Planet C32 was more insignificant than the unimportant, unnamed star it orbited, the hot, blue ball of burning hydrogen. Merely an anchor for one of many branches of the Migrating “tumbleweed galaxy”. The star system’s only reference able designation was a string of numbers and letters from an alien alphabet that might make more sense on a 3-dimensional grid square map than as a name. The only thing rare about the star system was the lack of jump vectors to neighboring star systems. Being at the tip of a branching cluster of systems, it only had one neighboring system in range of a jump.
Unless, of course, ships used the parallel layer of reality referred to as 4th-dimensional space to travel through The Rift. For nearly a hundred years now, planet C32’s star had been the closest system to the Dust Sector, the left behind but still trailing mass of stars, asteroids, and planets following behind the Tumbleweed Galaxy like dirt knocked loose from the top of the Milky Way's Orion arm. Like a used strip of tape rolled across a dirty sleeve, only barely still hanging on to the roll. That tear between the dust and C32’s star, like the Rift of space between them.
The swirling clouds of turbulent grey and brown clouds covered every speck of sky of planet C32, from above and below. As the chorus of slow guitar carried on, blocking every radio wave and communication for nearly 10 minutes, Wardog flight dived into the blinding silence of the clouds.
Like penguins diving into the cold, dark sea, the black visored pilots listened to the staticky music in the clouds, or jammed to their own tunes to soothe their nerves, one just idling through the storm in complete radio silence. For once, it didn’t matter if they broadcast communications between each other in the clear. The blanket of guitar music drowned out everything that wasn’t direct line of sight laser-linked, and nothing could be seen in the turbulent clouds.
Until they broke through and paved the way for the rescue assault. The first unmistakable shots of a brushfire war in thousands of years for the tumbleweed galaxy. These Humans fulfilled what was expected of their race as demons of a Far Gone Earth, but to so many more, they were angels. To some, mortal idiots.
For 3 minutes, only their songs know what they did in the dark.
4 years before the Freebird Event, DGC 66 onboard HFS Benalla in route to HFS Aquila rendezvous
Sara wasn't looking forward to the next ship transfer. She was still excited for her pilgrimage, but every day that drew her closer to her initial destination eroded her anticipation. She left HFS Sardonyx 5 days ago for a relatively short stay on a smaller, less well-off ship, HFS Benalla. She knew some ships would be worse off than her home, or The Pacific that she was born and initially grew up on. Her low expectations plummeted in less than a day. The water had a bad aftertaste, and they didn't have showers. The crew showed her how to use sponge bath methods to clean herself. After the first night, she understood why what she thought were frivolous wet wipes at stores on Sardonyx turned out to be not so frivolous. It wasn't the worst of it, though. At least on the HFS Benalla. The next ship was supposed to have intermittent water filtration problems, and by all accounts, it was a much older ship whose crew certainly wouldn't survive without the Fleet's government support. The lessons in school about how most ships that made up the Fleets of Humanity survived only from careful management by the admiralty-style government systems were more tangible out here than in textbooks or the teacher’s classes. The admiralty-style government had formed in the early years after Earth and survived hundreds of years into the new DGC calendar.
Currently, Sara was trying but failing to optimize the HFS Benalla computers to better help manage the life support system. If she could show she could fix this, she might be able to fix the harmless but weird aftertaste in the water. More importantly, the captain would consider letting her fool around in the sensor computer code to look for the source of ghost signals she was sure were a software malfunction. She didn't have to do any of this, and even the crew was hesitant to let her mess around with their home. She always wanted to help like this, only that want was tenfold after experiencing how only this one ship fared so much more poorly than hers.
Her ship. Part of the point of her pilgrimage was to find or earn a new home ship. She couldn't go back to HFS Sardonyx after this. If she didn't prove her worth or bring back something valuable, she could very well end up on a ship like this for most of her life. Maybe that was the third reason to try and help HFS Benalla. She only needed the first two reasons, although the thought did soothe her stir crazy claustrophobia working with the painfully slow, clunky user interface. If only she could just bypass the hardware interfaces and talk straight to the machine, she might have been done by now. Sara wiggled her body and repositioned her butt, settling into probably another three hours of this tediousness.
6 days later
Sara didn't know what to expect, but she thought the larger HFS Aquila would have fewer problems. After only 2 days aboard, she had been told or reassured, or just volunteered the same piece of information. Bigger boats meant bigger problems; whether those were a higher frequency of problems due to more systems or space where things might break, or essential functions and maintenance affecting a far larger number of people if something goes wrong. Sara was starting to suspect that the choice of transportation and ship transfers was intentional for showing those like her going on pilgrimage the more diverse sides and lifestyles of humanity, or at least the problems.
Maverick status: 3 retired, 1 standby, 0 for review
Approximately 1 year later, 3 years before the Free Bird event, DGC 67 Ring world Gama, interspecies collage.
Rain was the first thing I loved about planets. It was thundering when my shuttle landed nearly a year ago, the shaky turbulence comforting me in a way I still can't explain. Watching the lightning strike across the clouds, hearing the thunder follow. Counting the seconds from each flash and its slower, more imposing rolling below. I love the rain. I'm so happy I got to go to school here, on a real planet.--Tasmanina Pixie’s blog dated: 27th day 3rd month, 67
Sara was trying not to get wet, at least resisting the urge to purposefully let her shoulder linger outside the covered walkway. She wanted to feel the rain on her neck despite how it would soak her thin, dark blue long-sleeved shirt. She wanted to, but successfully resisted as she crossed into the too-cold cafeteria lounge. Few classrooms populated the wide-open interior. The few rooms were more often used as activity rooms, reserved for private functions or discreet hookups than actual lecture halls or classes.
Sara's butt hurt less from her last fling in one of those rooms, more from the three-day-old spinal surgery she had scraped and saved all year for. Now she just had to scrape and save another year, hopefully not two years, for the augment she wanted to attach to the implant. Sara spied her one-night stand and winked at him. She had no intention of sleeping with him again, but his reaction made it worth the coy mischievousness between them. His lip curled in a low, delighted grin. His eyes danced with memories of their pent-up 3-minute quickie that was better than some 3 hours of sex she had all year. He tipped his chin up at her in a comfortable acknowledgment before he went back to conversing with his friends.
Sara almost bumped into Qulee, too distracted by the cozy blonde on his shoulder. She hoped they weren't a couple, but only because Sara detested hooking up with men who couldn't take their prior commitments seriously. Like most of her old trio of friends.
“Sara, how did it go? Did you get that… thing you were talking about?” Qulee asked, hiding her short, blunt beak with her long, spindly fingers, blocking her beak as she spoke. The way she looked around the room and spoke was as if Sara’s spinal implant was not illegal. It wasn't, but they both knew how uncommon it was for a human to get such an expensive implant. The speculation, if anyone found out, would likely default to assumptions of theft or nefarious methods of earning enough money.
“I worked hard and suffered many nights with only one hot meal and no cot. If anyone has a problem with my purchase, then they can shove it or take it up with me.” Sara said, a maniacal grin splitting her face. She had worked too many fourth jobs, juggled study and school, missing many nights' sleep for this. She had earned it, and she would be damned if prejudice slighted her or implied earning it any other way.
“So that's a yes?” Qulee laughed, wiggling her fingers under her beak in the Chirps equivalent body gesture of a prim and proper girl hiding her giggle behind her hands.
Sara nodded to the side, her ear nearly touching her shoulder in giddy acknowledgment.
“Ooooh my, how fun! Do you mind if I tell…you know who?” Qulee’s excitement hushed to a quiet raspy tone at the reference to her husband.
Sara nodded casually, still frustrated at the couple's insistence on keeping the secret. There was nothing wrong with the Chirp marrying a human. Given her status as an Heiress to Green Skies Incorporated, there was nothing wrong. If anything, it would be prestigious to be married to a full-blown Keeper Jacket. Like, not just a Keeper but an actual Jacket, the first human Jacket ever. A bitter taste flavored her excitement, remembering yet again the only reason they were hush-hush about their love. Her husband was a human.
“Yes, you can tell him only if you talk to him again about, you know.” Sara smiled more dimly this time. Qulee nodded in a sad way for her species. There was nothing the two women wanted more than for Qulee’s marriage to be proudly on display. Jacket Llewellyn was a good, strong, protective man of few words and little action. The times he would act on the job, or off the job, were methodically and always firmly measured. The love between Sara’s friend and him was magical to witness, the privileged few times he felt safe enough to display his affection to his wife.
There is nothing wrong or even illegal, or any kind of standard against mixed marriage. But even to this day 40% or more of the total Tumbleweed galaxy's population had some form of prejudice or fear, or concern regarding humans. It wasn't everybody, but it was enough that in business and society, a smattering of problems was common enough. Where an interspecies marriage could be a good thing for progress, it was also a source of deep-rooted fear sometimes. Jacket Llewellyn was the only one insisting on secrecy. Sara, Qulee Klem, and her uncle, Jacket Klem, had all been taking passes to encourage him to relax a little. To stop fearing the possible repercussions and choose to face any problems together as a family. Even if her dad probably wouldn't approve.
The two quietly gathered their lunch from the cafeteria line and made their way to their normal spot. Second floor balcony overlooking the lobby below, corner table like always. Their little spot every day, same time, same place. Except for the next day.
14 hours later. Noon, weather partly cloudy, chance of rain.
Qulee
Qulee was nearly petrified. She thought it was a good idea to investigate the ruins to try and have breaking coverage of the trafficking ring. She knew she wasn't supposed to be there or even know her husband and Jacket Klem were going to lead a raid tomorrow.
As soon as the shoot started and that thing fell from the sky, destroying the drop ship, she had become nothing but a liability. Her hiding spot with her camera was out, and she was dragged out, kicking and screaming.
The moment she broke away from her captor during an assault on the building, she thought she was free. Instead, she was running, still being chased by the mercenary.
The man was relentless, he didnt seem to care anymore about his imminent demise or the leverage as a hostage I might hold. He could have shot her, but instead, he was chasing her with that grin on his face, that knife in his hand. Qulee turned around and saw the man too close, the knife gliding down. She screamed and raised her arm. The fear was so tangible. Was this it? Was this her death?
The knife swung down and caught Qulee’s retreating arm, drawing a minuscule amount of blood. She screamed in pain as the knife came back around for her throat. She felt only the smallest of pain before she saw a black sheathed blur that tore the man away, like a detah angel.
The angel and the man flew across the town and slammed down halfway across the road. They rolled in an uncontrolled spin, trading blows with the ground and each other. A gash on the death angel's arm and chin, a red mark on the battered black silhouette. The angel caved in the man's ribs with a knee. Even from here, Qulee could hear the pained breath leave her attackers' bodies. Qulee notices the large gash in the angel's leg bleeding violently, but the death angel ignores it. Then the man's knife feints for the angel's shoulder, but dives around for its ribs, digging deep into its chest between the gap in his ribs. The agonized scream of the death angel makes her cover her ears, paralyzed to watch. The death angel's blood-curdling defiance as it breaks the man's arm with a jerk of its hands. The knife shifts in the angel's chest as the man screams, but relinquishes the weapon. The death angel pulls the spike of steel out of its chest with a splash of blood that continues to well up. The screaming didn’t stop as it tore open his enemy's neck, a wide river of blood pushed out of the bubbling throat. It stabs into the man's chest, again, again, again. Long after its enemy was dead.
Red, it was all red. Everything had a tint of red. By the time Qulee made it to him, the color red made up every inch of the scene. So much blood, so much, and it wasn't all her attackers. The angels, no, it was just a boy, his chest still adding to the growing stain of blood. He’s screaming less now, a few coughs, defying his impending death as he falls on his side. He is so feeble. So mortal, nothing like the angel of death she thought he was.
“The human! Help! Over here!” Qulee screams after catching a glimpse of the distinct outline of a winged search and rescue Valkyrie. The medic jumps down from her rooftop, appearing next to Qulee, scrambling to assess the downed man.
He was still conscious. He looked at her upside down, his face far too calm. Quelee would never understand humans. He was smiling up at her, a sense of relief in his face if she wasn't mistaken. Even married to one, humans always found ways to surprise her.
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Full red feather tallys, unknown or unconfirmed
Maverick status: 3 retired, 1 requesting status, 1 flight defender for review, emergency action taken.
Less than 3 years before the Free Bird event, DGC 67, leaving orbit of Ring world Gama, aboard HFS Aquila.
Sara enjoyed flying to her new home ship on Aquila. She loved the sight of so many old and rusted systems running smoother than she had ever seen. She was running her hand across a beautifully welded gash that was not there anymore. Somehow, the scraped metal collage of a welded patch screamed love and artistry.
“Pretty good job, isn't it?” Dribble said.
Sara turned to look at Dribble, his constant goofy smile grinning past her at the patched wall.
“Yeah, did you do this?” Sara asked. Every flight defender was equal parts defense pilot, ship driver, as they were a jack of all trades. Able to fill any major necessary role on a ship. Bridge crew, engineering, search and rescue, damage control, maintenance, and so on. But Dribble shook his head, his grin broadening even wider for some reason.
“Wasn't me.” Brian grinned, finally catching up to her with his pronounced limp.
“You'll have to ask the anti-social fucker we all love and hate. Or was it hate-to-love? Dudes hung a hammock in engineering and slept there instead of their assigned bunk.” Dribble spoke in a way of familiarity that confounded her. While her troop of childhood flight academy friends nudged each other brotherly, she struggled to think of anyone who matched the description.
“Someone I know?” Sara asked. Her confusion was mixed happily with nearly half her old group of friends in one place again for the first time in years.
“You’ll see, he will be on board a while after we all leave for our destination.” Brian grinned, leaning on a wall to take the weight off his leg.
“Let's just say the old coot of a flight instructor's Obelisk surprised both of us with more than just the three of us getting to see each other again.” Dribble grinned.
“Oh boy, wait until I tell him how thankful you are.” Sara grinned mischievously. Immediately, both men paled, Brian elbowing Dribble in the chest so hard it winded him. 6 plus years of drill instructors basically not just training but raising a gaggle of 10-year-olds into flight defenders left an interesting dynamic that Sara liked to play with.
“I didn't say shit. Dribble, weren't you supposed to get your knees looked at like 2 minutes from now?” Brian expertly changed the subject by reminding their friend of a doctor's appointment.
“Oh yeah.” Dribble looked surprised as he bent down and rubbed his ankle, then his knee. “I forgot.” How someone would forget a doctor's appointment for a major leg injury was baffling, but for Dribble, not surprising. Sara smiled and waved goodbye as Brian hurried the forgetful amigo away.
She hummed on her way to the mess hall, wondering where the third amigo of the lads and lasses of HFS Sardonyx’s smucketeers was.
After dinner, she punched Dribble and Brian after they revealed they forgot to mention the little idiot was hanging in engineering, and was the one who had patched the wall. She could describe any of the lads as hate-to-love. They were all equally precious to her. Fucking idiots sometimes, though.
***
That night, Sara relished the late dinner with her old gaggle of friends. It was like it used to be, although Nick was much quieter and tired-looking. He had been working tirelessly to bring the HFS Aquilla from less than 70% functionality to above 95% for the first time in years. His hard work made light of his change in demeanor, Sara guessed. He ate slowly but mechanically as opposed to the fast shoveling of the other flight defenders. Dribble, at least, was using a knife instead of a spoon for everything. Brian, by contrast, was expertly cutting a chunk of something meat with his spoon without slowing down.
It still didn't make sense, but even Sara had come to kind of understand why they ate that way, still using a spoon for everything. There were some things she couldn't wrap her head around.
Sara couldn’t sleep. The anticipation and fear of her new home, new people, was more terrifying than anything she had experienced on her pilgrimage. The sight of her friend Qulee shaking in her arms when she told her about her ransoming abduction gone wrong. About the human who fell out of the sky, destroyed a dropship before even touching the ground. Just a child, she described him. That boy who had saved her life. So much, too much. She needed her safe spot. She needed Nick. Tonight, for the first time in years, he was just in arm's reach.
Nick was asleep in his little hammock with his hand dangling off the side. He looked cute; the thought surprised her for the first time in her life for some reason. She'd always told him he was handsome or cute, just like all the others, with nothing more than familial love and care. This time, she felt a little embarrassed. She had known Nick in particular the longest. Since she was half a year old in a cradle, his and her parents formed a fast friendship, bonded by their shared parenting journeys. He was her best friend, all she ever needed when she was scared. She ducked under the string holding the hammock and sat with her legs tucked up in the corner where his hand was dangling. She knew what might come next, but she needed him. She touched his hand, and he shot up with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes focusing on everything around him. He looked threatening, but she knew better than most that he was just analyzing everything as fast as possible. He looked over to the humming machines, then to her, acknowledging her presence before looking opposite her at the main hull of the ship. Satisfied, he turned back to the corner and inspected her spot further, taking in her pajamas and worried look. He reached out to her but leaned too far out of his hammock, resulting in a fantastic crash onto her feet.
Sara was almost ready for that, wasn’t expecting it, just not caught off guard by it. He lay on his back as she pulled her feet out from under him and stretched her toes out onto his chest. He huffed before pushing her off so he could situate himself next to her. Both of them, cradling their knees in their arms, pressed against each other.
“You, I feel, need to talk. You also are not dressed.” He said.
“I’m decent.” She replied.
“Oh, you’re fine. I’ve seen you in much more revealing pajamas before. I’m not worried. The section chief, he may have something to say, is all.” Nick smiled at her in the dim lighting, his teeth bright in the small glow of the engineering machine readouts, one of his pointed canine teeth prominent. Just light enough to see, almost dark enough not to see.
“I needed you. Sorry, I know we aren't kids anymore, but…” Sara whispered.
“I’m here for you.” He replied. Nudging her gently with his elbow, giving her permission, she didn't know she needed someone to give her to relax.
“It's freaky to think I'm joining my new home ship soon. Will you come and visit sometime?” She asked.
“If something breaks, sure. Well, maybe. They are reassigning me to escort ships heading to the Rift. I might be sent across to the Dust system with one of those mega ships. I don't know how much of a window I would have to visit. I guess it depends on how far away your new ship is when I take leave.” Nick mused.
“HFS Grimoire should be closer than the HFS Sardonyx on any given cycle. Plus, Dribble will be there. You won't have anyone else closer, will you?” Sara asked. He anxiously scratched his leg, the way his face darkened and his shoulders dropped, she could tell she had stepped on his ego. Apologetically, she squeezed his shoulder. He was still scratching his leg, revealing a nasty red burn on his inner calf.
“Nick, geeze, how did that happen?” Sara yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. Nick yanked his pant leg back down.
“I fell.” He said bluntly. But Sara could tell that although he was telling the truth, he was leaving something out. He occasionally lied by omission, and Sara prided herself on being able to read Nick better than anyone. Maybe it was her natural perceptiveness or the product of growing up with him from the cradle to crawling.
“Uh-huh, right. You got burned from falling.”
“Fuck, Sara, drop it,” Nick growled. Uncharacteristically glaring at her with a venom she had never seen from him. He didn't scare her, but the shock of his hostility stunned her into silence.
“Sorry,” Sara said after a fat pause loitered between them.
“I am…I’m sorry too.” Nick took longer to respond than she had. This wasn't the quite comfort she was used to with each other.
“Nick, is something else bothering you?” Sara asked, rubbing her shoulder against his.
“No.” He lied, but Sara didn't press him on it.
“Well, text me if you ever need to talk. Text me whenever you don't need to talk, even. I'm going to miss you.” She said.
“I’m going to miss you, Dribble and Brian, too. So much! I’m sorry I haven't acted like it, but it's been so good to see you guys.” He said, his tired frown deepening. His dark blue eyes looked sad, the way she had seen before. She grabbed his elbow, rubbing it reassuringly.
“You're a good man, Nick.” He stiffened, but she continued. “You're doing a great thing. The crew of the HFS Aquila won't stop talking about you. You're helping them out so much.” Sara encouraged him, a well of tears growing in his eyes.
“Thanks, I guess,” He said, a fake sense of uncaring that was impossible for Sara to be fooled by.
She leaned her head onto his shoulder, and he rested his head on her. They stayed like that all night, talking for some time about childhood video games, memories of running around HFS Sardonyx, and other nostalgic memories. When Sara drifted off to sleep, Nick followed quickly.
In the morning, the chief did have something to say. Nick looked more abashed than Sara did. After all, she was used to accidentally getting in trouble for falling asleep in public just like this. It might have been the first time they got in trouble, both being found asleep together, but somehow that made the memory fondly stick out to Sara in the years to follow. She prayed she would get to eat with the trio again someday.
Her stop was coming up soon, and although Dribble would be joining the crew of HFS Grimoire with her, she would miss her boys, her friends, and family.
Maverick status: 3 retired, 1 Activated, 1 reviewed incident
Verdict: Justified, flight defender [REDACTED], Temporary Code Name Apollo to be granted full Maverick status. Emergency action reviewed and approved.
Temporarily redacted tally kills, 1 Gold Feather, 0 Black feathers #(REDACTED) Red feathers
3 days later, Less than 2 years before the Freebird event, DGC 68 HFS Grimoire, forward dorsal air lock
It was just in time for the new year celebration, at least the latter half of the human holiday. Sara told herself that her final choice to query the HFS Grimoire wasn't from the recommendation of the roadtripper she spent one last weekend on Ring world Gama with. The HFS Grimoire stood nearly 40 stories tall, give or take a few in either direction, its radiators jutting out in four spots, giving it an imposing yet inviting appearance. Its bridge was retracted into its safe hollow, a towering spire atop its keel for sensor and sometimes traffic control. Its smooth top was an open landing area that tripled when it stowed its twin spin habitat modules flush to itself. They spun slowly, now giving the ship two modules with gravity when not under thrust. The relatively still ship’s white hull welcomingly beckoned Sara’s shuttle to her new home.
Sara gripped the rolled-up book and hard drive bundle. Mr. Cunningham had given it to her in case she followed his advice after their last night together. Though she hadn't read it, it allegedly had generations of family logs and diaries all the way back to the first ancestor who survived Earth, the infamous womanizer Jack Cunningham. Allegedly, but mostly confirmed skirt chaser, Mr. Cunningham had said with a roguish smile. He said she could keep it if she never got the chance to meet his cousin.
The airlock opened, and she breathed the first breath of fresh air of her new home. A woman stood casually at attention, neither formal nor informal in appearance or stance, somehow. Her long curly hair hung in a neat ponytail, framing her beautifully sun-kissed, tanned skin. A line of freckles around her collarbone that ended at her neckline anchored her simple, soft, beautiful face. But her cool brown eyes' perceptive inquiry was the feature Sara bet that drew many a man or woman to her like a siren. Sara blinked. The woman's sewn-on nametag read Cunningham.
“Selena Cunningham?” Sara gasped.
“Miss Michaelson? Wait ‘wha–” Selena began.
“Sorry, here!” Sara awkwardly pushed the bundle into Selena’s hand. She had planned to ask her guide immediately who and where Mr. Cunningham's cousin might be. Who knew she would be Sara’s guide?
“Uh, I’m supposed to…er, what is this?” Selena asked, thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere?”
“No, sorry. Uh, my ‘ex-boy–, er, your cousin gave me that for you. It's supposed to be a family thing.” Sara fumbled her words, the heat on her cheek in embarrassment growing hotter every second under Selena's piercing gaze.
“Oh geeze, which one? Sorry, I have a lot of cousins and family. That fucker of an ancestor slept around and left a lot of extended family.” Selena laughed, genuinely and good-naturedly. It cooled Sara's anxiety. The beginnings of her first strong friendship in her new home.
During the Free Bird event. DGC 70, planet C32
The one Throag, humans, and Chirps mercenary shoved a gun in my face. I clutched my children in fear. The battle that had led to our caroling was quieter now, but only tenser. A mere 3 seconds before the door blew open and the air filled with gunpowder and ionized weapons, leaving the room and my ears ringing with shocked, burnt ozone-filled lungs.
Just a second before, the black cloaked figure rattled into the laser-etched window. It shattered, leaving its thick red blood like ichor from an angel on the window. A useless shot into the ceiling that did nothing but drew every single gun barrel to the already falling demonic figure. All the threats moved away from them and my children, from the door, from our rescuers.
Anonymous- testimony from Freebird event survivor.
The Maverick
Pain, abused raspy breaths heaved from the downed pilot's chest. The Maverick survived, pulling himself out of the dust after the 20-story fall. After receiving confirmation of a successful hostage rescue, the last group of hostages on the planet, the man, only then gave himself a moment to rest in his dusty crater.
The Maverick turned his gaze to the horizon, where safety might lie either in the wilderness or an evac. But instead, he turned back to the sound of still-fighting Adhoc Remnant Militia forces. The hostages were almost out, and that would be the end of their blood pact, but there were still others who could be saved.
A silent prayer as he clutched two broken pieces of an old oak wood from Far Gone Earth, a memento for a friend held heavy in his hand of failure, regret, and worthlessness.
“God, if you can hear me from Far Gone Earth, please don't let there be any more Tinmen and…” he sucked in the breath, still jarred by the close encounter with that thing. “And whatever that was.” He mumbled his worthless words feeling even more useless. Like a gibbering madman on the edge of the Galaxy.
The Maverick ran towards the sound of fighting. He didn't run towards safety. God didn't answer prayers like that, even when it was a world before revelations.
The memories of that day, The Maverick couldn’t touch without recoiling, the battered landscape of ruins and dead men, some strangers, some friends. Ben was the only surviving witness to the symphony of bell-like notes from the hot metal rebar trying to penetrate the Tinman. The Maverick swooped on its prey again and again like a mindless bird. Every strike an opening for the Tinman to exploit, failing to catch The Maverick. The field was littered with still-cooling red red-hot rebar like monuments of hate. Every mafolrmed or xpended piece of metal rubble is replaced by another of its kind sticking out of the bones of fallen buildings. The Maverick, the kid among men, moved like a Vik berserker. Ben finally understood what they meant when they said he moved like a bird with reckless abandon for its life, a death wish. Neither wolf nor bear berserker, but the path of a Raven. In that moment, Ben didnt see the kid that had been attached to his secretive unit years ago. He saw The Hrafnjar nearly bring the monster to heel. Only for it to be saved in neon blue flash by a holistically different kind of monster
The Maverick and Ben were the only surviving members of the KTF Ranger squad. The last to leave the bloided dusty surface of C32. Apollo, cursed the storming skies. His metaphorical wings broken, burnt, and bloodied. Screaming at everyone as he cradled what was left of everything.
Mavericks status: 5 active, 1 for review
Incident log, extreme civilian casualties confirmed, situation unclear, unable to establish contact with any Mavericks. Advise Fleet admiralty to authorize 3rd fleet mobilization.
During the incident report
Tallys confirmed during the incident, warning insufficient data, may be more.
GroundHog 4 Gold, 0 Black, 15 Red, more unconfirmed
O’Niel 18 Gold, 38 Black, 0 Red
Sullivan 3 Gold, 41 Black, 0 Red
Corvin 1 Gold, 106 Black, 1 Red
Apollo 1 Gold, 1 Black, 48 red feathers, more unconfirmed
