much more often. They get back to you on the Sparrowhawk yet, Rabbit? Been too busy setting everything up here to check."

---

"h-choo."

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?"

"Peachy keen," the pilot intoned, wiggling the Shrike's fins twice in demonstration. "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."

"Hell, try rebooting it."

"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."

"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 cut the hell out."

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.

---

'They'll still do it if I flutter my eyes at them a little bit', is what Sabine was about to say before Sagan took a shit all over her planned fun. No gambling? For a whole month? The point wasn't even to take their Rip-Gel away from the support staff because they needed it, the point was to do it for the sport of it. Sabine gasped as though Sagan had just slapped her across the face and called her mother a whore in front of the entire crew.

"Boss! You didn't!" Sabine's french lilt was somehow even stronger as she dramatically sighed and fell to her seat. "A whole month?! We're only supposed to be here a month!" Sabine tried to fake a weep, but she was never a particularly good actress. Reluctantly, Sabine snatched the coffee pot as it was set down and poured herself a cup, caffeine that wasn't won off the tears of their support crew didn't feel nearly as good, but it was still necessary.

"Sparrowhawk should be good to go in a few hours," Sabine muttered, defeated, "The shifting servos got pretty banged up when I crashed into the apartment, but they should be done replacing them in a few hours- the wingtip is going to be harder to replace, so I'll have to be careful with my cruising speeds, but combat speeds should be unaffected." Sabine pointed out the tent window in nearly perfect timing as a several bursts of distant AA fire streaked up into the darkening sky, tracers visible from some miles away. "Not that I think we'll be doing a whole lot of flying any time soon. Gelcastre's got more AA batteries than a porcupine has spines. There's enough shit flying through the sky that getting dinged is more of a 'when' than an 'if'."

"No fucking around for a whole month." Sabine sulked into her coffee, "Can you believe that Rhino? A whole month. Shoot me now."

---

---

Sabine's bitching and moaning would eventually come to an end as the team was slowly filtered into one of the emptied supply vehicles for a planning meeting. Now that they were on their own, without Sarret watching over their every move, they were free to pick and choose their targets as necessary, their Comms officer patched into both allied and enemy communications. The result was an almost overwhelming deluge of information for them to sift through: unending calls for air support and casevac, fire missions and requests for reinforcements- from both sides. The 7th's goal remained the same: Find and secure the nanoforge, but that didn't stop the local 5th fleet commanders from requesting assistance from their attached special forces units.

"Uh, Commander Kodos," their comms officer, Ensign Dole spoke up, "I, uh, hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of compiling what I thought to be the most high priority requests coming in."

The kid was a nervous, sweaty mess- this was probably his first time this close to the front, but he steeled his nerves as best he could. "We're getting a lot of requests every which way- but I tried to filter it out to requests that would actively help us- er- you guys in finding the nanoforge."







"But uh, yeah, that's my short list," Dole stuttered, "H-hope that works for you guys."

---

"See that Sab? Your excuse to hassle people has been ruined once again."

Johann smirked over the rim of his coffee cup, finishing the last of it before pouring himself another cup. Leave it to the Commander to be thinking several steps ahead on the rip-gel situation and supply, though from what he knew about Sab it wasn't the supplies but the principle of the matter. Her theatrics pretty much confirmed that, exaggerated accent and excessive gestures added to the comedy of the situation as far as he was concerned. As she rolled into the status report, he glanced out the window at the well timed bursts of AA fire visible even in this hidden little camp. Lot of them relied on speed and bursts of flight to make do where they insisted on abandoning armor. Yes, he might preach that the best defense is to never need the armor, but he also didn't like the idea of removing armor for the sake of speed. Still, as she wrapped up her own status report, Johann chimed in.

"Nothing that could get through the Secutor's armor, additional or standard, made contact so she'll be ready once they replace the plates, unsurprising I know. Even if they did, the FRS would work wonders in getting everything back online. Might want to give up a few ticks of speed for at least standard plating Sab. I'd suggest Kilmer get some too, but that's even less likely to stick as far as suggestions go."

Johann snorted as Sab once again complained about a whole month of not getting to make people's lives difficult. What a tragedy.

"Give it a few hours and I am sure Command will have all sorts of opportunities for you vent your frustrations on the Coalition. Far more constructive, and who knows, maybe you can pick something up besides a bruised ego from getting swat out of the sky?"

---

If there was one thing Sab was good at, Johann had to concede, it was complaining. At least that eventually came to a merciful end once they were called into a free supply vehicle with the comms officer to start filtering through situations and assistance requests. Ensign Dole, a nervous wreck of a comm officer if he ever met one, began stuttering through three of the first options available to them currently. The first one was most suited to Secutor in its current configuration, and would help alleviate the problem of not being able to properly maneuver for long distances in the air. Not useful to him, but immensely so to both others in the squad as well as the war effort as a whole. No direct links to the nanoforge, but freedom of mobility would make future strikes far easier to carry out. Plus paying back the Helldogs was a nice bonus, on top of it all, so that was the option he currently favored.

Option two was practically absurd to suggest, but Johann at least considered it. UEE spook wanted a bunch of MAS pilots to go in on foot to tap a network, steal as much information as they can and get out, all without raising an alarm ideally. Sure, compared to most pilots they were a lot better on foot, and if he remembered it right Hex used to be a boots on ground type anyways, but that didn't exactly leave them a lot of room to work with. Project Forge seemed a bit blatant, even for the Coalition, so he was willing to call that bait. Let Command find some actual infantry spooks to handle the situation and let the MAS pilots continue doing what they actually were good at, piloting. Even if cracking the odd Coalition skull on foot was a tempting thought in isolation.

Option three was an odd one, since the suggestion was to try and sneak behind lines while Helldogs hit a facility as cover, jammer included. Tricky thing those, especially ones that just drowned out everything, though a solution was in place for them at least. Get in, ideally unnoticed, take out the power generator and fight out of the counterattack. Not a bad option, especially since robbing the Coalition of power had good return on investment, but again came back to the fact that he was about as subtle as an orbital strike. He would mostly be in reserve, letting the others slip forward and create openings for Secutor to fit through, metaphorically speaking, before they hit the core and bring the grid down. 170mm should work wonders on that, even if the recommendation was plasma or missiles. Yeah he could throw a PG-01 haymaker at the thing, but being in huffing distance of the core when it went up would be unwise. Still, at least it wasn't going in on foot.

"Good ears kid, picked out some interesting choices. I'd recommend Options one or three personally, ideally one. Hard to hide Secutor from anything frankly, so a lot of the trouble in Blackout would be us getting in all subtle like. Strike is probably my choice, free up not just aerial movement, but more support from air and orbital assets. Plus with some clever spotting from Hex, I can send some half charged shots at the convoy with the 170mm, put some plunging proxy fuse on them to hit em at the starting line."

---

"I'm with the big man on this one," Kilmer's smooth baritone floated in from the further borders of the glorified shipping container that field ops called a "briefing room", languidly propped against the wall as though an old west gunfighter. Beneath his customary bomber jacket, his arms were folded, but now that he'd had a wash and a chance to lick his self-imposed wounds a little, he was in relatively high spirits again. If only poor Dole could find the same comfort neck deep in the shit— guy could hardly stumble his way through a few sentences of their briefing at a time. If it wouldn't have meant interrupting him and dragging this process out further, Commie'd have cut in and advised him to take a damn breath. The high canopy of the woods and cammy nets were already doing their jobs to keep them concealed from enemy observation— especially when the Coalition had a whole battlegroup right in front of them to worry about first. "I vote option one."

He kicked off the wall, ambling forward to join the round table proper. In truth, his mood had almost soured at the mention of the second task the Comms Officer had pulled— while they had undergone extensive infantry training as part and parcel of Vulture's mild psychosis and the generalist bent the UEE demanded of a broad swath of its' SOF cells, there was no getting around it being a stretch at most polite— They were the 101st... but they were the 7th Airborne. An MAS Squadron, some best and brightest the Empire had to field in that hotly-contested space within combined arms doctrine— one the Coalition still had an undeniable edge within.

There were a thousand illustrious ground pounders, the sons of fighting traditions millennia deep, whose jobs it were to handle concealed infiltration and intelligence gathering. Experts, schooled by centuries of organizational maturation, unparalleled in their fields. People that you built from the ground up to do that, and chiefly that. The guys who would get it done and love doing it.

In his humble opinion, such was literally beneath them— as they would leave him his kingdom in the sky, he felt it right to in turn leave them their kingdom on earth.

But thankfully, that was the perk of their position— for all that these assignments might get lost and wander onto their desk, they had veto power few units could boast, and he was more than happy to kick that one over to the right guys for the job.

"Loosening up their defenses will be tantamount to taking the territory wholesale, with the way the Helldogs handle things, but even if the Coalies still mount enough resistance to get stuck in after the big caliber AA's scuttled, we'll be further up on tempo— between that and the more lenient bombardment lanes we'll have earned the fleet, it'd ramp up pressure to keep them occupied during the strike on the relay. It'd make for a cleaner op— whether it's us that gets it afterward, or someone we feel generous to. How time-sensitive is the blackout, for the sake of argument?"

"Breathe, Ensign." Sagan sighed at Dole's jittery demeanor, far too used to dealing with fresh meat straight out of the academy at this point. "No one's gonna bite your head off for stuttering. Alright, people, let's hear it. Opinions?" He rubbed his chin, considering the options while listening to everyone else weigh in. No sense in speaking his mind as the CO before all the options were on the table.

Once Leah was done, Sagan nodded to himself, finally deigning to voice his thoughts.

"Right, that's everyone accounted for. At least one vote for each. Well, maybe a half for the blackout. Regardless, if this were a democracy, we'd be Coalies. Now, let's see here:" He brought up a tactical display of their current operational area of Gelcastre, starting to point each operation zone out as he spoke.

"I know we'd all like to back up the Helldogs, but it's both not our mission and a bad use of limited resources: those being SOF units. Reroute this to literally any other available ground force that can get it done."

His finger lingered over the outer districts next.

"Now, I hear you, Hex. I really do. You make good points, but the problem comes back to force allocation again. Are we damn sure there isn't a single infantry unit that can run this op? The way I see it, we're best suited as a unit to hit the industrial district, and it gets us at least somewhat closer to our actual mission objective. Now, Ensign," He turned back to the green boy, trying to be as disarming as he could manage.

"Who else've we got on call? At the very least, for knocking out the AA. I'm not holding my breath on being lucky enough to have infantry SOF assets in this AO already."

---

"R-right! Breathing. That is something I know how to-" Ensign Dole forced himself to breathe deep- as though he had a paper bag in front of his face. "Do. Breathing. Uh, right."

"Pounding dirt? Uhh no thanks." Sabine snarked, sticking her tongue out at the former infantrywoman. The pink haired french woman was currently draping herself over the top of an empty desk, feet kicking idly as she looked at the scrolling requests upside down. "Imagine what it would do to my complexion."

"If we need a tie breaker between Op 1 and 3, I choose 3." Sabine added, "Not that it matters I guess, wouldn't want to be accused of being democratic, here would we?"

Turning his attention to Sagan, Dole pressed a few buttons on the holodisplay, and presented a rough estimation of the current force tracking- though with a relatively significant margin of error as units failed to report on time or went missing. "M-most air assets are avoiding East-Gelcastre in general. Its one of those objectives that sort of fall, uh, under the umbrella of 'needs to be done' but also, 'n-not enough manpower'. Closest is a few squads of the 233rd Armored Cav, b-but they're bogged down. Something about an enemy ace in the area."

"I-infantry assets are a bit of a mess right now too. There are plenty of marine platoons out and about, b-but as far as SOF goes, we have the Ghost that found the comm relay in the outer district, and I think there's one more Ghost team around the Gelcastre, but I couldn't say for sure. They are uh, maybe unsurprisingly, very reluctant to relay their exact position over radio."

"If-if you're sure on the blackout raid, I can send word to the techs to start getting your machines s-setup for laser based communications, and I can get an updated threat map pushed to you in.... 10 minutes." Dole paused, and glanced over at Commie. "A-and to answer your question, the power relay itself isn't going anywhere, but the cover attack on the nearby areas won't last forever. The Helldogs are spread almost as thin as y-you guys."

---

Johann continued to nurse a coffee cup as the others chimed in and made arguments for their own outlooks, both agreeing and disagreeing as appropriate. Commie agreed, cleaning up the operation zone would benefit both their own end goal, and that of the planetary invasion overall. Hex was all for the infantry operation, he could not say that was surprising but by the same virtue, it was still outside most of their formal wheelhouses. Yes, they cross trained in operating dismounted and doing so damn well, but that was as much to survive having their MAS shout out from under them as it was to perform infantry operations. She was at least making a good argument, but he could not bring himself to agree with it, not when their core skill set was MAS piloting. It was what they brought the most weight to, end of the day, so stick to what they were best at. Boss finally spoke up last, laying down the final decisions, at least as far as it would be decided.

Option One was out, a bit disappointing but ultimately not unreasonable either. As mentioned it didn't put them any closer to their overarching objective, even if enabling better air coverage would be useful down the line. The mention of some sort of Ace bogging down 233rd Armored Cav was worth keeping in mind, given their own encounters recently. Never could tell when an ace or experimental weapon was going to rear its ugly head again, so worth keeping eyes wide in that regard. Option Two was likely out as well, though with a nod to the argument from Hex, before focusing on Option Three instead. Hit the power, force the Coalition to adapt and have to reroute power. Hell that could have an impact on the anti-air grid in place, if they were lucky, though he had no argument against option three.

"Feel free to load up the demo charges on Secutor as well, won't slow me down noticeably anyways." Better to have them and not need them, even if a 170mm HESH shell could probably do a hell of a lot of damage as well. He could also swap out weapons on the Secutor if they had them, and someone suggested it, but as far as he was concerned it would suit the mission as it was. Well, once the laser communication module was installed of course, but given that was the direction they were seeming to be going, better to already start planning ahead on how he was going to conceal Secutor. Lot of letting others lead and run recon, most likely, and sticking to the larger ruins whenever possible.

---

The barest hint of a sigh fled through the tall blond's nostrils, accepting the points made when they came from the O-5. He didn't have much constructive to say of the two renegades that had muddied the waters, not beyond what he had already regarding their mission statement. the heiress didn't care much beyond playing gadfly to as many people as she could, and the groundpounder missed home, beneath the token attempts at rhetorical framing.

"Project Forge". Really?

In any case, it had come about that the boss had plans already— and effectively, the final say. He shrugged, favoring his diametric opposite with a wan smirk.

"Guess we've been overruled, Rhino. They say it's best to know the enemy as you'd know yourself— tell me if you ever feel like starting an insurrection against this rank tyranny. We can get into OPFOR's heads a little." he jested, lightly clapping Von Brandt on the shoulder before he began to shrug off his jacket, taking one last moment to savor the plush comfort of faux-sheepskin. "If we've got ten, I'll be ready to scramble in five. Any preliminary thoughts on the division of labor, Commander?" he eyed Sagan curiously, before his gaze darted between the two most common sources of communicational static for an instant with a raised brow.

There wasn't much guessing at his meaning. Between Sab's optical camoflauge suite and literally everything going on with Leah's Blackout, the frontrunners for conducting the actual infiltration seemed obvious. Rhino would necessarily mind the rear and provide fire support, Roy himself... was almost certain that whatever was harassing the 233rd would come screaming into power plant airspace to investigate once the grid was severed.

These all made sense to him. But they had their inherent points of friction, and beyond that, his nature was to shy away from the bigger picture that Kodos was obligated to consider. It was why Kilmer had so happily ducked promotion for this long, after all.

Everyone seemed to be more or less falling in line. Good. He didn't mind dealing with bitching and moaning, but it was the principle of the matter. Regardless, Sagan clapped his hands together as things fell into place.

"Right, blackout plan it is. Ensign, keep trying to get other units on the horn for the other ops. Just because we're best suited for this one doesn't mean the Helldogs don't need support, or that I don't want to know what the Coalies're up to. If the Ghost that found the objective can't be assed, get the other one on the horn. Don't bother with the jarheads, they're not suited for this kind of op."

His gaze passed over each member of the unit, a scowl fixing itself onto his face.

"Move, people! He said you've got ten, which means we're oscar mike in exactly ten. Commie, we'll go over this once we're closer to being on-site."

---

Getting the 7th Squadron MAS fitted out with laser communicators was relatively quick work. The setup consisted of several laser modules attached to the head and hands of the suits, which the pilots would have to point at each other to send communications. They could also use the MAS's built in external speakers- though there were obvious problems with open communication of that manner. Armor had been refitted as best it could, and weapons were reloaded, the sparse crew of techs available having worked well through the evening to get the 7th Squadron's machines up and running before they deployed.

The requested threat map was also pushed to the pilot's HUDS. Unsurprisingly, the information was neither complete nor 100% accurate- but that was the nature of a constantly shifting battlefield with combat operations currently happening in the area. The relay station itself had a full time guard contingent of a Coalition MAS squadron- though it seemed a few of their number had been pulled out to other tasks- as well as a platoon of infantry and light vehicles.

As far as the area around the relay itself, the industrial district. Numbers were less precise. The Helldogs were actively engaging a coalition garrison in the Industrial district, and anywhere from 3-5 squadrons of Coalition MAS as well as considerable number of infantry were in the industrial area itself. Enemy would likely be the most concentrated around the garrison- but it didn't mean they wouldn't have patrols in the area.

"No rest for the wicked, huh?" Sabine complained loudly as she sat on the open lip of her cockpit, currently sucking down a Rip-Gel, alongside a cocktail of 'combat approved' stimulants, "I can already feel the bags forming under my eyes. Ugh."

It was clear Sabine was getting her bitching and moaning out of the way while they still were more or less forced to listen to her- their ears would be blessed with silence in the coming hours. The MAS were slowly pulled out of their hidey holes on the backs of truck trailers, and moved into a relative clear space. As the trucks rumbled to a stop, the pilots could climb into their machines and start the slightly awkward task of standing multi-ton war machines up from prone.

---

The trek from camp to the city was a long one. The City of Gelcastre was still an active warzone, and while actively maintaining stealth wasn't required for travel, keeping a low profile was important- lest the Coalies figure out something was about to happen. The 7th stuck to the ground, walking or boosting as allowed, the long shadows of the city's smoking towers and buildings shrouding them as night fell. Street lights were sporadic, many having been shut off- or destroyed in the fighting. Instead, most of the way ahead was lit by good old fire: burning cars, buildings, and MAS; the dull orange flames cast flickering and irregular shadows in the night.

The area outside the industrial district felt particularly desolate, evidence of recent fighting all around them. The remains of a Sentry lay half embedded in a nearby apartment building, arm missing, cockpit blown open and a streak of blood indicating someone was pulled out of the cockpit and into the building itself. A burnt out Fenrir lay face down in the street, sparks and flame flickering out of its back, its rifle having smashed the front of a cornerstore as it fell. If there were living humans about, they wisely made themselves scarce long before the engines of the 7th rumbled through. It wasn't long before they were well and truly in the combat zone- they could tell as their comms began to get more and more spotty.

The multi-spectrum jamming filling the air made it feel like they'd been dunked headfirst into water, every familiar tether of awareness muted into a suffocating hush. Radars flickered and were awash with ghost contacts, and their communication channels began to have more static than anything else. In the relative silence of the blackout, the low hum of their reactors, the hiss of actuators and crunch of metal feet on pavement felt deafeningly loud. Through nightvision and thermal overlays, Gelcastre’s industrial fringe stretched in jagged silhouettes, factories and smokestacks standing like broken teeth against the burning horizon. In the distance, tracer fire stitched the sky where the Helldogs were assaulting the Coalition garrison.

As luck would have it- not all of the Coalie forces were focused on the fight at the garrison. Sabine brought her sparrowhawk to a halt as a pair of lights from a distant side street flickered across their vision. From the way the lights bobbed, it appeared to be a patrol of MAS.

---

Johann snorted in amusement when Commie suggested a bit of good old fashioned treachery, joking naturally. Being the token Heavy pilot did lead to overrules more often than not, if for no other reason than where his MAS was best suited often times was hard to have experimental or underarmored frames follow along. Such was taking up armoring the Secutor as a challenge, as he was accused of by his ground crew on more than one occasion, though he gave a mock shrug before responding to the jest by playing along.

"We'll see how our illustrious leadership does, and talk later if things need shaken up a little. I'm good to go as soon as everything is loaded up." He downed the last of his coffee at that point, ten minutes would be enough time to load up explosives and get the laser communication sorted out. Still meant mounting up and getting ready to get underway, though he had the luxury of not having to shrug off a jacket or anything excessive. Leah chiming in on backing Option Three basically would have cemented it, though no bonus points for sticking to her guns, not that it mattered much in that regard. Who kept track of bonus points these days, anyways? When the order was given they were gone in ten, Rhino would make himself scarce. He had a MAS to tend to, which mostly meant mounting up as the last minute modifications and explosives were loaded up.

"Right, you got the list already, get those explosives loaded up on the aft bracing, the left arm can access there without interfering with the 170. Get the lift over here, I'll mount up and monitor from the cockpit." Rhino was coordinating with his ground crew the moment he left the tent, directing where the explosives were to be loaded for quick access, and lack of intrusive placement, while getting up in the cockpit to make sure the laser communicator was operating soundly. Rabbit was bitching, again, but the world would be a bit more wrong if she wasn't, still, he replied casually, having snuck some rest in while he could before they had regrouped for the mission chatter.

"What, no bragging the bags are designer? For shame, Rabbit. This is why I get in my sleep where I can, never know when it'll get interrupted." Rhino operated on the assumption that he was always going to have to go long without sleep, and unlike the rest of the team, he stubbornly avoided Rip-Gel until it was unavoidable. That wasn't even including the combat stimms, approved or not, also being indulged in. His methods required a steady hand, and the Gel fucked with that something awful, and it made good material for organizing swaps and trades with other units. It'd be a waste to suck it down like it was going out of style, though for now it was time to focus. Getting the Secutor upright was a bitch and a half under ideal circumstances, and it was the one complaint he would always have. Not like there was a solution, though, but even he had to get in his complaints where he could.

---

"...four little mechs stomping a long..."

With comms down, Rhino was humming a song under his breath, well in the rear of the formation of MAS as they advanced into the jamming and complete loss of most conventional senses. It wasn't pleasant, but that was to be expected, but it made him acutely aware of just how loud the Secutor was. Under normal circumstances, the roar of weapons fire, rapid thumps of micro-missile launches, constant rain of weapon's fire shattering and deflecting from his layers of armor made it easy to forget he was in at forty-ish feet of heavy metal and heavier arms. He was sticking to the deeper ruins and shadows, focused on avoiding collisions and grinding against the wrecks he used to break up his profile and obscure him from view. The 170mm was stowed, that was too loud, too obvious, too distinct to safely use, even if it was just to swat a drone out of the air, he was going to have to rely on his allies to handle things more than he cared for usually. Too much time spent at the front did that, he supposed.

"...four little mechs creeping and calm..."

Rabbit came to a halt, Rhino also stopping and settling as deep into the shadow as he could, spotting what had brought them to a halt. MAS patrol, seems the diversion hadn't brought everyone to the party after all, and these Coalition pilots decided it was better to go out for a stroll. Right into the path of their continued approach, it seemed, and he focused on identifying whether or not they were going to be in the way or not. If the patrol was just crossing their path, they could wait and let them pass, but if they were heading this way they would either need dealt with, or they would have to try and evade out of sight. Which would be a funnier thought if stealth wasn't as important as it was to their mission currently. The humming died down, letting the silence fill the cockpit, ready to follow the team's lead at a moment's notice.

---

As ever, Kilmer's eyes were drawn upward, his black-feathered shrike all but melting into the long shadows of the ruined Gelcastre skyline. While he was admittedly on the better-equipped side of the equation for the mission's demands compared to some of the others (Rhino going without saying, obviously) by way of spindly frame and excess of maneuverability, in conjunction with the dark paintjob...

Foot patrol ahead. Nothing up top. Majority of the air cover must be prodding the Helldogs. he noted, double-checking to confirmed a dimmed visor at the front of his optics. No sense in letting one's eyes give away their intent, went the traditional kernel of wisdom— to noting of concealed position. Part of why he had stayed towards the rear of their formation, close by Rhino, in the first place— While the Shrike cut a slim figure and he could play ball with anything thrown his way, Roy was mature enough to know the score.

He, purely as a pilot, wasn't as well-suited to stealth operations as his chariot might have been. It was a matter of temperament, at the end of the day— He had too much of a showman in his heart. Like he'd intuited during the briefing, in his eyes Sabine and Leah were a better match for picking off walkers like this unseen, if it came to it. They had the tools and mindset that made them better specialists— he could be professional as anybody. He was right now, even, not to get it twisted. But they all knew the shit he liked to spend training hours doing. For all the two ladies jawed at one another, to the point where some days it felt like operational suicide to put them in the same unit?

In this respect, they both would have his number. They were built for this part.

Really, if he could draw this up in his head, they'd have some magically secure and unmolested comm line between the lot of them, and he and Rhino could park much, much further out beneath some cammy nets. For the big lug, a comfy position to fire for effect with his 170. For Commie, it'd be a point where he could more clearly monitor the night sky, and spear through any flyboys that thought they might feel like checking in on the power plant.

But wishful thoughts didn't win wars in the real world, so tough break. Gingerly within the curtain of the leaning low-income housing terraces, the Shrike reached for its beam saber, and began measuring the gap between its position on the road and the intersection those bobbing headlamps were staring down. If the team were unlucky, he could be on them in a moment. If the team were really unlucky, he could screen for CAS while it all went hot.

God in space, but Sagan hated stealth ops. Even having been a former fighter pilot, his idea of stealth was being off radar, dropping a cruise missle from beyond visual range. Not hoofing it, crouching down behind cover in a several meters-tall warmachine. Nevertheless, this was his life, and he wouldn't bitch about it outside of his own head. No point affecting morale by having the CO whine.

The Watchdog stayed in between those of the 7th infiltrating up front, and those hanging back, aiming to extend the range of the squad's laser communications by acting as a central hub to route comms through. Its pilot manuevered its arms to level the MAS's HPK on overwatch, prone and dug in atop a rooftop.

<< Foot patrol confirmed. >> Sagan commed in response to the radio ping. << Deep breaths, people. Don't get jumpy, let them pass. >>

He continued scanning the streets, letting the onboard smart-targeting AI run passively so not as to alert any Coalies with tone if the targeting suite detected anything. All the while, the Watchdog continued transmitting its scans over laser optics to the rest of the squad that was in range, keeping everyone that could in the loop.

<< Rabbit, Hex, talk to me. Any visual confirmations yet? >>