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

[color=ff4136][i]Foot patrol ahead. Nothing up top. Majority of the air cover must be prodding the Helldogs.[/i][/color] 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 [i]and[/i] mindset that made them better specialists— he could be professional as anybody. He was right now, even, not to get it twisted. But they [i]all[/i] 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 [i]really[/i] unlucky, he could screen for CAS while it all went hot.