War inevitably ceases becoming about ideologies and religions and quickly becomes about protecting the people to your left and your right. You’re no longer fighter an enemy of your country; you’re fighting people trying to kill your friends. It becomes kill this son of a bitch or that son of a bitch. It is attributed to Patton, or a variant of it. It boiled down to the notion of dying for ones’ country did not win wars.

It was true. Killian knew this first hand. Before the war had been declared, it had been on. People had died long before the Mobile Suits moved out, long before the speeches for support were written, bonds bought and machines built. It had been waged before all of that. War never ends.

It exists silently, like a couple exchanging mean looks over a meal, keeping the thin mask of civility on to assure their children that nothing is wrong.

But now came the fun part.

Killian had the dubious honor of serving two masters in this war. The Reichtsguard and the Intelligence Services. Only a fool would think that Killian, a linguist and political scientist, would move straight from working with MAD to being a Mobile Suit. There is no real gray area in the world of Intelligence when it came to if you’re working for them. You know, because you’re still alive.

Killian continued to live.

Though he was uncertain of the time in which he lived.

Upon arriving back from outsmarting two officers, one of them the son of some local primitive who fashioned himself King Somethingoranother. Of course he was a Prince, their king no doubt had countless wives to spread his self righteous and pompous seed. It was unbecoming of “royalty” and irked him greatly. They were citizens of the Empire. They owed their loyalty to the Emperor, not whatever goat farmer had the fortune to prostitute himself to the winning side first.

He shook his head, scowling. It would be fools like Crown Prince Whatever that got people killed over trivial things like pride. Killian would stroke his ego and only for as long as the man presented something useful to him.

Though, thousands of feet in the air, thousands of miles away from the desert, currently, Clown Prince Faceroll offered nothing to Killian and was thus dismissed from his thoughts.

Killian mused as to whoever was responsible for his case of jet lag. He’d first been sent to Poland and now he was heading toward the British Isles. Truth be told, he preferred the climate of England more than he did the greater Empire. Or maybe it was mostly the African continent’s conditions. And even then, it was probably only equatorial.

Groaning, Killian rose from his seat and stretched, rewarded by the feeling and sounds of his spine returning to something reminiscent of a healthy configuration.

“Mobile Suit pilots get to sit on their asses all day, in an air conditioned little room and watch TV,” someone had once said.

Truth be told, it was mostly true. Save for the ‘little room’ was little more than a coffin with a seat and displays in it. It was spacious, yes, but how much of that space could the pilot use? Not much. It was (barely) possible to stand up and stretch in the machines and even then, one could not delude oneself into thinking that the cockpit of a Mobile Suit was not, in fact, smaller than a prison cell.

“Fleischer?”

Fuck me.

“Fleischer, is that you?”

Fuck you, no its not, go away.

“It is, Fleischer. How’ve you been, you son of a bitch?”

Killian’s newest admirer was a second generation Imperial citizen, whose parents had emigrated to the Empire
from America. He enjoyed watching soccer and military histories. He’d graduated from the same high school as Killian, though Killian had graduated at fourteen. This man had a slew of girlfriends and had promised to hook Killian up with them. Killian new more about the man than he ever wanted to in the first week of knowing him during basic training, from Killian's first stint in the military.

“Ah, Wells. How good to see you. Here. Thirty thousand feet in the air with nowhere to go.”

“I know! What are the odds that we’d both be on the same plane heading to the Isles? What’re you doing there? Still doing that shit you were doing back then?”

“Uhm, sorta.” Don’t ask me if I’m a Mobile Suit pilot. Don’t ask me to see it. I may just kill you.

“Sorta? What’re you doing now? D’you ever go to sniper school? You were always a pretty good shot.”

“No, I’m still a linguist,” Killian replied, absently wishing the door behind Wells would pop open and suck the annoying troglodyte out of the plane.

“Oh, yeah. You always had a flair for languages.”

Maybe I should have had a go at the girl in Algiers, Killian mused and then replied, “Yep. What is it you’re doing?”

“Well, after my first tour…” and Killian was thinking in Farsi.

The girl was a Mobile Suit pilot, which presented Killian with a unique opportunity, if he elected to sleep with her. On the pro side, he would have something with a connection to him piloting a Mobile Suit and, in turn, could potentially count on her aid if he needed it. She was young enough to probably think or believe that sex was some sort of bonding experience, with love and all of that nonsense and not just the physical needs of two people. On that note, the downside would be that he’d have a young woman potentially enamored with him with access to an advanced weapon of war.

“And so that’s when Katie told me she was pregnant with our second child.”

Are you fucking kidding me? He’s reproduced? Twice? He’s as old as I am, Christ.

“That’s really great,” Killian smiled.

“Yeah, our first was a boy and we just had a baby girl.”

Killian hid an exaggerated yawn behind his first and frowned sheepishly, “I’m sorry, Wells. They’ve got me bouncing everywhere and I’m jet lagged and I need to catch some rack time. Its been great, man, really it has. We’ll catch up on the ground some more?”

“Yeah, I know how much the shuffle sucks. Anyway, I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll see you on the ground.”

Not if I can help it, “Take care!”