The air a thousand feet above Earth was as turbulent and chaotic as it was on the surface. The transport plane had flown through a thunderhead and now was being pelted with water. The cabin was illuminated by the periodic flashes of lightning as the sharp crack of thunder tried to compete with the steady thrum of the engines that propelled the transport and its cargo toward the far side of the German Lake.

It had been a Roman lake, once, thousands of years ago. Mussolini had claimed that he would make it a Roman lake yet again, but that dream had ended with its father, strung up at a gas station. The German Reich had taken over for the delusional Mussolini after executing the genocidal Hitler, a name spoken as a curse within the Reich. He had spent most of teenage years living on the coast in one of his adopted family’s estates that was nestled atop a cliff. The beach had been a short walk or a shorter drive from there.

Countless days had been spent on its waters, sitting in a boat, drinking beer, attempting to fish with the boy he had come to see as a brother; whose parents treated him as a son. They had been there for him when his mother and father were killed in a car accident coming home from a convention.

“Kill, you don’t have to do this, you know? There’s a place in the family for you,” his second father had told him the first time he had joined the Reichtsguard, half a decade ago as a linguist.

The man’s connections had seen to it that Killian spent most of his time between Berne and Berlin as an intelligence analyst. After his tour of duty had been completed, his own impressive record and connections got him a position in MAD. Killian had spent a few years flying a desk before being selected for a field assignment. That, in turn, had lead to a string of them and, eventually, to him rejoining the Reichtsguard, this time as a Mobile Suit pilot.

“You’re my son, Killian. You don’t need to do dangerous things. What about Carmencita? She loves you, my boy. I’d welcome you with open arms into the family.”

In truth, Killian had wanted to marry Carmencita, his on again, off again lover and his best friend’s older sister. However, he was not content with working in the family business. He wanted to make a difference. His father had imparted upon him one thing: it is the duty of the powerful to protect the weak. Killian was powerful in several regards. He was a Coordinator, created to be better than other humans, though he bore them no ill will; the circumstances of one’s birth are beyond one’s control. Another lesson, his biological father had imparted upon him was that it does not matter who you’re father is, but the father you’ll be.

“How can you sleep during this shit?” someone yelled over the cacophony of storm and engines.

Killian’s eyes opened slowly and he smiled softly, “It’s an acquired skill.”

“How do you go about getting that skill?”

“You gotta sleep through some explosions.”

“Ah!” the man replied, “Fritz Mengel!”

“Killian Fleischer,” he introduced himself.

“You a pilot?”

“Yeah, Reichtsguard.”

“Ah. I don’t know how you guys do it, sitting in those giant robots; getting shot at all the time.”

“Better than being in the Reichtsmarine. One hit and you’re done,” Killian replied.

Fritz shrugged, “Yeah. Which one is yours?”

“The Recon type,” Killian answered.

“Oh yeah,” Fritz continued, despite Killian’s internal desires to be left alone, “What’s the range on that
gun?”

“Pretty far.”

“What’s your callsign? In case I have to safe your ass!”

Killian’s eyebrow arched as he realized that he had not selected a callsign. He’d never much cared for
them, thought that those who gave themselves grandiose monikers were asking for trouble. Self appointed nom de guerres were not much better; an invitation to be murdered.

Killian mouthed something to the man and he acknowledged that something was probably said. Leaning back against the thrumming metal of the cabin, Killian drifted back into sleep.



And was awoken to the pilot informing the cargo of their imminent landing. He blinked the sleep away and reached instinctively for the back at his side. It was still secured, thankfully. The contents of the bag were nothing particularly special; clothing, mostly, some curios he had collected and felt the need to bring with him to this assignment. The important things were sealed safely inside the GINN’s cargo compartment.

To call it a cargo compartment was being gracious. It was a small hallow that allowed for very few things. A compact rifle and a few magazines of extra ammunition. A small box containing sensitive information with protections in place to destroy said information in the event of an unauthorized access. He was back in the military, yes, but he still an intelligence officer. A popular sobriquet being a spook.

Smiling, Killian collected the bag and made his way toward the transport plane’s hangar. A handful of other pilots were already in their machines and Killian quickly followed suit. It was not a combat operation and thus flight suits were not required. He doubted how much he would actually get out of the garment that was stored in the bag. It was not like he was in space or in the Reichtsmarine where he may need it.

After punching in his code, the cockpit slid open and he dropped down into it. He strapped himself into the command couch. Still dwelling on his lack of a callsign and knowing that it would soon come time to declare it, he ignored the jerking as the transport plane landed and slowly came a halt. As the doors lowered and the other Mobile Weapons began disembarking, Killian flipped through the vast repository that was his memory.

His GINN trotted toward the hangars that would store it while he found his quarters, ate dinner and got his orders.

“Approaching Mobile Weapon,” the controller announced, “Identify.”

It was ritual. Identify or be fired upon.

“ZGMF-LRR704B GINN Long Range Reconnaissance Type, Gefreiter Killian Fleischer reporting.”

“Callsign, Fleischer.”

“Viper,” he answered back spontaneously.

Viper indeed.

“Affrimative, Viper. Hangar bay two, slot three. Hurry up and they may have left you some chow.”

Upon his arrival in the Dinning hall a pair of eyes, that had happened to stray across his path, had become affixed to him. The own toyed with the fork in her mouth, and began to wiggle her leg, as though exited by something. Though it annoyed her bench mate, she find more interest in the girl's actions then her reasons; for the time being. Moving her fork away from her face, down toward the plate, it became evident that something was on her mind to all.

"He's cute!" She managed to spit out, keeping most of her attention on him as he moved around the room. Tracking down her object of affection, her bench mate commented. "He would each you alive.."

"As long as I could tell him where to start" responded the girl with a wicked smile, which single-handedly ruined the rest of the parties appetite.

"GEN!" A masculine voice cried out, almost like a father figure. The man obviously not happy about her response, nor the loss of his once unquenchable apatite. "Child, don't act like that" the man said a lot calmer then his brash reaction.

"Richy, lay off; We woman do have our needs." She commented taking up for her younger wing-woman.

"Yeah we all want to know who the last person you got with, that you didn't try to kill in the process, Sarka!" he quickly responded again with that fathers tone. Sarka with her arm folded across her body hand resting on her inner-elbow picks a piece of salad up off her plate and brings it to her mouth, "Your Wife" she inserts; placing the foliage into her mouth. Slaming his fist against the table, Richy was unable to hear the next few words.

"I'm going to go talk to him.." she said with a bit of desperation, as she stands up from the table. The other two didn't take her serious till she moved away from the table, by this time Richy had clued himself in.

"Gen No!" they tried to reclaim her before she moved too far away

"Leave her be, we all have to escape our duty from time to time" Yu commented, as he began to eat again.

___________________________________________
Walking up to Killian, she stand to his side for a second before trying to engage in conversation; "I'm" she struggled for a bit "Eve" she quickly caught herself, but left a moment a silence, "So how long are you stationed here?" she questioned trying to figure out a window of opportunity, seeing as how they already have their departure orders.

“I’m Eve” she struggled with the words, as though they were alien, “How long are you stationed here?”

Killian did not hear her over the sound of the music that was nearly a hundred years older than he. The lyrics and the composition was that old, though the people performing the song were born in the years following its creation. It had come from a time in history when the American Media, having reached the depths of its creative well and was being forced to recycle things from decades past. This, however, did not make it terrible, as much of that era had been.

The song had been collaboration between one of the better composers of the time and a talented singer. The woman’s voice, alternating between high pitched cries to sultry pleas. The music was entirely a creation of computers, but it did not diminish the value of the work. It could be taken as itself a work of art, regardless of it being a cover. Most of the music Killian preferred were covers.

A tap on his shoulder snapped his attention from the music, which was echoing off in his as he turned his head to reveal the woman, who was mouthing something.

Killian removed the ear buds and immediately entertained the notion of putting them back in, “Hi, I’m Eve!”

“Hello, Eve,” Killian answered as he moved toward the chow line.

“Are you going to be stationed here long?” she said, falling into step with him.

“Until I’m transferred or killed.”

She smiled, “Aren’t we all?”

“Inevitably,” the chow line was so goddamn far away.

“So, I see you’re a Mobile Suit pilot.”

“You’re very perceptive. Not many people can pick up on that,” Killian lied.

“Is that sarcasm I detect?”

“No, I always speak like this when I’m distracted.”

“Am I the distraction?”

“Not at all,” So very much.

“What do you pilot?”

“A GINN.”

“Yeah? I didn’t get much time on the GINN before they tossed me in a DINN.”

“Neat.”

“I thought so. Did you ever try one out? They’re amazing machines. You know, if you want, I could show it to you.”

“I don’t care much for flying,” Killian lied, “And, with all due respect, I’d rather eat than see another Mobile Suit.”

Take the fucking hint.

“The food’s really good. If you want, you can join my squad and I,” she offered, motioning toward them.

“I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I’ve got a lot to do. I have to eat, drop off my gear and report to my Suit in ten minutes.”

“What about after?”

Killian turned to her. Looking her over, taking note of the curves and her youthful energy. She was attractive. Physically, he was attracted to her and was not bound by any sort of relationship. The fact was, quite simply, it was not the most intelligent move at this juncture. Ever since women had been allowed to serve with men, some of them had taken advantage of a man’s desire for sex to get out certain duties or to get other things in return. His time in MAD had made him more paranoid than he would ever admit and recalled, fondly, a conversation he’d had with the man who’d introduced him to field work.

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch or, in this business especially, free sex.”

In all honesty, however, the woman had an itch and wanted Killian to scratch it. It was not something he was unfamiliar with, especially when they lived under a constant ‘we may die tomorrow’ attitude and people would rather regret doing something than regret not doing it. Also, in all honesty, Killian was exhausted.

“Look,” Killian whispered, drawing her closer to him as they walked to the chow line, “Any other time, any other day, I would probably want to spend more time with you, Eve. Today is, however, not the day. Another time?”

She frowned a little and then nodded, then slipped a piece of paper into the breast pocket of his jacket, “In case you change your mind.”

Watching her heart shaped ass sashay away tried to. However, Killian was not some sex starved young man who’s heart broke with every rejection and swelled with each acceptance into another bed. He was just hungry. And tired.