Quoted By:
“I don’t like this.”
“Clarify, pilot.”
“Something feels off.”
“I assure you, I am taking into account all known variables.”
“Call it a gut feeling.”
“Pilot, your vitals seem consistent with your prior operating condition. Regardless, I will not fail because of a faulty ‘gut’ sensor.”
The response is an extended exhale.
“If you have an Actual alternative course of action you would like to propose, I would welcome it.”
The last few minutes of slow movement past the scout line doesn’t seem to have caused any alarms to be raised.
Caution and careful steps should be fooling any seismic sensors, and the tall ruins of buildings break apart sightlines to keep even your mottled dark blue form from standing out from a casual observation by the naked eye.
The city isn’t quiet, either, as every so often distant explosions mark where artillery shells or missiles find their mark. Someone’s begun warming up for tomorrow’s action.
One sensor detects movement in a building ahead. 442 meters. 4th floor. You pause all your motion, frozen on all-fours halfway through a step.
Your camera focuses and zooms.
There’s an infantryman walking to the edge of his building, facing towards you. His hands are fumbling with some sort of small stick and a bit of metal, long scoped rifle slung over his shoulder.
The hands move in a practiced motion, jabbing the stick in his mouth, and a lick of flame rises from the lighter to ignite the stick.
You wait, somewhat fascinated as the man inhales, and then breathes out a small cloud of smoke. His head starts to rise, beginning to look out.
Your pilot urges you into action, her frenetic thoughts pushing you to go, to Go, To GO.
Thrusters fire, servos scream in a frenzied blur of motion, Demon Claw reaching up and forwards to swat the offending insect.
The man doesn’t even get a chance to let out a scream, before his perch is removed from existence in a crash of falling rubble. The smoke from his mouth is obscured by the dust kicked up by the collapse. One more falling building.
“That. That, was a rush. Guess our cover’s blown.”
Your pilot exhales.
“Negative. It may be identified as an artillery shell, or other ordinance.”
You turn and begin to move towards your objective at pace now, weighing the dangers and disregarding the threat of being detected on seismics. You’re past the picket line, in theory.
“Your actions speak louder than your words, Beta.”
“That listening post didn’t check in over comms.”
“Some dumbass taking a smoke break doesn’t feel the need to radio in every last thing. And even if they’re not checking in, everyone knows snipers work in pairs.”
Behind you, a green flare launches into the air, arcing far overhead.
