Author Note: Hope you enjoy. I had a lot of fun with some of these battle scenes.

xxxx

May 6th, New Eden, Urbanis area, Vicinity of Militia Defense Headquarters complex

With a face of stone, Chris surveyed the nondescript ground that formed the environs of the Militia Headquarters, some 1500 meters from the south-eastern edge of the city sprawl, the opposite side from the lakeshore. Many had advised and cajoled Daveron to build his headquarters someplace more centralized, within the city of Urbanis itself, where significant infrastructure already existed and construction would be both swift and effectively unnoticable. Where it was, it could be more easily reached by a concentrated thrust of enemy power from the landward side of the city defenses, and there was no cover or distraction for kilometers around, just gently rolling savanna and occasional copses of low trees. Daveron had adamantly refused, saying that if he hid in the city, no matter how safe or easy it might be, it would only legitimize the city as a military target, and they would see a repeat of the first battle. Nor did he wish to be on the lakeside or even beneath the shallow near-shore lake waters, despite the increased protection that would grant, as that would endanger the evacuation routes. He built his headquarters where it would not threaten any of its surroundings, not even the evacuated city buildings themselves, when the inevitable decapitation attack came. What was the point of fighting to protect the city, he said, if the city was destroyed in the fighting? People needed a place to live their lives, and for more than just shelter from the elements.

Though exasperating to the more pragmatic and calculating commanders and political leaders, Daveron's choice and his steadfast adherence to his policy despite the danger to himself only made Chris love the man all the more. And it was a sense of love, familial and potent, a sense of kinship he had never felt for another human before. Certainly there was no love lost between himself and the other Kindred. He had always been different from his fellows, even when still a child in the time before the Sealing of the Home. Chris had always had a more contemplative, philosophical bent... and more damning still, at least amongst the ranks of the then BCPU... he had felt empathy for others, especially unaugmented humans. The transformation to becoming a Kindred had not hollowed him out as it had many of his fellows, and though starvation and isolation in the pitch dark warrens beneath the Home mountain had driven him to acts of depravity and massacre during the evil time of the Harrowing, when the trapped BCPU candidates had turned on each other out of desperation and drug withdrawal, he at least regretted his actions, was repulsed by the beast that dwelled within him. Most other Kindred had let themselves fall back into their bestial sides, taking solace in their madness and emerging warped and stained in soul and mind from the other side.

Unable to bear the idea of eating other sentient creatures, especially unaugmented humans, and perpetually doubtful of the quasi-religion revering the God Under the Mountain, Chris... emphatically not Kriss, as many of the Tribe thought, he rejected the taking of a Codename as he did almost all other traditions of his kin... had found his time in the Tribe once it emerged from the depths of Home into the changed world of New Eden to be painful and unpleasant. Outcast amongst his former brothers and sisters, a lone voice of empathy and reason in a raving pack of unrepentant cannibals and killers, Chris had soon realized that this was no life for him. He stole away in the day, when most Kindred were at their most lethargic and disinclined to venturing outside into the brightness, with the kind of stealth only a Kindred could accomplish. His fellows hunted him, hounding him for days across the jungle to the east. Not out of any particular animosity, or any new animosity anyway, but simply because hunting people was what the Tribe did, for honor and status as well as sustenance.

Chris escaped from his pursuers, and from the continent of South America, building a raft that was little more than a collection of logs wrapped together with vines and bits of wire and plastic scavenged from the overgrown ruins of a seaside town. At one point, BCPU survival training had included instructions on emergency boatbuilding for crossing small bodies of water, but as with many memories of his early days, the traumatic Harrowing, and the even more brutal Time of Change, when the BCPU became the Kindred, had jumbled his memories, blanking some out and fragmenting others. It was as a legacy of such effects that Kindred culture had arisen, a bastardized and corrupted version of the skills and knowledge that had been imparted to the BCPU before the Harrowing. Having resisted the seductive call of falling into a bestial state, perhaps Chris's memory was less jumbled and torn than the others, and so it was only he who could see and understand how low his brothers and sisters had fallen. Not that they saw it that way at all, which was only one of many reasons why he had not been popular around the communal campfire. Chris had rode the currents for days, weeks, subsisting off the flesh of fish and birds, drinking their blood for hydration.

The wider world had proved no more kind than the Tribe, perhaps even less kind in some ways. As a Kindred he was of course a Null Newtype, a complete psychic void, and in a world of Newtypes that was to be a pariah, a figure of instinctive revulsion and even hatred. A monster. Entering a town, usually skulking through the garbage at the edges, he was lucky if he wasn't forced to flee a lynch mob before he could steal enough food and supplies to move on. Children, some of them taller than him, threw insults, as well as sticks and sometimes even rocks, whenever they sighted him, even in the towns where he wasn't chased away as an abomination. In those rarest of times when people actually deigned to interact with him as a person, even then they were curt and distant, unwilling to touch him or even stay near him for more than a few seconds. He might as well have been a leper.

Daveron was different though. Whether because he himself was uncomfortable with his Newtype powers and thus did not dread having them nullified by Chris, or because of his tolerant upbringing in Orb before the Disaster, or simply because as a dour and pessimistic man he was used to being something of a social pariah himself, Daveron had never showed the slightest hesitation or dread or disgust with Chris. He took Chris in, brought him out of the shadows and the garbage piles, gave him a home in Daveron's own house, gave him a purpose, legitimacy as Daveron's assistant, protected him from the anger and fear of other Urbanites. He had treated Chris like a human and a friend... and nobody had ever done that before, not even while a BCPU. Daveron validated every empathetic thought Chris had ever felt for humans, and that earned the Sheriff-General his undying love, loyalty and devotion. Other Kindred had latched onto Frost as a messianic figure, but to Chris it would always be Daveron who was his savior.

Chris had been forced to stay with the civilians during the first battle for Urbanis, Daveron having entrusted him with ensuring that the evacuation went smoothly, as few Edenites were willing to argue with Chris once he fixed his solemn black gaze upon them... most couldn't get away from him fast enough! But the evacuation procedures were more refined and self sustaining, not to mention better practiced now, so Chris found himself on the battlefield. It was a comfortable place for him, as it was for any Supersoldier. He had assigned himself, and the Templar squadron, to defending the Militia Headquarters, knowing that the enemy, with their AI analysts, would soon determine where the greatest volume of Edenite comm traffic and data flow was being sent or transmitted from, and would launch a countermeasure attack. Perhaps an orbital bombardment, but Daveron was sure it would be a Mecha strike instead. Surer, and less destructive. The Oosen wanted to capture the city and its defenses as intact as possible, so they could use it. Capturing the Sheriff-General and his top commanders would also be a signficant intelligence coup.

As the battle for the first defense line had raged, the other Templar pilots had strained at their leashes, incensed that their friends, family and comrades were fighting and dying while they, the elite of the Militia Mobile Suit division, simply sat around waiting for an attack that didn't seem to be coming. At length they had left, blasting off for the fiercest fighting zones. Chris had let them go... in such an emotional state they would never have listened to him anyway, and even with Daveron's backing, his true rank and status within the Militia was somewhat suspect at the best of times. All the moreso these days when the Tribe had come out of its seclusion as Executor Frost's most ardent supporters. Even though he was nothing like his brothers and sisters, it was all too easy for most Edenites to simply see a Kindred and react accordingly.

Left alone, Chris had relaxed yet further, if that was possible. The other Templar pilots had heart and drive, and all were skilled pilots, clearly the elite of the Militia. Some of them might even go on to become Custodians. But heart and drive did not place one in the same category as a Supersoldier. He could fight far better without having to worry about his allies blundering around getting in the way. He had begun preparing his battleground immediately, launching missile after missile from his shoulder mounted VTP tubes, and firing grenade after grenade from his arm mounted grenade launchers. The Insidia model Templar was a insurgency warfare unit, an odd role for a Mobile Suit, which were normally front line combatants, but with their technology mostly being salvage from old armories of the Alliance, FNE and ALU, Militia mobile suits didn't stand a chance in a direct fight with most modern MS. Asymmetrical warfare was the only way to prosper when your equipment was outdated and your fighters filled with more heart than skill.

The Insidia was hunkered down in a hide, more or less a pit dug into the ground with a camouflage tarp covering over the top, just enough room for some extendable sensor apparatus to peek out and passively scan the surroundings. Chris waited in low power mode, still and quiet, almost zen like as he listened and watched. He might not be a member of the Tribe anymore, or perhaps ever, but he had learned how to hunt with the best of them... his cold-hunter hide jacket was proof of that. And attacking from ambush was the preferred mode of combat for all Kindred. His patience was rewarded as the outer defense lines began collapsing, heralded by the destruction of Heavy Bunker number 3. With a gap now punched in the first defense perimeter, the Oosen would rapidly pour through and assault the other heavy defense bunkers from their more vulnerable rears, then turn inwards to assault the second defense line. Clearly they had decided to time their decapitation strike for when the Edenite defenses were in chaos, transitioning between defense lines, when most would be confused and any disruption from the loss of the command center would cause the most constrenation. Nobody ever said the Oosen were fools. At least not with Waltfeld in command.

Two squadrons of Vindicators, led by a pair of Excalibers, all equipped with Mirage Colloid packs, descended from the boiling clouds of steam and smoke that were rapidly forming a storm across the city environs, from the battle damage, orbital bombardments and the atmospheric friction effects of so many hundreds and thousands of drop pods pummeling the sky. Following the Mobile Suits at a cautious distance were a flight of Hunter class Gunships escorting a Goliath heavy transport flier. Heavy duty engineering equipment, including a pallet of explosive charges and a remote operated drilling unit based on an AUTO, were suspended beneath the Goliath. Clearly the Oosen were coming prepared to break into the Headquarters even if they couldn't find the front door. Just as Daveron had predicted. Chris's muscles tensed, but he held himself still. The true art of the ambush lay in waiting until the very last moment, just when the prey was totally sure they were safe. Attack too early and the Gunships would get away.

The Vindicators and Excalibers circled the area, clearly detecting some of the mines and traps his earlier efforts had laid. As he had expected, even planned. The Oosen would have been suspicious had they not detected any passive defenses around the hidden bunker. Disengaging their cloaks, the Oosen units opened fire in a coordinated, precision bombardment of their landing zone, detonating a dozen anti-Mecha mines in plumes of smoke and flame which shook the ground around the Insidia's pit. A necessary sacrifice. Satisfied that their LZ was clear, the Mobile Suits landed and began probing the terrain for any hidden hatches or pop up turrets, firing at any suspicious looking hump or depression. Chris waited, tensed up. This was the time of maximum danger for him... an unlucky step or shot could reveal him before he was ready, and could damage him enough that getting out of the pit would be difficult... that would be a death sentence. Fortunately, his pit and tarp had been sited so that they would blend seamless into the surrounding landscape, and though the enemy passed close, none put a foot onto the tarp itself.

The hum of the Hunter and Goliath VTOL engines grew louder, as they buzzed the site once before circling around and swooping in for a landing, figures in bulky blue powered armor leaping from the Hunter's side doors, large rifles and Inferno combi-weapons held in their arms. More trooped down out of the Goliath's aft loading hatch at a trot, including some that wore even more massive Aegis power armor suits, head and shoulders taller and bulkier than their fellows, perfectly suited for spearheading assaults in narrow bunker corridors. If those guys got inside the bunker, Daveron and his relatively lightly armed guards were in deep trouble! And that was something Chris simply could not abide! Chris waited until about half the company of heavy Infantry had deployed from the Goliath, and had begun to unpack their explosives and drilling machine. He powered up and hit his first stage triggers, sending arming commands to dozens of anti-personnel and area denial munitions his VTP missiles had laid.

The Oosen troops never knew what hit them, thousands of red hot tungsten ball bearings exploding in half spheres out of the anti-personnel devices, propelled at twice the speed of sound through everything within their twenty meter kill radius, followed by the shaped charge plasma explosions of the anti-vehicle mines, smashing Hunter gunships to smithereens and sending bits and pieces of blue armored body sailing through the air. It was only a matter of microseconds until an explosion caught the loaded pallet of breaching charges, and the resulting blast atomized the Goliath and everything within ten meters of it, digging a crater almost down to the roof of the buried bunker below! A Vindicator stumbled, falling to its side as its pilot was concussed by the blast wave, more explosions rippling underneath it as mines went off, pinging ball bearings off its PS armor. Chris leapt out of the ambush hide, knowing that his activation signal would have revealed his presence anyway.

He immediately loosed a VTP, one of his few hunter-killer war loads, the missile zooming across the near point blank distance between him and one of the Excalibers, catching the unit right in the gut and blowing it completely in half, shrapnel and burning boil spraying like blood and guts across the Vindicators standing behind it. Drawing his twin heat sabers, Chris pounced on the shocked Vindicators, severing one's arm even as he lopped the head off the other. Neither was a killing blow but he didn't want to destroy them. He needed them as cover against their fellows, following Daveron's sound advice... the more they could make the Oosen fight at melee range, the better their odds of survival were. The Oosen were game though, stowing rifles and bazookas, and pulling beam sabers, as the remaining Excaliber unsheathed its QC longsword with almost melodramatic intent.

Chris didn't give them time to organize, hurling himself amongst them with all the fury he had been built to express, heat sabers blurring as they hacked and slashed at the foe, driving them back with sheer ferocity. Focusing their attention on his swords. Lashing out with a kick, Chris caught a Vindicator in the chest and knocked it back and down. As it hit the ground he keyed a second remote trigger and the anti-Mecha charge he'd laid there previously detonated, sending a massive burst of focused plasma energy spearing up through the back of the downed unit, melting its entire chest to slag in a heartbeat! Two more Vindicators leaped into the air to come at him from above, but some of Chris's mines were rocket assisted pop up versions, sending their charge a hundred meters up before imploding, releasing massive concussion waves that swatted the hapless Mecha from the air like a giant invisible fist! He butchered one as it fell, slicing it into three peices with two swipes of his swords. The other managed to recover and forced him to veer away from its beam saber.

The remaining 4 undamaged Vindicators and the Excaliber attacked from all sides, forcing him to parry and dodge furiously, ducking and weaving, lashing ut with elbows and knees and feet and swords all at once, a dervish of death. If he'd been in a modern Mobile Suit, they fight would have been over already, but the Templar was at the limits of its performance just keeping him alive. Glancing hits shaved molten scags of armor from his shoulders and limbs, and Chris knew theyw ere going tow ear him down unless he did something drastic. He hit his fourth and last trigger, emergency detonating all his remaining traps and mines, regardless of placement. The ground shook and a pall of smoke and dust billowed over them all as everyone, Chris included, was slammed around by the multiple detonations. One Vindicator went to pieces, like a doll broken by a squeezing fist, and another fell intact, its pilot unconscious or dead from the shockwaves. The Excaliber staggered, its legs sucking down into a morass created by the liquefication of the ground by a buried explosive. Chris bounced around the inside of his cockpit like a ping pong ball, one of his restraint straps having snapped, but he bore the trauma with the stoicism only a Supersoldier could maintain. Blood matted his hair and dried across his face, turning it into a feral mask of determination.

Brilliant crystal glinted in the sunlight and Chris had to throw himself backwards to avoid being bisected by the Excaliber as it dragged itself free from the morass his buried mine had created. He threw up his swords as an instinctive defense, only to curse as their blades were cleaved apart by the QC edge. Throwing the stumps of his swords at the Excaliber, Chris unleashed his last hunter-killer VTP, only to have to blasted down by a hail of beam fire from the Vindicators, who had retrieved their rifles now that their numbers were reduced. They kept firing at him, hemming him in as the Excaliber advanced, clearly intent on extracting some payback for the massive casualties Chris had inflicted on the decapitation force. Chris dodged the first swing, and the second, sliding back further and further. Further and further until he stood where he'd destroyed the first Excaliber. The second Excaliber lunged, bringing his sword down in a straight up and down bisecting slash. Chris dived and rolled, losing his HiMat wings to the slice, but it was worth it! The Excaliber that he'd VTP'd was nothing but fragments, but QC weapons were very hard to destroy with conventional weapons, and he'd retrieved the sword of the fallen enemy during his dive.

Throwing himself forward with all of his remaining power, Chris charged through a hail of desperately fired beam blasts, accepting hits to shoulders and head and torso, chewing away at his armor, exposing the innards of his Templar, smoke and flame bursting from internal damage, but he was not to be stopped, reaching the Vindicators and lashing out to either side with his stolen sword. The Vindicators collapsed, PS armor no protection at al against the Quantum edge, cut through the chest and sides, clean through. Chris twisted and parried another lunging thrust from the Excaliber, falling back onto his butt in the process, turning it into an awkward roll... even with a NIC system, there were things Mecha just didn't do well... and coming up in a crouch, captured sword held defensively in front of him. The Excaliber stood across from him, a couple arms lengths away. The pilot pointed his sword at the battered Insidia and opened fire with his shoulder mounted Accelerated Impulse Cannon. Chris flicked his head and torso to the side, letting the blue-purple plasma beam scream past him harmlessly, concentrating on deflecting the next sword thrust as the Excaliber pilot zoomed forward.

"Siclaszi majorpoj umse Se!" Chris snarled, reverting to Cant in the heat of the moment. Some habits from his Tribal days were harder to kick than others. This was a duel that would not be resolved quickly...

xxxx

Downtown Urbanis

"First Blade, why do we hesitate?" An irritated voice growled from the blot of darkness stuck to the inside of Arthon's uniform collar. "Our blood sings with the fury of war, and our blades thirst for the life of the Oosen mongrels! Why do we waste time sitting idly by? War calls for us!"

"Patience, Tacticus." Arthon replied shortly, keeping his viewfinder goggles held to his eyes with one hand, the other hand anchored on the steel struts of the comm mast that extended from the top of the tallest skyscraper in the city. He was about as high as it was possible to get without flying, and it gave him a perfect and unobstructed view of the entire city and its surroundings. With the aid of the goggles he could even see as far as the first and second defense lines, the goggles sorting out IFF signals and giving him tactical updates from the Militia headquarters. At least as long as the HQ stayed operational. He turned in that direction and watched with no little degree of admiration as a lone Templar fought against two whole squadrons of Vindicators and Exclaibers, as well as a reinforced company of infantry. It was quite a display of skill, and he recognized the hunting tactics of a Kindred. Seems you could take the Kindred out of the Tribe, but there was only so much Tribe you could take out of the Kindred.

"First Blade Reiland, please, why do we sit here doing nothing?" The leader of his Custodian honor guard, Tacticus Magnus Zoltan, radioed again, champing at the bit as he waited with his fellows, already mounted in their Dervishes at the hidden Mori biovac site near the lakeshore. "Is it not our duty to plunge into conflict and beat the weakness out of the blade that is humanity?"

"Top marks for paying attention to dogma, Tacticus." Arthon answered, allowing a hint of his own irritation to creep into his voice. "But we move on my command, and not before. There is more to fighting than simply plunging in headlong and making it up as you go."

"But the Executor..." Zoltan protested unhappily.

"I am not the Executor." Arthon cut him off with a displeased curl of his lips. "I don't WISH to be the Executor either. Neither in body nor in tactics. This battle, as the Sheriff-General so astutely stated, is a lost cause. Simply throwing ourselves into the melee will accomplish nothing but stroke our own egos, before we are surrounded, overwhelmed and crushed underfoot like bugs. Not even Frost could prevail against such numbers with what we have available. What chance would we have?"

"You fear death? You fear battle?" Zoltan's voice turned ugly, condemning, judging.

"Everyone sane fears death, Tacticus." Arthon refused to rise to his hot headed subordinate's tone or words. He was the First Blade of Humanity, he had nothing to prove to anyone, least of all a Custodian who couldn't see past the end of his own sword tip. "And I don't fear battle. I fear a battle that is pointless, where our lives would be spent to no gain. Any warrior should fear such a thing, it is the anathema of honor to die fighting hopeless odds for no greater purpose. Especially with trained pilots and war machines in as short supply as they are now. Patience, Tacticus. Patience and Discipline and Precision... those are our watchwords today. Don't make me come down there and lecture you in person."

There was a protracted silence, no doubt Zoltan expressing his displeasure to his Manifold through their psychic bond, commiserating and grumbling in their private way. Arthon didn't mind. Soldiers needed an outlet for their thoughts that their leaders weren't privy too, it was healthy to give the troops some way to bitch and moan. A complaining soldier was a happy soldier, at his core. It was when a soldier stopped complaining and started contemplating DOING SOMETHING about the cause of their displeasure that problems arose. And despite being a "mere" Coordinator, Arthon knew that none of the Custodians were looking to pick a fight with him, in or out of a Mecha. One didn't advance in the Mori, much less earn the title of First Blade, if you couldn't fight like a demon. Lilia's backing gave him a certain amount of status, but the Mori were very much a might makes right group, thus to be right, for your orders to be followed in the heat of battle, you had to be mighty. One day that might change to something a little more practical, but for now it was completely cutthroat, survival of the fittest as an organizational mandate.

Arthon had been living by survival of the fittest ever since the Disaster had ruined Earth. His family had been lost in the disaster, by administrative chaos more than the Green EDEN itself, and in an eyeblink everything he'd been, everything his potential had been geared toward making him, had been wiped away, never to be regained. Gone was the wealth, the connections, the private schooling and all those little advantages that would have garaunteed him a life of comfort and freedom, a life that had been all he had known for most of his early childhood. In a heartbeat, Arthon had gone from the top of the dogpile down to the bottom of the shit heap, and every second of every minute of every day since then had been one long fight to survive. He had a talent for it, hell if he didn't he wouldn't have survived the first day spent amongst the lost, orphaned and forgotten during the confusion and tumult of the Earth evacuation. But he'd survived, thrived even, remaking himself in the blood and dirt and sweat and misery of life on the fringes of a society that had barely enough resources for the Haves, much less than Have Nots.

It had been a long and hard path to where he was now. Starting on the streets, a thief and a beggar. A member of a gang of similar orphans, then the leader of the gang. Expanding territory, wars with other gangs, evading the authorities, chopping a place for himself out of the hard, cold world that never gave an inch except when you forced it to. Being press ganged by a mercenary group, battered, beaten, broken and rebuilt. Again and again, trained up to be a fearsome killer by the time most other teens his age were first starting to show an interest in members of the opposite sex. Graduating through the ranks of the group, being poached by stronger groups, by shadowy organizations working behind the scenes of the USN to consolidate power and earn vast illegitimate fortunes. The Syndicate. The Shadows of Sol. The Company. Section 9. The Organization. He'd been through them all, as allies or enemies. Never quite finding his place, never quite fitting in. From gangbanger to hired thug to paid assassin to made man to mercenary to test pilot, he'd learned a hundred different skills for survival at any cost.

It was while working for the Organization, a clandestine group of Anti-Durandel types who preferred more shadowy means than the open revolt of the Retributors, that the Reclamation War had started. Arthon had participated in a few secret missions to strike at the USN's underbelly while its attention was focused on the Edenites, and had eventually worked his way into serving as the emissary of the Organization to the Edenites. Sadly for the Organization, barely had he arrived on New Eden than the core of the group was rolled up by a Section 9 raid, leaving Arthon an emissary without an organization. Staying on with the Edenites, he was glad to fight against the USN that had always been his home but had never really been his place, eventually coming to the attention of Praetorian Lilia, and the dark Executor Frost. The rest was history. Or it would be one day, if Arthon had anything to say about it.

He was no one's fanatic or mindless follower, but his will to survive was a razor keen edge, and after consulting with Lilia and Frost, and learning of the REAL Enemy that threatened Humanity, he knew there was only one place for him. He would become a Blade to protect Humanity, slicing away the weak flesh and cutting down anyone who threatened those who labored to save all of Humanity. The War of now was but a skirmish compared to what he figured was coming down the pipe, and he intended to be ready to lead the Mori in the battles to come. That meant, as always, surviving the fights of now, including this hopeless rearguard action in Urbanis. Yes, this battle was completely hopeless. But it was also worth fighting all the same. Not because he enjoyed fighting, no matter how good at it he was. This battle was worth fighting because it protected people. People who might one day rise up to defend humanity in their own right. It was his chosen duty to protect the ignorant until they had time and opportunity to make their choice about becoming a blade in Humanity's arsenal, or being regulated to the spoil heap as cowards deserved.

Arthon watched for a while longer, before finally seeing what he'd hoped to see. After taking out one of the heavy defense bunkers, the USN forces were now grouping up in that area, marshalling their forces to begin flanking maneuvers around the backs of the still operational bunkers. Each would be surrounded and pounded into submission or destroyed in turn, leaving the Edenites completely surrounded within the second defense line. At that point, any military retreat, even once the civilians were evacuated, would be impossible. All of the Edenite forces within Urbanis, except for maybe a couple of the Praetorians, would be trapped, besieged and eventually defeated in detail, either forced to surrender en mass from starvation or simply wiped out by orbital bombardments. The heart of the Militia would be torn out, and the Shark Party gravely weakened with the loss of one of its strongest Legio's, Ironhide. Politically, that would shove the Mori into ascendancy amongst the Edenite military forces.

That was to be avoided, in Arthon's estimation. The Memento Mori were great warriors, fierce fighters and some of the most fucking dangerous people he'd ever had the fortune to fight alongside. But they weren't soldiers, not yet, and they weren't ready, organizationally or emotionally, for playing a truly leading role in the Edenite military. Being looked to as the primary force would only drag them down and make them less effective. One day they would ascend to lead humanity in the greatest war ever, but that was still far in the future. Much preparation remained before they could take that step. So that meant preserving as much of the Militia and Ironhide as possible, to preserve the strength of the Shark Party, so that they could continue to shoulder the burden of leading the Edenite cause. For that matter, Arthon considered most of them to fit under his duty as "ignorant people" to be protected until they could be enlightened.

"Mace, Lance, spool up the Shadowhunter. We're on deck." Arthon said into the ink blot on his collar, before letting it shrink away into nothing, leaving the collar of his uniform pristine. One more survival skill was always welcome, and the potential of Black EDEN was still boggling his mind, even though he had just barely begun learning how to use it. He leapt down from the comm mast, falling half a dozen meters to the roof, rolling as he hit the ground, somersaulting up to his feet, shaking the dust off his jacket as he headed for the barely visible shimmer in the air that marked the parked Shadowhunter Assault Shuttle. Where the wider Edenite military machine was investing heavily in battle walkers, like Tarantula's or Widowmakers, for their armored support, the still nascent Memento Mori war production facilities, based in the ever expanding caverns under Charon's Citadel was focused on more stealth and utility, gearing up for a future war that would be won in the shadows as much as on the battlefield proper.

Designed for the stealthy insertion of Kindred and other special forces infantry behind enemy lines or into enemy fortresses, the Shadowhunter had a rakish hull with flaring, forward curving V wings, fuselage and wings looking like three thick claws, all made of Blankwood, which was native to South America and was one of the only known Edenized organisms besides Kindred that showed Null Newtype tendencies. The wood was no more resilient than Borealite vs normal attacks but was posited to be far more effective vs Newtype attacks, and more to the point, especially good at hiding any occupants from Newype detection methods. Add a PR cloak onto that, and you got a flyer that was as close to undetectable while in stealth mode as any human science could currently create. The Shadowhunter was lightly armed with Beam CIWS and a few VTP tubes, most of its hull taken up with engines, power supply, passenger space and the various enhanced sensors and stealth systems.

His two Kindred bodyguards/minders were already set up inside on the cramped flight deck, the controls deliberately sized so as to fit the smaller Kindred physiology. A regular sized human would have been uncomfortable, to say the least, trying to pilot a Shadowhunter. Lance, the senior of the two, was taller and thinner, just over five feet tall, making him a giant by Kindred standards, lean and wiry, with a tendency towards a sardonic grin and biting sarcasm. Mace, the other, was squat, just over four feet tall, much thicker through the chest and arms than his comrade, though still a little on the thin side compared to most normal people. Both had the characteristic albino pale hair, like translucent straw, and solid black eyes, and filed teeth. Charms of bone and feathers hung from various points in the cockpit, adding spiritual blessings and good fortune to the craft, along with the warpaint on the outer hull.

The belly hatch was still hissing closed behind him as the Kindred took off, Arthon braced by long experience, grabbing handholds on the ceiling and sides of the troop bay. Kindred were Supersoldiers after all, they were built to take stresses normal soldiers couldn't, and even making allowances for his own health, Lance and Mace liked to push the Shadowhunter to the edge of its performance envelope whenever they could. Some sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo attachment to any sort of vehicle or mecha they piloted. He could understand appreciating your Mecha, it was what kept you alive after all. But the Kindred talked to their vehicles, had full conversations with them, like they were real living people, even made burnt offerings to the spirit of the machine. He didn't pretend to understand the Kindred. Generally speaking, he left them alone, and usually they did the same to him. Except for that first time when they had nearly eaten him alive! Then again, the same had happened to Lilia. Perhaps that was some sort of rite of passage for the Kindred to accept you.

The trip to the biovauc was short, the Shadowhunter's supercharged engines speeding them across the city in minutes. The lack of enemy presence helped, as they didn't have to waste time evading attacks or enemy detection. Still, Lance put the Shadowhunter on the deck like he was under heavy fire from multiple sources, the landing suspension whining as the retro-jets shrieked like banshees, and Arthon had to keep his hands clutched on the roof supports to avoid being thrown around the troop compartment like a rock in a kicked can. Arthon composed himself quickly, knowing that Mace would probably be monitoring him to see if he was shaken up. Not out of concern for his health, but simply because the Kindred were always on the alert for weakness, in enemies or allies. It was wearying at times, constantly being tested and challenged by subordinates and superiors alike, but then again Arthon supposed if you were the sort to get worn out by hazing like this, you probably weren't the sort of person suited to playing a leadership role in the war to come.

The embarkment hatch hissed down and Arthon wasted no time in running down it, and heading for the Sadeb Abired. Zoltan and his Manifold stood watchfully around the edges of the biovauc, their Dervishes had the Borealite armor bleached to a medium grey hue, like wind weathered wood, and wore decorative strips of crimson hued sensor baffling cloth around necks and torsos and arms and legs, with crudely painted skulls and bones drawn on the banners. It was a barbaric display, and personally Arthon didn't approve of it, no matter the slight psychological warfare impact it might have, but it wasn't worth fighting over. If Zoltan and his troop, and many other Mori adherents, wanted to waste time looking scary rather than actually BEING scary, that was no skin off his nose. He grabbed the cable lift hanging from Sadeb's cockpit and quickly clambered up into his Mobile Suit.

Sadeb Abired was a prototype unit, the first of several new lines of Mecha that were still being designed by Charon, Lilia and Frost. Sadeb's job was primarily being a test bed for new technology that would then be incorporated into the new unit lines, and Arthon's opinion on how the tech worked out would be crucial in determining what made the cut and what didn't. The Sadeb Abired itself was based off the Wraith type frame, copied from Lilia's own unit, but instead of Borealite, it was armored in Blankwood, called Annullite Armor, just like the Shadowhunter. This gave it a much darker hue, as mature Blankwood was such a deep maroon shade it was almost black, compared to the more olive toned Borealite. Similarly to a Shadowhunter, the Annullite armor was primarily a defense against Newtype detection and attacks, and providing physical protection second.

Arthon settled into the cockpit couch, strapping himself in, even as the magnetic fields of the GRS-III clamped around his body and limbs to hold him in place and protect him from impacts or the pull of gravitic forces. He pulled on his piloting helmet, a NIC-IV wireless interface, which matched the dark blue hue of his uniform. His personal emblem, a white skeletal figure with a silver dagger in one hand, a golden warhorn raised to fleshless lips in the other, bloody red tear tracks falling from empty sockets, with a book chained around its waist, was embossed on the side of the helmet. The Herald of Woe. Instantly his body went numb as the NIC engaged, and the Sadeb Abired came to life around him, powerplant pounding eagerly as power and purpose flooded its frame once more. A moment later, its outline blurred and hazed, wavering like a bad hologram, like it was standing behind plates of thick, semi-opaque glass. This was the primary defense of the Mecha, the Distortion Field. It was a modified version of the Photo-Refractor cloak, which did not grant invisibility, but rather decieved the eyes and other sensors of the enemy, making it difficult to accurately judge the Sadeb's true position within the field haze. Area damage weapons wouldn't be especially troubled, but any precision or melee attacks would miss as often as not, even without Arthon dodging.

Also unlike the PR cloak, a Distortion Field didn't limit the weapons you could use while it was operational, a more than fair trade in Arthon's estimation, as the intense power draw and fragile field of the PR Cloak, allowing use of only missile weapons and melee weapons while operating, was a serious weakness. Primary weapons included a pair of QC swords, which had heavy duty basket hilts with spikes that turned his fists into spiked gauntlets. It wasn't his favorite form for a blade, Arthon peeferred to go big and two handed for kill power and reach, but he was still more than proficient with twin blades. There was also a stubby, wide barreled shotgun like weapon holstered at his right hip. This was an Ion-Devastator, an expansion on Ion-Disintegrator technology. Where an Ion-Disintegrator fired a single pinkish-red pulse of heavy exotic particles, punching through shields and initiating a micro-fission reaction within the target on impact, an Ion-Devastator fired a dozen smaller particle pulses in a scattershot arrangement. The range was fairly poor, but the overall damage, especially with multiple impacts on the same target, was far greater. Well suited for close range butchery, though it was somewhat slow to recharge after firing.

Hulking out of the Sadeb Abired's back where two massive wings, patterned off the wings of the Kratos. The wings were covered with a nano-gel coating, superficially similar to LCR armor, which was a thermal superconductor, turning the entire wing surface into essentially a single giant heat dissipator. This was necessary because of the massive thrusters and power amplifiers the wings contained, which produced so much thrust and at such temperatures that any normal HiMat wing type mount would simply detonate or vaporize at the moment of thruster ignition. The nano-gel was black, for maximum thermal absorbing properties, and small bits of it would constantly drip off and dissolve in the air as it reached the end of its useful cycle, constantly refreshed by nano-breeding off waste heat, leading to the thruster system being christened the "Wings of Darkness". They were far and above the most powerful thruster and flight system ever constructed for a Mobile Suit. Even with a full GRS-III and grav-support flight suit, a normal pilot simply couldn't handle the gravitational strain of doing more than flying in a straight line with the Wings active.

Arthon had recieved special nanite injections, reverse engineered from Frost's own bloodstream, which activated when the Wings were fired up. The nanites had a short lifespan, only about fifteen minutes currently, during which time they reinforced his circulatory system, ensuring proper blood flow to his brain and organs, as well as acting to prevent or mitigate internal damage. It didn't do anything for the pain, but at least it made it physically possible for him to maneuver with the Wings active. He usually ended up coughing blood after a battle or test run was over, but the speed and agility the Wings granted was worth it. Eventually they hoped to create nanite strains that would last much longer, or even be permanent, but for the time being, they only had the short term shots. Arthon rose, the Sadeb Abired rising to stand amongst Zoltan's Dervishes, a dark angel amongst mere soldiers.

A blot of darkness oozed into being in the mouthpiece of his helmet with an effort of will that brought a bead of sweat to his brow. Only a total fool... or the Executor... would use Black EDEN without total concentration on the desired effect. A lapse of will could see the quantum nanite simply dissipate... or it could see it enter Eat mode and rapidly expand to swallow your whole body in a matter of seconds, and that was a bad way to die. Similar shadowy blobs oozed into existence within the cockpits of his Custodians, and the Shadowhunter, birthed from stray quantum particles temporarily repurposed by the Abyss nanite. Right now, Arthon could only use the Abyss network as an unbreakable communication system, his words, the sound vibrations themselves, carried through quantum space to all the sub-nodes he'd created, but that was hardly a small advantage. And he was learning more with every passing day.

"Shadowhunter, I want you as our eye in the sky. Keep a watch on the battlefield as a whole and update me with any unusual activity amongst the USN or Edenite forces. Do NOT engage, not even targets of opportunity. You're also on pilot retrieval duty, in the unhappy event anyone gets shot down. Tacticus Zoltan, you and your Manifold will go to the nearest heavy defense bunker. Your duty is to ensure that bunker remains operational, no matter what. You will be securing the route of retreat for the Edenite forces once the civilians are successfully evacuated, or once the headquarters is lost. Destroy any USN forces within half a kilometer of that bunker, but do NOT be enticed further away than that. If you fail, you will doom hundreds of soldiers to death or capture, and will make it impossible for the Edenites to continue fighting any kind of effective war. You will NOT fail." Arthon ordered with steel behind every word.

"As the Herald commands." Lance replied laconically, the Shadowhunter zooming into the sky without waiting for further direction.

"We will not fail you, First Blade." Zoltan answered a second later, his voice bright and hoarse with excitement. "We shall hold the line of retreat, and reap a bloody tally amongst the USN curs. They will tremble at the sight of us before the day is done."

"I don't care if they tremble, or dance, as long as they don't seal the line of retreat. I'll be running interference for you, breaking up the enemy formations as they arrive, and I may have to divert over to other hot spots from time to time, so don't rely on me being around to pull your ass out of a sling." Arthon continued, before allowing his concentration to slowly wane, and dissolving the Abyss nodes back into stray quantum particles. He waited for Zoltan and his troop to launch, giving them a slow five count to get clear. "Nanoboost activate, 30 second limit." He said with relish, feeling a tingle rush through his body, his senses sharpening as extra oxygenated blood rushed to his brain and other organs from the nanite support. The Wings howled as they roared up to full power before he released the thruster breaks. Incandescent Thruster flame, more white than blue, exploded out of the Wing's nacelles, hurling Sadeb Abired into the sky like a javelin thrown by a god! The biovauc area filled with dust and dancing flames, a concussion like a bomb bast shaking the ground in the wake of his launch.

It felt like being launched by an orbital captapult, without the benefit of a ship around you. Even numbed, Arthon could feel his body sink back into his couch, lips peeling back from his teeth, chest compressing until the flight suit compensated and squeezed don to force his lungs to fill again. The sheer raw power was intoxicating, now as much as the first time he'd tasted it. If this was how the Executor felt when he fought, Arthon could perhaps understand why the Executor was such a combat maniac. He yanked the Sadeb around in a nearly 180 degree turn, the air shaking and rippling in his wake, sonic booms splitting the sky, parting the clouds like a punch to soft flesh, ripping the plumes of smoke and steam rising from the ground into hurricane vortices. Windows shattered by the hundred within the city, shards of glass and plastic raining down like millions of glittering knives in his wake. He arced around and arrowed towards the chosen defense bunker, blowing past Zoltan and his troop from a thousand meters above, passing the speeding Dervishes like they were standing still.

The bunker was under heavy assault, several squadrons of Vindicators and Excalibers circling around it, picking off the tattered remains of the Milita Mobile Suit defenders, while Titans relentlessly pounded the bunker itself. In the near distance, a massive Panzerdragoon, escorted by a pair of Panzerwulfs, tagging at its heels like cubs, slowly plodded towards the bunker, its heavy weaponry a death sentence for the defenders. The Panzers saw him coming... with the heat signature he was throwing off, they could probably pick him up from all the way across the city... and proved they were no slouches, as to be expected of USN Supersoldiers. The Panzerwulfs opened fire with their shoulder mounted rocket launchers and hand held hyper-impulse cannons, but Arthon was already dodging, spinning to the side, the Wings carrying him a hundred meters out of the line of fire in an instant. His body rocked in his harness, his head trying to slam into his shoulder before the GRS fields straightened him out again.

15 seconds remaining in nanoboost. Extend? A query from the Sadeb pulsed in translucent letters across his field of vision. "Extend 30 seconds." Arthon gritted, head slamming back the other way as he swooped down on the trio of Extended, ducking and whirling, zigging and zagging all over the sky as he dodged their barrage of firepower. The Drag was getting in on the action, endless torrents of fat green plasma bolts pouring from its shoulder mounted gatling cannons, followed by blizzards of orange tracers from the twin 200mm gatling linear cannons held on its shield arm. Arthon snatched the Ion-Devastator out of its holster, hurling himself down next to one Panzerwulf, the sonic shock of his arrival rattling the smaller Panzers, though it barely stirred the Drag. Dust and smoke and flame swirled around him like a cloak, Arthon aimed and fired point blank with the Devastator, pumping a dozen ion-flares into the Panzerwulf's chest and head, the pinkish flares punching through its PS armor like soft cheese, glowing light shining out from within the Wulf for a microsecond as the fission reactions peaked and then atomized the unit from the waist up, throwing molten debris against the Drag's thigh.

Spinning, Arthon dodged a near point blank blast from the other Wulf's Mjolnir, the distortion field and his speed throwing off even a Supersoldier's aim. Slappig the Devastator back into its holster to charge, Arthon ripped out his twin QC swords, sideslipping around the Wulf as if it was moving in slow motion, swords licking out to hack apart its main weapon and stab into one shoulder. Sparks and flame spurted from the wounds, but the Wulf pilot was game, throwing himself forward to try and fall on the Sadeb, crushing it under the Wulf's greater mass. Arthon was already gone, another sonic boom slamming the Extended in the face like a concussion grenade! Even as the Wulf reeled, Arthon darted back in, swinging a sword from either side, and cut the Wulf into four quarters in a heartbeat. He didn't pause to watch the pieces fall, diving to the side to avoid the massive positron cannon beam from the Drag's right arm weapon mount, which would have turned him to dust had it hit. The explosion of the beam hitting the ground was gargantuan, a tower of flame and burnt dirt rising hundreds of meters into the sky, bu Arthon was already gone, the Wings carrying him well clear before her spun around and dived right back in.

He was dimly aware of the Sadeb telling him that Zoltan and his fellows had finally reached the battle, and were piling in to the Vindicators and Excalibers with all the enthusiasm and bloodthirst the Mori were famed for, but since they didn't seem to be having too many problems, he ignored them, focusing on the Panzerdragoon. The sheer size of the USN suit was a little intimidating, its massive bulk seemingly impenetrable. It fired at him again, rockets and gatling shells, trying to pin him down for another Positron shot, but Arthon was having none of it. He circled, forcing the Drag to turn away from the bunker to deal with him. He darted in again, slicing for the Drag's leg, but the pilot interposed his shield and deflected both blades, a sudden kick forcing Arthon to almost flip backwards to avoid being pummeled into wood chips. He kept the pressure on, diving in again almost like he'd bounced off an invisible trampoline, slicing gouges in the Drag's chest and side, but not deep enough to kill as the Extended stepped back and tried to bear hug him between its gargantuan arms.

Shooting straight up, Arthon left the Drag nothing to hug but sonic concussion and thruster wash, igniting its paint and slagging huge chunks of its outer armor, leaving it scorched and burning, temporarily blinded by the shockwave and heat overload. Flipping over, Arthon dropped from the sky like an avenging angel, swords slicing out to carve the Drag's arms off at the shoulders! Hitting the ground, almost collapsing from the impact trying tod rag him through the bottom of his cockpit, Arthon spat blood and spun, swords twirling around him as he sliced through the Drag's knees, sparks spraying and oil spouting, before dodging aside as the limbless Drag dropped to the ground with a massive clamor of grinding armor and breaking structural bones. Its legs remained standing, firmly planted from the knee down. Spinning his blades in a salute, Arthon left the disabled Drag and its pilot where it was. That was a blade that didn't need much sharpening, no reason to kill them.

Roaring back towards the bunker, the Sadeb Abired hit the melee of Vindicators, Excalibers and Dervishes like a bowling bowl launched into a glass windowpane, the sonic boom of his arrival scattering Mecha like chaff, the air buckling and screaming in torment as he plowed through it. Three Vindicators dropped in a heartbeat, carved apart before their pilots even figured out what was going on. An Excaliber detonated, chest and limbs vaporized by the Devastator's cone of death, and a second Excaliber staggered, missing an arm and half of its head, falling to its knees before being impaled from behind by Zoltan's dervish claws. Before the USN soldiers could mount a response, or indeed even recover from his arrival, Arthon was gone again, a second sonic boom knocking down those who had remained upright after the first. The Shadowhunter had spied an airborne force of gunships and transports, escorted by Mobile Suits, making for the headquarters area. They would need to be intercepted, and he was the only one with the speed to get there in time.

"Nanoboost, extend 180 seconds." Arthon gritted, smiling through blood smeared teeth as he soared through the sky like the shadow of death itself. "Woe unto thee, my worthy foes..."

xxxx

Edenite Inner Defense Line

Quantum Crystal squealed, like nails on a chalkboard, prismatic sparks fountaining where the unimaginably sharp edges of the Dervish claws fought to bite into the face of his shield... fought and failed, as Roland knew they would. Not only were the Redoubt scales amongst the strongest energy shields ever made, but the angle of the attack itself had been all wrong, and the force with which it had been swung was far too little. That was the thing about QC weapons that he had noticed... they were so sharp, so amazingly good at cuttingthrough just about anything without any resistance at all, it sometimes encouraged a bit of laziness in the user. In most cases it didn't matter if you swung lightly or with full force, the blades would cut regardless, so many pilots got used to pawing at enemies almost like a kitten batting at a toy, rather than a man swinging a weapon. Then when they ran into something they couldn't just cut through instantly, they found themselves off balance for a critical moment. And a critial moment was all it took in war.

Slamming his Bulwark shield outward, Roland smashed the Ironhide Dervish backwards, its arm folding awkwardly before its wrist splintered, its QC blades unable to break, and unable to penetrate his shield in that position, so they tore out the mounting on the Dervish's wrist instead, shattering the hand and forearm, before the shield face crunched into the Custodian's chest and threw them backward, off balance, remaining arm pinwheeling, torso mounted beam cannons firing haphazardly, wasting shots into the air or against his shield. Stamping forward with one leg, Roland lunged, longsword extended in a classic form, ramming the point of his blade into the Dervish's chest like he was trying to stab a needle through a rock, powering through the hit, following through until his sword quillions hit the other Mobile Suit's chest and cracked the armor. Recovering, Roland tore the blade out the side of the Dervish, leaving it to sway and fall backwards trailing a thin plume of smoke, pilot slain.

Another Eddie was there already, a Ginn with a beam saber hacking away like a lumberjack at a stubborn log. Roland sidestepped with a sad shake of his head, smacking the beam saber away with his shield and cutting the Ginn in twain from shoulder to opposite hip with a single hard slice. A brave enemy. A foolish one, to take on the Edelweiss with a museum piece like a Ginn, but brave too. Dedicated. Then again, the Eddies were fighting for their home in many cases, and their families. If that didn't put steel in your spine, you didn't deserve to fight in the first place. Roland had never had to fight for his home, though he had always fought with his family in mind, first out of obligation and duty, and later out of honor and love. That was part of what it meant to be a Beckett, that had been drilled home into him ever since he was old enough to walk. Duty. Service. Obligation. Honor. Love. The tenents of a true man, and a good soldier.

An uparmored ZaOot variant loomed in the medium distance, its heavy missiles all expended, but its myriad guns churning out chattering lines of tracers and beam blasts, sawing the firepower back and forth across the defense line, cutting down Patriots by the half dozen, and endangering several Vindicators. It was the latter that motived Roland to intercede... simply being on the same battlefield as the telepresence Patriots sickened him. War was not a game, and anyone who could think putting war machines into the hands of civilian teenagers was a good idea was clearly disconnected from reality. Sheathing his blade, he pulled out the Atomic Stampeder and snapped off a shot into the ZaOOt's heavily amored side. The beam from the Stampeder was a deep, almost burnt orange color, stabbing into the ZaOot and dissipating as if there had been no effect. A half second later the whole Mobile Suit began to glow from within, orange and red spots appearing all over its side as heat waves rippled through the air. The ZaOot sagged towards the side of the hit, melting into slag before its ammo or battery cooked off and ripped it to pieces.

"Onwards!" Roland encouraged over the local general comm. "Keep the pressure on! They're weakening!" Which was true. Every Edenite loss was one that they could not replace, while the USN had reinforcements already lined up and standing by. However there was still a long battle to be fought before the Edenites would be defeated. The second defense line was heavily stiffened with Custodians and more bunkers, as well as the cream of the enemy Militia forces. The USN was launching probing assaults, such as the one Roland had adopted himself into, but until all the heavy defense bunkers were reduced, they didn't dare launch a heavy assault against the Eddie's prepared positions. Further complicating matters were some of the Eddie elites. There were a few Praetorians active in the battle, and they were being their usual efficient selves, unfortunately for all USN troops to encounter them. Roland had left Marie behind to search for them, but they had always moved on by the time he arrived, frustratingly.

There were also reports of some sort of Gundam wreaking havoc throughout the compromised first Eddie defense perimeter. Something that moved like greased lightning and struck like an angry god, smashing formations, scattering reinforcement columns, cutting down even some of the Extended Supersoldiers, then vanishing in a flash, moving at a speed no USN unit could even hope to match. The Gundam seemed to be everywhere at once, fighting at opposite sides of the battlefield within minutes of each other, crossing the city again and again to confound the USN whenever their victory seemed certain. That was why Roland had attached himself to this scouting probe. He was hoping to turn the tide enough himself to threaten creating a hole in the Eddie second line, which would hopefully draw a Praetorian or the Gundam to him where he could fulfill his mission to terminate the enemy champions. Much more efficient to make them come to him than waste time chasing invisible or ungodly fast opponents. Fight smart, as well as hard.

Seeing another Dervish charging forward to fill the small gap he'd already dug, dancing and spinning through the suppressive fire the Vindicators were hurling its way, Roland twisted slightly and launched a VTP missile, the advanced AI guided munition easily overcoming the Eddie's attempt to dodge, blowing half the Dervish away in a massive smoky fireball that hurled the junked unit to the ground in smoldering chunks. It was a trifle extravagant, especially as he preferred to save the missiles to intercept the similarly powerful weapons of the enemy, leveling the playing field to one at which he had the most advantage, but it would hopefully send a message to the Eddies that they needed something besides Custodians and Militia here to stop him. "Squadron fire at my mark!" He ordered, pointing at a retractable bunker that was levering itself into position off to his left flank. The Vindicators were not technically his to command while he was in the Test unit, but once a Paladin, always a Paladin in some respects, and the natural authority in his voice, and the sense of the order, had them reacting as if they'd been under his command for years. Beam bolts and rocket bazooka sabots crashed into the bunker, obliterating it before it could fully deploy.

"Dig in and hold here for reinforcements." He continued, surveying the wreckage of the defenses in his immediate area, before switching to a higher level comm circuit. "This is Captain Beckett, in the Excaliber-D. My force has gained a toehold in the second defense line. Requesting clarification of orders. Should we push on, or pull back?"

"Orbital scans show a multi-squadron level force of Dervishes leading Militia tanks and APCs converging on your location, Captain." The dry, competent voice of Namara replied at once. "Recommend retreat at this time. The Supreme Commander sends his compliments, but we're not looking for a breach just yet."

"Understood, retreating." Roland replied, without rancour. It didn't bother him one way or another. He fought to the best of his ability regardless of whether he was a diversion or the core of a plan. It would have been nice to hold the ground he'd taken, but he didn't presume to second guess the Supreme Commander. Not only did Waltfeld have a much better perspective than him currently, but he was a far more experienced commander. A pilot, even a Test pilot in a quasi-Gundam, had to respect his superior's choices, as long as they were legal and moral choice, or else they'd be no better than savages. He communicated the orders to the Vindicators, and stayed behind to make sure they all retreated safely before moving away himself. He ascended to a higher altitude, to gain some extra perspective himself as he took a moment to relax and recover before plunging into the battle again.

Some might think a battlefield to be an odd place to find the heir of one of the most powerful and wealthy military-industrial conglomerations in the whole USN, especially piloting a Mobile Suit on the front lines where the danger was the greatest, and at such a relatively lowly rank as Captain. Certainly Roland could have gotten a cushy position in high command, at a Commander or Colonel level, maybe even a Brigadier or Lieutenant-General, using his family's wealth and influence. He could have commanded a Warship, maybe even a small task force, or he could have been one of the officers who advised the political leadership, all of which would have been safe and prestigious. Many of his peers, the men and women he'd grown up with, had done just that. Military service, especially during time of war, was always good for your future prospects and the reputation of your family, though very few of the wealthy who became officers through influence or wealth had any impact on the war itself. Most were shuttled into positions where they could do no harm, free to give orders but not regarding any subjects that actually influenced the war.

And that was the sticking point for Roland. On one hand, it would one day be his responsibility to head the Beckett family and its business empire, and in order to do that, he needed to survive. On the other, his sense of honor could not abide the thought of simply sitting out the war on the Moon or in the PLANTs, running a garrison or logistical command, with his subordinates sneering at him behind their hands at how he was totally surplus to the requirements of running the unit. Not when he had the skills, the drive and the ability to fight on the front lines, even if it meant doing so at a level that was barely above the grunts. He ignored all the whispers about "slumming with the proles" that he heard on those rare occasions he had the time to attend a social gathering amongst his so called peers. He didn't care what others thought, the only judge his dignity accepted was the results of the battlefield, the soldiers saved who might have otherwise died, the objectives won that might otherwise have been lost. If one followed their honor, then adulation would eventually follow in some form... it was racing for adulation without attending to honor that led a man astray, as the late Supreme Commander ze Burrel had shown.

Roland had been raised wanting for nothing, his family one of the wealthiest in all of humanity, surpassed only by the Borander group, and equaled only by about a dozen other families, almost all of which were old money from the Earth Alliance, as were the Becketts themselves. His family's lunar estate was a city in its own right, contained within an atmosphere dome large enough to qualify as a small nation. You could stand on the steps of the manor and everything you could see, for as far as you could see, belonged to his family completely. The finest education, the best clothes, the best food, servants for every conceivable need and a few that were there for no good reason at all. Enough money that he couldn't have spent it all if he tried, and that was just his share of the family fortune. Wealth to a point where it was like air, like water, a natural part of existence, rather than something one thought about or worried over. He could do whatever he wanted, no matter how exotic or expensive.

But the Beckett family had always been founded on a bedrock of more than just business acumen and cunning marketing strategy paired with ancient fortunes. There was the close ties with the military, and for the most part, free of the influence of the LOGOS group that had created Blue Cosmos. The Beckett family had been arms dealers since back when the top selling item in their inventory was Longbows and Broadswords, and Beckett sons and even a few daughters had served as Knights in the armies of many nations, even past when the term Knight had lost any true meaning. Their children were trained to fight, as well as to lead, both militantly and commercially. Roland considered himself only doing as family tradition demanded, especially during a time of war. Which was not to say that his family was perfect. There had been times when the bottom line triumphed over family honor. There were bodies and skeletons aplenty buried in the closets of the Beckett family throughout their history. They had not always been perfectly choosy about which sides they sold arms to during war. But at least they still TRIED to do what was right and honorable, even when that wasn't the easy or most profitable road.

It had been difficult at times, serving in the Solar Knights. Not for the reasons Roland's peers might have thought... the discipline, the long hours, the scut work, the poorer quality food, the cramped barracks, the danger of front line service. These things did not bother Roland, and never had. But the Solar Knights had never, in Roland's estimation, truly lived up to their aspirational and inspirational advertising. They were supposed to be the champions of the USN, the shining sword that protected the people of the USN against any threat. They functioned more like Durandel's own personal army, crushing anyone who dared speak out too strongly against the Solar President and his administration. Solar Knights spent more time on personal vendettas or political maneuvering than they did on training, focused on enriching or advancing themselves, regardless of the good of the people they were supposed to be protecting. Supreme Commander ze Burrel, the head of the unit, had done nothing to combat these tendencies either. Indeed, if even a handful of the rumors concerning ze Burrel's proclivities were true, he was as corrupt or more corrupt than any of his subordinates. The rot had been endemic, and it had been a daily struggle for Roland to find a way to honorably discharge what he saw as his duty, amidst the filth and graft and self-aggrandizing posturing.

Thankfully, after ze Burrel's unfortunate and somewhat mysterious death, and Supreme Commander Waltfeld's ascension to control of the USN Military, the Solar Knights... or those who had been the Solar Knights and were now part of the USN Combined Military, Mobile Suit wing... were at last becoming what they had always promised they were. A unit Roland could be proud of, where personal merit once more saw the worthy advanced, rather than political loyalty or backroom bribery. A shining sword wielded to protect their fellows and the civilians, rather than a fast track to advancement and extra perks. Knights for justice, rather than self serving, even cowardly poltroons and bullies. The difference was plain, and this battle was the proof of it. In the first battle of Urbanis, the Solar Knights had faltered, none worse than ze Burrel, and collapsed, leaving the ground forces exposed to the massacre that followed. Now they led the charge and waded through blood and death with heads held high, shouldering the load for the infantry and tanks to follow.

Of course the lack of the Executors fighting on the enemy side did help, Roland admitted. He liked to think it wouldn't have made a huge difference, that the USN would have fought on just as fiercely as they did now, but certainly the battle would not be going as smoothly as it was if Kira Yamato or Zacharis Frost was fighting here. Which begged the question of why they weren't. Roland was aware of the other attack fronts, out of Gibraltar and at Borealis, but surely at least one Executor would show up to defend Urbanis, for the symbolism of defending the site of Edenite's first major victory if nothing else. But no one had reported seeing the Kratos or the Lucifer, and surely they would have deployed by now if they were available! It didn't make any sense. But then again, maing sense of the enemy wasn't his job, at least not on that scale.

"Let's see..." Roland muttered, mulling the data over in his head. "Absent champions. Failing defenses. A major civilian population center, on the verge of capture. A major victory, soon to be tarnished... its all very troubling. Where ARE they? What ARE they thinking?" His musing was cut off however, by explosions and truncated screams across the comm lines, coming from below and to his right flank. Something had hit one of the mustering points, where the Vindicators he had led against the second defense line were awaiting further orders. Roland dived, putting every erg of thrust the Edelweiss had into speed, swarming through the air towards the trouble spot. His sensors could not agree on an enemy target, though there was definitely SOMETHING in the midst of the ruckus, cutting apart Vindicators like they were toys!

He caught a glimpse of a dark shape, definitely a Mobile Suit of some sort, but its exact shape was lost in the smoke and haze of the battle. One didn't ascend to the rank of a Paladin in the Solar Knights without some serious combat skills, and Roland had been exceptional amongst most of the Paladins... it had been his politics that limited his advancement prospects, not his skills. Which was why he was flying a mixed Orb-USN test unit, only a step or two below a Gundam, now that Waltfeld was in command. Snatching the Atomic Stampeder, Roland took a snap shot at the dark shape he'd sen, the orange beam lancing through the haze, but something had thrown off his aim, and the beam passed through nothing but air before slagging a section of ground. Roland frowned. His forte was melee combat, but he shouldn't have missed a medium range shot like that, at least not by such a wide margin. Something else was acting on his sensors, misleading him. He brought more of the Excaliber-D's expanded sensor package online, having foresworn the extra sensors as an unnecessary power drain up until now.

Immediately his vision cleared, the Orb AI Lexi seamlessly compiling the data from a dozen different sensor types and feeding them to his NIC system in real time, eliminating smoke and dust and steam, as well as other battlefield distractions. The enemy unit was still somewhat hazy, like he was looking at it through a thin cloth veil, but he could make out the important features. The tall, lanky frame was definitely some variant on a Spectre or Wraith, but it was made from a much darker wood that was clearly not Borealite. It was stripped down, in terms of armaments, only a pair of basket hilted QC swords and some sort of shotgun weapon, rather than the small arsenal most Spectres or Wraiths equipped in their arms. The most distinctive features of this new enemy were the massive pair of black wings growing from its back, which seemed almost like they were a size or two too large for the unit they belonged to, and the skull like head, which had a fringe like a crown of spikes, either decorative or concealing some sensor gear. Hollow eye sockets had deep crimson lenses buried deep within, giving the whole Mecha a definite macabre look.

Roland pulsed a non-verbal warning to all other USN units in the vicinity, ordering them to stand back and move to other mustering points. Clearly this enemy was dangerous, and sending pilots in the rank and file up against him would only see them cut down in short order. This was a situation where the USN's usual quantity over quality dynamic would not be sufficient for victory. For that matter, assuming he could gather enough units and organize them so that the enemy would not cut them down in short order, he might scare the enemy away, and with those overbuilt wings, Roland knew there would be no catching the unit if it decided to flee. That would be suboptimal, since he had not yet tested the mettle of the foe. Itw as his duty and his honor to serve the USN as a Knight of sorts after all, and it was the joy of a knight to confront strong enemies. And all the moreso when the enemy in question was undoubtedly linked to the Memento Mori, the henchmen of the madman Frost.

Touching down, he leveled his stampeder rifle at the unknown enemy, which stood there, assessing him even as he assessed it, a sword in one hand, its shotgun like weapon in the other. Smiling thinly, Roland lunged forward, firing the stampeder even as he hit his manuevering jets, spinning himself to the side at maximum velocity, radically changing his position. The Mori unit seemed to have the same idea, blasting with its shotgun, which vomited forth a dozen pink ion flares in a scattershot cone that ripped through the space Roland would have been in had he not juked, then jumping to one side to vacate the firing location. Both of them failed in their gambits, even as they both succeeded, in a certain manner of speaking. Roland, having shot first, was again fooled by the Distortion field, so instead of striking home, his shot hit the Ion-Devastator, melting it to vapor in a orange flash of light. The Mori unit, having a scattershot firing pattern, mostly missed, except for a single pink flare that caught the Stampeder rifle before Roland could entirely clear the firing arc, blowing the front half of the gun away in a ruddy pink blast!

Simultaneously disarmed, Roland and the Mori unit wasted not a single breath on recriminations or doubts, Roland drawing his blade, the Mori unit filling its empty hand with the second sword, and they clashed together in the next instant! The Mori unit was a blur, in speed and in form, like a ghost in weak light, swords slashing in from both sides, chopping and slicing and dicing like a machine of death, a nearly pure offense. Roland countered with near perfect defense, keeping his large shield shoved clsoe to the enemy, giving them no room to sneak a blade inside its protective range, weakening the force of the chained strikes by limiting the available movement area. Weathering the storm of attacks behind the nearly impenetrable shield, Roland stabbed and thrust his blade around the edges and top of his shield, seeking to lance his foe during an unguarded moment, maximizing his speed by fighting with the point rather than the edge, trying to take advantage of his longer and slimmer sword vs the broader and heavier blades of his opponent.

But he didn't sit there and simply take it, that would cede to his foe the advantage of momentum. Using his shield like a wall, Roland tucked his head dwn and bulled forward, trying to catch the enemy off balance, to rush over them, bear them down and crush them underfoot! The Mori unit was having none of it however, fading back like smoke before a wind, easily maintaining a comfortable arms distance between Roland's shield and the enemy Mecha. The massive wings on the Mori's back burned with white flames before he rocketed to one side, clearing a hundred meters in a heartbeat, turning with a whip-snap maneuver that made Roland's neck hurt just looking at it, before zooming back at him with the speed of a bullet. There was no time to run, no space tododge, so Roland did the only thing he could and charged right back, throwing himself headlong at the foe, sword thrust forward, shield held close, like a knight braving dragon's breath!

THe Mori unit didn't falter, running right onto his sword and shield, one blade swinging to try and parry Roland's sword tip, the other thrust out ahead, stabbing for Roland's chest. Crystal screamed against crystal, quantum edges whining as they slide against each other without penetrating, as a subtle twist of Roland's wrist allowed his blade tip to be deflected even as it brought the rest of his blade inwards for a slicing cut at the Mori unit's hip and side. Perceiving the threat at the last second, the Mori unit hurled itself aside, robbing its own thrust of just the least bit of power, and a good thing too, as it was a beautifully aimed attack, hitting precisely between two of the redoubt scale emitters, finding the token weak spot in the overlapping shield scales, prismatic sparks exploding from the point of contact as the squealing blade forced itself between the scales and punched a meter through the back of the shield before becoming caught, just barely poking into Roland's chest armor! His own thrust-cut had gouged through the armor of the Mori unit's hip, but had not sliced deeply enough to cause real damage.

However, now Roland had leverage, twisting his shield violently, turning the face towards his left arm, even as he brought that arm, and the sword, around in a roundhouse slash. The Mori unit had the choice of letting go of its sword or being dragged into the bisecting slash, and wisely it choose to let go of its blade. More impressively, it used the momentum of Roland's drag, boosted by a burst from its wings, to jam a knee into the side of the shield, jarring the entire shield and knocking it loose from the fasteners that kept it attached to the Edelweiss's arm! Roland watched the shield fall away, but didn't let it distract him, bringing his slender sword into an en garde position, he stabbed and stabbed again for the elusive Mori unit, determined to keep the wiley bastard on the defensive. A shield was a powerful defensive tool, and he had trained sword and shield for most of his life, but that didn't mean he did not know his way around a fight with just a blade.

The peculiar high pitched whine of QC edge meeting QC edge scraped at his ears as the Mori unit parried his thrusts again and again, the Mori unit making good use of its full basket hilt to parry with both the edge and the hilt, swatting aside Roland's lighter blade time and again as they stamped back and forth across the ground. Aside from being in seventy foot tall war machines, the duel would have been familiar to anyone from the age of sail, rapier vs cutlass, thrust vs slash, two men dancing around and around, grunting for breath as they hacked and cut and grabbed for each other with their free hands. Roland twisted his hips violently, bringing a VTP launch tube to bear on his foe at point blank range. The explosion would almost certainly damage him too, but sometimes that was the price you had to pay to win. Flame gouted as the missile launched, but in a move that made his jaw drop, if only for a moment, the Mori unit spun in place at the exact right moment, pirouretting like a matadror dodging a bull, and the VTP missile flashed past without striking him, even as he knocked aside yet another thrust from Roland's sword. What reflexes!

Of course just because a VTP missied did not mean it was done, unlike lesser and cruder missiles. VTP's were fully capable of turning around and attacking multiple times, their internal fuel reservoir good for nearly a minute, which was an eternity on a battlefield. The missile appeared as a glowing red arrow in Roland's vision, zooming around in a wide turn before screaming back towards the Mori's back. Having seen the foe's almost unnatural reflexes in action already, Roland knew the enemy might be capable of dodging the missile a second time. And on its current trajectory and at it's current speed, it would slam right into the Edelweiss a microsecond later. The safeties would keep the warhead from detonating, but it was still a not unappreciable chunk of armor and fuel cells moving at extreme speed... the impact alone would be nothing to laugh at. Damage was certain, and worse it might unbalance him with the enemy right in his face. It would be a death sentence.

A thought pulsed a command to the missile, inputting new directions, and in a heartbeat it was set. As the missile zoomed in, Roland slashed and hacked in a sudden frenzy, acting like he was trying to distract the foe from the missile at his back. Even as he saw the Mori unit start to pivot, the missile's new instructions kicked in and it detonated twenty meters shy of them both, a shockwave punch of fire and concussion ripping out from the self destructed missile. Caught in mid turn, the Mori unit was already facing away from Roland when he pounced forward, slamming into the Mecha's back in a full on rush, ramming the Mori unit forward, stumbling as he tried to bring it down, like a gridiron player bringing down a pass receiver. His free arm wrapped around the Mori unit's chest, pinning its sword arm down at its side, clasping the enemy close as he poured CIWS fire into its back and shoulders and head. Bringing his sword around, for once lamenting its extra length, which made it awkward in extreme close quarter's combat like this, Roland prepared to thrust home through the back of his foe, killing either the pilot or the main reactor, either would be fine.

He reckoned without the massive wings of the enemy, which suddenly shifted, sweeping around to pincer the Edelweiss from both sides. Their range of movement wouldn't allow them to actually make contact with him, but he immediately realized this wasn't the goal. Incandescent white fire burst into life all up and down the inside curve of the wings... the curves that were pointed directly toward Roland from both sides! He realized what was about to happen and pulled backwards, retreating, only to jerk to a halt as the Mori unit's free arm grabbed the Edelweiss's arm where it was wrapped around its torso, siezing fast as the Mori unit braced both legs, holding him in place! Exhaust thrust exploded from the wings, bathing the Edelweiss in white hot plasma fire from two directions at once, instantly spiking the temperature in his cockpit to spike massively, the outside of his armor blackening and starting to soften under the blowtorch like flames! Alarms blared and buzzed in his skull, the NIC system telling him that it would only be a matter of seconds before the thruster wash started cutting through into his internal parts!

"A wiley foe..." Roland gritted through clenched teeth, his entire body drenched in sweat as the oven like heat swamped him from all sides. "Caught between the hot pan and the fire..." He added, forcing himself to focus despite the roiling heat. "Armor melting. Control systems failing. VTP's about to cook off... most troubling. I call Check... but not Checkmate!" He snarled, taking the only available option with the enemy so close. Dropping his sword, he snatched at one of the wings, grabbing it near where it joined the back and twisting with all the power he could put into the movement, even as he lashed out with one leg, kicking the Mori unit in the back of the knee, temporarily buckling that leg, at last driving the foe down to the ground, falling, twisting to one side to yank his arm free of the other's grip. The torque of the fall was too much for the wing mount, and the entire black dripping part ripped away in his clenched fist, like pulling the wing off a fallen angel! Sparks and fluids sprayed from the wound, even as the wing began to tremble in his hands. Feeling this was a bad sign, Roland cast the smoking wreckage away, only to have it detonate like a bomb not two seconds later, overheated engine systems melting down in a fury.

There was no time to assess the damage he'd taken. With his sword dropped, and his shield too far to reach, and the enemy already rolling, with sword still in hand, Roland had to keep the pressure on. He threw himself forward, tackling the Mori unit from the side as it tried to rise, its remaining wing flickering and dying out as some sort of safety system engaged to prevent a chain overload from the sudden loss of half the system. Wrapping his smoking arms around the enemy, Roland triggered his head and shoudler mounted CIWS units, those still working after his roasting, pouring small caliber fire into the enemy, seeking a chink in its armor. He brought up a knee and slammed it into the enemy's hip, trying to buckle structural bones. Wood splintered and cracked, chips of wood spraying from the impact site as the Mori unit twisted and writhed in his bear hug grip. Its sword arm was trapped again, but it had one hand free and it punched and gouged at the Edelweiss furiously, digging into softened armor, ripping away chunks of hull and clawing for the Excaliber-D's head, smashing one camera eye and hooking a thumb into the empty socket, prying at the entire head assembly like a gutter brawler.

Roland hit his thrusters, plowing them both along the ground, digging a trough in the cracked and glazed dirt, riding his opponent like an unwilling surfboard, armor chips flaking and spalling off them both as they rasped and scraped along. The jarring impacts, or some quirk of the ground, loosened the Mori's grip on his remaining sword, and it ripped free of his grasp, left embedded in the ground in their wake. With the playing field leveled, Roland released his bear hug and drove his fist's into the enemy's chest, cracking the armr, scraping runnels in the wood plating as he searched for a handhold, or something for his fingers to catch on, to rip and tear free. Somehow, the Mori pilot got his leg up between them and kicked out, catching Roland solidly in the gut, the extra strength and leverage in the leg propelling the Edelweiss backwards a half dozen meters, allowing the Mori time to vault to his feet, and then it was Roland who got charged, the shoulder of the Mori unit plowing into his side as he twisted to try and deflect the attack.

He pounded with both fists, punching the Mori unit from either side, huge jolting shots to the torso, always the torso. The torso where the pilot and the main control systems and power plant were. Trying to knock something out of alignment, or perhaps even better, daze or knock out the pilot themselves! His metal knuckles bent and warped under a punishing assault theyw ere not designed to inflict, wood flexing and cracking and splintering with each heavy strike. But his foe seemed uncommonly resistant to impact damage, accepting the hits and returning his own, smashing an elbow into the Edelweiss's head, caving in the front of its faceplate, destroying his primary sensors and enhanced detection systems. A knee strike to his gut almost doubled the Edelweiss over, pelvis bones shrieking in protest as they flexed and bent under the force of impact, but failed to break or dislocate. Roland threw another punch, only to have it snatched out of the air, the arm bent by his foe's two arms, twisted and stressed to the breaking point.

Roland let it happen, ignoring the scream of alarms as his arm was twisted past all material stress limits, the joint tearing out, the armor plates buckling and fragmenting as the arm failed from the elbow down, ripping away in a tangle of wires and jagged edged metal struts. He took instant revenge, having used the time while his enemy was concentrating on disarming him to conduct a simple scan of the damage he'd already inflicted on the enemy's torso armor, finding the weakest spot. His remaining gauntlet crunched into that spot even as his other arm was ripped apart, and the weakened wooden armor caved in around his fist, like a man punching through thin plywood. His gauntlet sank into the Mori unit's abdomen almost to the wrist, bent and twisted armored fingers clenching and flexing inside the wound, searching for vital components to crush or grab and rip away. Fire exploded out around his wrist as he hit something useful, and the Mori unit shuddered like a man with palsy before reeling back, yanking Roland's fist out of the enemy torso, a mass of wreckage clenched in the fist. The enemy remained standing, a credit to the engineers that had constructed it, Roland had to admit.

They stepped back as one, one of them holding a gauntlet over the hole in its stomach, the other with only one arm left to use. Both moving slow, armor almost worthless, weapons broken or lost, damage alarms screaming inside their heads. Battered but unbowed. Glaring at each other as they frantically searched their training, their memories and their creative instincts. Looking for the one tactic that would decide this brawl once and for all. That minute advantage that would see one walk away and the other left in ruins. Before either could find that inspiration, the rest of the world conspired to interrupt their duel, causing them both to look up at the sky warily. Fiery comets fell from the heaven's above, three massive meteors, blazing down from on high. Three large drop pods, aimed towards the heart of the battle. Three, and only three. This was not the start of the 4th wave reinforcements. This was the last of the 3rd wave. Apparently Supreme Commander Waltfeld had grown tired of waiting for the Executor's to show themselves. He had committed the new Gundams to the fray. The new BALORs...

xxxx

Drop Pod 1, Inbound

He dreamed a good dream. A wet, red dream. A bone cracking, flesh rending, blood spurting dream. Endorphins and adrenaline pulsed around his bloodstream like liquid fire, tensing his muscles, tightening his scales, rippling his lips, causing his crystalline claws and talons to "shunk" in and out of their flesh sheathes on his hands and feet. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth, pitter patting to the metallic floor of the egg... the drop pod, he reminded himself sternly... around him. He carefully listened to the thunder of his heart, both the blood pumping mechanisms and the slower, deeper throb of the fusion generator. Dimly aware of the view outside, the rapidly scrolling down numbers that decided when his dream... his good, wet, red dream... would become reality. When he would be free to run, to race, to hunt and to slay, as he had been bred and built to do. As he had trained to do. As all his instincts, and the wild, reckless urges of his partner urged him to do. To exalt in the feeling of feels, the thinking of thoughts, the smelling of smells... all the things denied to him except when he was with his partner on the battlefield. To escape from the cold, empty silence that filled the unknowable gulf of existence between times when his partner was with him. To live in the now to the fullest, to drench himself in blood and glory. To serve and protect the weaker hunters in the great pack that his partner had told him of. To do what they could not, to fight and to kill what they could not.

Tarrasque smiled a reptilian smile, all fangs and drool and panting breath, thinking thoughts of glory, of skill, and of the other two packmates. His was the role of striker, to seek the foe, to flush them out, to run them down and to draw them away from those who could not fight for themselves. His was a brash and bold existence, a rash and reckless purpose, the young hunter, the arrogant prizefighter. His hearts, both BALOR and human, burned for the fight and he hungered for the joy of battle against strong foes, to test his mettle, to prove his worth, to show everyone that he could do this. He was Lain Debora, one of Orb's greatest aces, and on this day he had ascended to the rank every Orb pilot dreamed of reaching... Gundam pilot. Safe and warm in the amniotic coccoon of his cockpit, he smiled a brilliant, cocky smile, all teeth and gums and excited breath. And he dreamed a living, breathing dream of battle... a wet, red dream. Retro rockets howled. The drop pod shook and rattled. He opened his eyes. They opened their eyes.

A proud, boisterous growl filled the pod as the sides began to lever open. "Lain Debora, Tarrasque, hunt commencing..."

xxxx

Drop Pod 2, Inbound

She dreamed a happy dream. A blazing, bellowing dream. A bomb blasting, armor shredding, formation scattering dream. Her minds burned with the pelasure of the dream, but her heartbeat remained slow and sedate, barely turning over, blood pulsing sluggishly through her veins. Happy, but calm. Tranquil. Weapons clacked and barrels spun, muscles tensed around launch tubes, metallic flavors coursed over her tongue as internal weapon systems cycled and tested. Final preparations were completed. The shock of impact barely registered, her six legs braced and reinforced to handle impacts and recoils far more fearsome than any landing could be. Her body low to the ground for stability, her tail long and massive and muscular as a brace, her skull huge and dense and armored for ramming and absorbing enemy firepower. The happy dream was soon to become reality. When she would be free to advance, to crush the enemy, to bombard and blast and break and wreck all opposition before her. As she had been bred and built to do. As she had been trained and raised to do. As all her instincts, and the calm, controlled and fierce urges of her partner urged her to do. To live the life she had dreamed of, besides her cousin and her man, besides her brothers and kin.

Tiamat did not smile, her crocodilian face as stone, teeth clacking and grinding quietly against each other, tongue fluttering within the cage of her jaws as weapon systems tensed, waiting for deployment, thinking thoughts of firing patterns, suppression ratios, and of effective destruction of the foe, and of her other two packmates. Hers was the role of destroyer, to break the foe, destroy their fortifications, smash them flat, and crush their numbers before they could harm those weaker than her. Hers was a dedicated and self sacrificing existence, an instinctive and relentless purpose, the bruiser brawler, the confident soldier. Her minds, both BALOR and human, quivered in anticipation, for the pleasure of efficient battle, to show her mettle, to prove her worth, to earn her freedom and redemption. She was Stella Loussier, one of the oldest Extended, and on this day she was complete as she had never been before in her life. Meister of a BALOR. She dreamed a steady, personal dream of war... a blazing, bellowing dream. The walls of the drop pod fell away around her and she plodded out into the dust and smoke and carnage.

A throaty hiss echoed as her wings stretched and her weapons deployed. "Stella Loussier, Tiamat, mission underway..."

xxxx

Drop Pod 3, Inbound

He dreamed a proud and loving dream. A detailed, determined dream. A wings flappng, tail sweeping, flaming breath dream. His heart pulsed even as his brain fired, aware of every fraction of his beings even as he listened to the endless music of the spheres, the subtle grind of molecule on molecule that filled the world around him. Focused and dedicated. Currents of burning and freezing air circulated around him, coiling around his limbs like playful pets, a constant low level practice as he luxuriated in the unfathomable powers of his mind. He was ready, he'd been ready since the drop started. The shock of impact was massive, but he had been through so many orbital drops in his life that he compensated instantly, riding the shockwaves so that he lost none of his balance or readiness. His wings itched, feeling cramped within the pod, his long tail wrapped around and around his legs, twitching eagerly for the chance to be free, muscular fingers clenching and unclenching, toes wriggling, claws tapping lightly against the deck as he waited patiently for the pod to open, and his dream to become reality. To fly, to swoop down on the foe, to reach out with mind and body, shaping the flow of the battle, ending resistance before it could begin. As he had been bred and built to do. As he had been trained and raised to do. As all of his instincts and the experienced, reasoned and honorable urges of his partner urged him to do.

Bahamut was always smiling, a slight smirk of confidence, body poised, every muscle tensed but not taut, ready to explode into action in whatever way was necessary. Thinking of the battle as a whole, where he would most be needed, where he would most be effective, of the formulas of telekinetic interaction and the situations where physical combat would be preferable to psychic, and of his two younger packmates. His was the role of packleader and guardian, to confront the esoteric, to guide the others, to find the weak spots and to rip the heart from the foe. His was a proud and long suffering existence, a necessary and calculating purpose, the canny veteran, the fearsome leader. He had only one mind, only one heart, feeling the familiar excitement of fulfilling his purpose, in a way he had never been allowed to do in the past. He was finally becoming again the man he had once dreamed of being. He was Markov Ashino, BCPU 4, and on this day he was satisfied as he had not been since the Isolation era, fighting for a cause he could believe in. He dreamed a weary, honorable dream of existence... a detailed, determined dream.

Wings filled with air like the crack of enormous guns, lifting him from the drop pod the moment the walls were far enough apart to let him scrape by. Fire coursed down his right arm, frost danced along his left arm, and the music of the spheres expanded to fill all of creation with its buzzing hymn of interlocked motion. "Markov Ashino, Bahamut, prosecuting the enemy..."

xxxx

Militia Defense Headquarters

"What in all the names of hell are THOSE!?" Daveron gasped as he beheld the three monsters that emerged from the latest wave of drop pods. He could think of no better term for them than monsters. It was his first time seeing BALORs in the flesh. He'd heard about them of course, but the information failed to convey the true depth of the instinctive revulsion, and not a little awe, that he felt upon seeing them. They were radically different in form, even as they all shared a sort of reptilian commonality. One was clearly based on a Cold Hunter, though warped almost beyond belief, armored in scales that glittered with the sheen of pure Quantum Crystal, with massive sickle like talons on hands and feet, and a pair of spiked tails that lashed around behind its massively muscled legs. Horns and spikes of pure QC rose from the head and neck only added to the creature's fearsome aspect. It stood head and shoudlers taller than a Spectre, its arms lanky, legs muscular, and its eyes blazed golden with fury.

The second was far larger than the first, though much lower to the ground, stumping on six huge legs, with a colossal tail and gigantic head, its body beyond all doubt that of a Basilisk, though no basilisk, even the weaponized combat platforms of Legio Basilisk, had ever been so heavily armed, or sported such huge mechanized wings sprouting from its back. Daveron could not easily count all the weaponry on display... gatling beam cannons on the legs, VTP launchers racked into the tail, massive plasma cannons in the shoulders, some kind of anti-base artillery piece mounted along the spine, a knobby club of bone on the tail that was almost as big as a main battle tank! Lightning crackled along its long jaw, filled with wickedly serrated teeth, as some sort of weapon within the mouth itself began to charge up. It was as tall as a ZaOot in fire-support mode, and easily as long as three Ginn's laid head to toes, probably longer. Like the other, its eyes were golden orbs of pure malevolence.

The last had taken to the sky, lazily flapping wings that probably could have shaded the entire headquarter's complex from end to end when fully extended, the wings sheened with a crystalline glimmer similar to that of the first abomination. Head and shoulders taller than the first, the third was much leaner, packed with whipcord muscles under finely patterned scales, its body far more humanoid than the others, aside from the draconian head, wings and tail. The tail lashed for fifty meters behind the monster, tipped with a pincer of QC edged bone, flexing more like a tentacle than a tail. Horns decorated the head and claws the hands, but the only real weapon Daveron's scans could discern was some sort of heavy energy weapon mounted within the jaws. Given how the other two were almost drippig with firepower and cutlery, Daveron somehow doubted that this last one was nearly as unarmed as it looked. Its eyes were hooded, pools of shadowed gold which were oddly compelling, even sad, even at this remove.

A premonition fluttered in his gut, tickling the back of his mind. Normally Daveron tried to have as little to do with Newtype hogwash as possible, but this time he was willing to listen to his instincts and anything else that might give him an edge. He snatched for the emergency general communications channel. "ALL FORCES, ENEMY GUNDAMS TO THE WEST BY POSITION A34! CONCENTRATE FIRE ON..." He was still shouting direction when the enemy acted, and all chance of dragging order out of the chaos vanished forever. From a standstill, the first BALOR, Tarrasque, burst into a headlong sprint, afterburners firing in its legs and back to propel it supersonic while still on the ground, elgs blurring as it pounded across the no-man's land between the pod and the second defense line. A kilometer and a half passed in seconds, the air not simply booming in its wake, but actually burning, crackling shimmers of heat briefly thrown off as the air caved in along it's wake. Tarrasque hit the defense line without slowing, arms and legs lashing out in all directions, fire billowing from napalm glands in its mouth. Six Dervishes were lost in a heartbeat. None of them even managed to lift a single weapon in their defense, before being shredded, slashed and trampled into the dirt.

A Praetorian pounced, slashing with their QC glaive, but Tarasque simply swatted the polearm aside, QC scales screeching as the edge of the glaive met them and was repulsed. A kicking leg later and the Spectre dropped, sheared in half at the waist, trampled over like so much refuse, not even slowing the rampage of the BALOR. Tarrasque threw itself in amongst a unit of Militia Strike Crusaders and Ginns, and Daveron had to turn away, unable to watch his brave boys and girls be massacred. Limbs and pieces of Mecha flew in all directions, the screams of their pilots echoing across the comms for a moment before cutting out, far, far too fast. Sickness roiled in his gut... not Psy-Shock, but he doubted it felt much worse! He watched another Praetorian, Sarah, engage the monstrosity, her QC katana held in both hands as she slashed and cut at the devil the USN had unleashed.

She might as well have been moving in slow motion, her blade never even came close to touching the hyperactive BALOR. A spiked tail whipped around and struck the Spectre Clades in the leg, tearing and battering the limb so hard it simply shattered from the hip down. Reaching out with a clawed hand, Tarrasque caught the QC Katana by the blade, squeezed and ripped it out of the Clade's hands, tossing it away like garbage before idly backhanding the crippled suit, throwing it to the turf in rags, though not quite fully disabled. Ignoring her, the Tarrasque moved on, plunging deeper into the vitals of Daveron's defense like a Megaladon burrowing into a whale's guts for food. Nor was Tarrasque the worst of his problems! Tiamat plodded forward in the wake of her boisterous sibling, laying waste to everything in her path without discrimination!

A hurricane of supercharged plasma bolts from the knee mounted cannons kept everyone ducking, unable to retaliate as she slagged defense bunkers with the 200cm Accelerated Positron Cannons in her shoulders. Her mouth opened and spat a massive bolt of purple-white lightning, a Ragnarok blast that leveled a five hundred meter long by twenty meter wide section of defenses in an instant, leaving nothing but a melted trench in its wake! The back mounted artllery cannon fired, hurling a tank sized shell all the way to the other side of the second defense line, the shells impact shaking the ground for a kilometer in every direction, a dozen Mobile Suits reduced to atoms, and half a dozen more ripped apart by the blast wave, a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke rising to dominate the whole city. VTP's launched in a continuous stream from the tail, twenty at a time, arcing up and then falling like needles of death from the sky, hunting out and exterminating every last pocket of resistance. Nothing could even approach the monster, all those who tried seemed to freeze a few hundred meters out, as if stunned or shocked, before being swept away by the storm of firepower!

The last, the airborne dragon, was flying over the defenses, leaving the second defense line to its fellows. Daveron saw its flight path and knew it had only one possible target... the Headquarters. Chris had seen off the last USN decapitation attack, but he knew even his loyal supersoldier friend could not hope to best something like a BALOR. Not in a patched together old Templar. He quickly toggled to Chris's comm channel. "Chris, I want you to retreat!" He said urgently. "The Headquarters will be ok on its own. You can do more good elsewhere!"

"You think I'm stupid?" Chris replied, with dry affection. "I can see what's coming as well as you can, Daveron. I'm not leaving you to face this alone."

"DAMMIT SOLDIER, THAT IS AN ORDER! RETREAT AT ONCE!" Daveron roared furiously into the comm.

"You wanna court martial me for insubordination, you're gonna have to figure out how to survive this." Chris retorted firmly, and then cut off the channel.

"You blasted..." Daveron trailed off, tears of frustration dripping down his cheeks. Wiping his face, he turned back to his headquarters staff. "What's the status on the civilian evacuation?" He demanded of them.

"27 percent of civilians have been safely evacuated. There have been USN overflights across the evacuation routes, but either they haven't noticed us or they are committed to not interfering, as they haven't attacked or made any hostile action." A young militia woman replied steadily. "Of the remaining 73 percent, 5 percent are currently in transit to the evacuation docks, and the remainder are still within the civil safety bunkers. No serious casualties have been reported amongst the civilians so far."

"Only 27 percent...?" Daveron whispered despairingly. Though in truth he knew that was amazing work. Urbanis had the highest population density of anywhere on New Eden. It had been barely an hour and a half since the assault started, to evacuate more than a quarter of the population in that time was almost a miracle. Almost a miracle, but nowhere near enough all the same. He cast his eyes back towards the holotable and the constantly updating reports on his second defense lines. It was grim reading. It was disaster, written large and unmistakeable. The two BALORs were tearing the guts out of his carefully laid defenses, and nothing he had was even slowing them down. Over half of his remaining Mobile Suits, including the Custodian units, had been lost already, and it had barely been minutes since the BALORs hit the field. It was like fighting against the Executors! Force of numbers simply could not hold against such raw power!

Shrieking alarms dragged his eyes back to the local area display, his thoughts full of dread as he saw the third BALOR alight upon the ground a few hundred meters away, its actions graceful, almost delicate as its mighty wings flapped one final time and then folded around its body like a cloak. He could see that Chris had been joined by a half dozen other units, including a Dervish wielding a massive two handed hammer that had to be Strategos Gregory. "You damn fools!" Daveron groaned in anguish, as he watched the seven Mecha square off against the Gundam. 3 Strike Crusaders, 3 Dervishes and a Templar were no kind of real deterrent to the power he'd seen on display so far! He spun to face his staff. "Evacuate the Headquarters! Everyone pull out and begin organizing a general retreat! If the Mori still have Heavy Defense Bunker 5 operational, we might just have a way out of this doom!"

"But the civilians..." The officer who'd reported on them before protested.

Daveron closed his eyes and shook his head in furious despair. "We've done all we can. We are at the limit already. Staying longer will only see us crushed, and that would be an even worse blow than simply losing the city. Andrew Waltfeld won't hurt our people... they'd already be dead if that was his plan. Now don't you start questioning my orders too! Go! Get everyone out!"

"What about you, sir?"

"I'm not planning on dying." Daveron assured her with a rictus grin. "I've got a certain short supersoldier to strangle for insubordination first. I'll be right behind you, don't worry." Daveron continued, before having to clutch at the table as the whole room shook, lights dying before flickering back on reluctantly. The HQ had taken a heavy hit, and he looked at the local status board with dread, seeing that all three Crusaders and one Dervish had been annihilated, wisps of smoke and steam exuding from Bahamut's mouth, where it had just fired the 200cm Radiation Cannon fitted within, blowing the units to slag and almost penetrating the heavily shielded HQ. They couldn't take another hit like that! Gregory and Chris no doubt realized that as well, charging forward to engage the BALOR, along with the other remaining Dervish. That Dervish combusted in mid stride at a gesture from the BALOR, flames leaping from nowhere to consume the entire mecha in a microsecond, turning it from a war machine into a flailing torch before it detonated.

Chris went down a moment later, a gesture from Bahamut's other arm encasing the entire Templar Insidia in a block of telekinetic ice, freezing him like a fly in amber. The beast must have been maintaining the ice somehow, because it refused to melt or crack, despite the shuddering struggles of the Mecha within it! Gregory actually reached the monster, his hammer smashing down from on high with all the force of the charge behind it. The hammer stopped dead, two meters shy of Bahamut's skull, caught in an invisible telekinetic grip. Caught fast, Gregory could neither push the hammer down or draw it back. Cracks spread through the hammerhead before it blew into smithereens, shattered from the inside out by a focused TK pulse. The BALOR reached out with one hand, almost lazily, and touched a claw to the Dervish's chest. Splinters blew out the back of the unit a second later, along with a huge cloud of pink mist, as a focused lance of TK power cored Gregory's suit like an apple, pulping the entire cockpit region! Gregory's Dervish, empty and uncontrolled, slowly toppled over and hit the ground with a loose clatter of dead wood and broken metal.

Bahamut's tail whipped around and struck the side of the iceblock that imprisoned Chris. It must have been telekinetically imbued, because the ice shattered into dust... and the Templar shattered with it, limbs breaking away like a broken doll, head imploding, torso crumpling as it was hurled a hundred meters way, landing as a ball of crumpled metal, barely recognizable as part of a Mecha, bouncing and rolling and tumbling across the ground before finally spinning to a halt. Daveron's heart fell into his boots at the sight. All hope was lost. Nothing they had could stand against these monsters. Not without the Executors. Forcing himself to turn away, Daveron hustled for the escape tunnel, the sounds of the fighting officers organizing a full scale retreat of all remaining forces from the city and into the hinterlands forming the background to his own flight. Survival was the only victory they had now. Survival and escape. He prayed to Hameya that Chris was all right. The cockpit hadn't seemed to be destroyed, but that had been a hell of a hit... just like the loss of the city itself. One hell of a hit...

xxxx

Kindred Cant Dictionary:

"Siclaszi majorpoj umse Se!" = I'm Still Hungry = Bring It On!

Sadeb Abired = Testament of Woe