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"This mobile suit is so cool! Can you teach me to pilot it? Are you the pilot? That is so cool!" The young boy stared up at Bernard Wiseman with shining eyes and a roguish smile set beneath a rumpled brown mat of hair. He was Alfred Izuruha, and even though he wasn't the best student, or the best anything really, he'd finally caught a break. He'd found a mobile suit - and maybe even its pilot! His friends would never believe him. "You shouldn't be here; it's dangerous," Bernie started. But, after noticing that the boy looked as excited as ever, and that he was looking at him expectantly, he added, "I'm pretty good. In fact, I'm just one more kill away from being an ace." Bernie gave the kid his most winning smile. "And yeah: I'm the pilot." And thus began one of the One Year War's strangest friendships. But with friendship comes pain, as Bernie soon came to realize. Christina Mackenzie was very protective of her little "brother" Al, and a young man sneaking around his house's bushes couldn't bode well for him. Utilizing her combat training, she sneaked up behind the suspicious individual, knocking him out cold with a baseball bat. It wasn't conventional, but it was effective. Bernie never knew what hit 'im; one second, he'd been gathering intel on his new acquaintance, and the next, he was waking up to the goggling face of young Al, asking his "older brother" if he was alright. The knockout-redhead standing nonchalantly nearby gave him a quick smile before heading quickly out the door. "Who's the girl?" Bernie asked Al, as neutrally as possible, as he craned his neck to get a better view of her exit. "That's Christina, but you can call her Chris. She's like my big sister." Bernie thanked his lucky stars that neither he nor the mysterious bombshell were really siblings of Al. Meanwhile, in a similarly-residential, less-serious part of the colony, Breakfister Turbulance had made his way deep into Zeon territory, proudly wearing his Zeon uniform. Some would call it a disguise. They'd be wrong. Turbulance always dressed that way; it just happened to be appropriate this time. "Is that Char Aznable?" A young girl tugged at her mother's green apron, pointing out the open door at the white-masked man standing on their lawn. "Of course not, dearie. Char is off fighting in a war. Why would he be romping around in our silly old colony?" She shot her daughter a reassuring smile, but glanced up from her broom at the man standing on her lawn. "Plus, it is a well-known fact that Char has blonde hair, not black." The man was still staring at her. Perhaps he was a creep of some sort? They'd told her that space colonies were relatively free of such people, but one could never know for certain. "Shouldn't you be moving along now?" She decided that was more polite than "Get the hell off my lawn." Plus, it sounded much younger. Breakfister just continued staring, searching with his carefully-trained eyes for further proof of the Principality's presence here. The green apron was just one of many signs in the yard. Green grass. Green trim on the windows. Green carpet. Hot woman. The place practically screamed Zeon. "Actually, I'm supposed to be here. I'm investigating signs of possible wartime activity here, and was wondering if you had any information." He took a few confident steps toward the undoubtedly-Zeon operative in front of him, and began imagining the interrogation, Breakfister style. God, he loved field work. Forget mobile suits; no one could resist a Turbulance in his birthday suit. "Why don't you run along and play, little one," he admonished the girl. He couldn't have her interrupting things. Sidling up to the lady, he smiled in what he considered a friendly matter. "Is there a place we can talk alone?" Half seduction and half business was all Breakfister Turbulance. Well, maybe more than half seduction. The poor green-aproned woman vacillated between calling the authorities that instant, and inviting the man into the kitchen - the man was two parts creepy and two parts charming. Either way, she had a feeling it was going to be a long day. If Breakfister had his way, it would be a long night, too. "And that is why you can never trust a Feddie to handle his gun properly!" Mikhail roared with laughter, slapping Caleb DeGrau in a manner not unlike that of a bear batting at a river trout. The large sound echoed off the walls of the mostly-empty Zeon hangar, occupied only by a trio of soldiers clustered around a nascent mobile suit. Parts littered the floor, sharing space with several spread-our blueprints. The laughter made some of them rattle briefly. This was exactly why Caleb preferred to do things alone - well, one of the reasons. Alone, there would be fewer joking and more working, fewer breaks and more working, fewer mobile suit pieces on the floor, and more mobile suit pieces on the mobile suit. He resisted the urge to paw back at the large Russian, but that wouldn't be an efficient way of dealing with it. Perhaps later, when they were off-duty, he'd take issue with Mikhail's behavior. But, for now, it was just easier to suck it up and keep working. "Can you hand me that compression coil?" "Sure." Yoritomo bent down to fetch the oddly-shaped mobile suit part. He wasn't much less irked by the boisterous Russian's behavior. Putting his mobile suit back together was tiresome work. Char would never have to put his own mobile suit back together. Char wouldn't distract his teammates with silly jokes. Char would be fighting the best pilots the Earth Federation had to offer, and he would be winning. He grit his teeth, and rationalized: Putting together his mobile suit was just the first step in engaging the Federation aces. He walked deliberately over to one of the Action Zaku's leg verniers, checking the connections to ensure everything had been done properly. He'd need all the speed and maneuverability he could muster in the impending engagement. Every last bit. The room was small and sparsely-furnished, but sufficient. Tucked away in the heart of Zeon's secret base on the colony, it served as Lieutenant Steiner Hardy's base of operations. He eyed the woman sitting across from him with interest, and his lips curled in a gentle smile. He was no expert, but he was fairly certain that the girl could take on any of his subordinates without breaking a sweat. She could be a valuable ally - or terrible enemy; it was up to him to decide which. For her part, Roslyn O'Hara did her best to keep cool, maintaining a neutral composure and straight face, despite the emotions roiling beneath the surface. Negotiations with Steiner were proceeding slowly, but mostly according to plan. She could not let her recent therapy ruin things for her; she could only let it strengthen her. She would live, and she would live well. Of course, she wasn't thinking about any of that at the moment. Her attentions were focused completely on the Zeon Lieutenant and his words. She reasoned everything out beforehand - well, almost everything. She needed, like always, to keep her wits about her. A favorable outcome for her depended on it. Petty Officer 2nd-Class Emil Myberg cowered in the petite shadow of Colonel Veronica Wu. Why had he been chosen for this expedition? Weren't there plenty of men more qualified than he? Plenty of women, even? And as long as he was asking questions, why had the fleet commander come? He felt naked without his mobile suit. He wondered in passing if Colonel Wu felt similarly without her Chivvay II, or without her fleet, but after a look at her face, instantly dismissed the notion. She appeared far to confident for a woman completely out of her element. Had she even had field training? Emil couldn't remember; he doubted he'd had sufficient field training to qualify him for a mission of this importance. But he had no time to panic. It took every single one of his Feddie-hating brain cells to not stumble out of their cover, or accidentally discharge his weapon, or sneeze, or bump into Colonel Wu. The last thought scared him most of all, and he felt a chill go down his back as he narrowly avoided colliding as Wu signaled a stop. "Leaders lead. Fighters fight." That was what Beria had said to her before she'd left. Well, sometimes leaders had to lead by fighting. This, certainly, was one such case. The old P90 felt comfortable in her arms to the same degree that Petty Officer 2-Class Myberg felt uncomfortable in such close proximity to her. She regretted taking him along, somewhat. The boy was a decent mobile suit pilot, but, so far, a terrible soldier in the field. And this field was certainly no place for rookies. They'd left the residential area not long before, but Veronica Wu could sense that they were drawing closer to the Federation Base - to the Gundam. She peered around the corner of a nondescript grey building and caught a quick glance of a couple manned turrets. They were definitely not in the residential area anymore. After snapping a few quick-but-tactically-useful pictures of the base, she signaled a quick halt to Myberg; she wouldn't risk any further exploration without a more qualified team. Jack Murphy grumbled as he lurched around the Federation base in a heavily-modified jeep. He had been assigned to patrol duty, but his superiors had failed to account for the fact that his damn legs couldn't reach the damn pedals of a standard Federation jeep. However, after no small fuss, arrangements had been made, and Murphy and his jeep had been properly outfitted and an acceptable man-jeep interface had been hacked together. It was far from comfortable, and farther from the controls he was used to in his GM Command, but it propelled him in circles around the base far faster - and, despite the hacked-together driving controls, in far more style - than his wheelchair. Everything had been business as usual for the first 15 times around the base. He was almost certain that he wasn't going to find anything. What chance did a lone jeep have of finding skilled Zeon operative who might or might not even exist? But despite his cynicism, Murphy had a sharp eye; if the rumored enemies made any mistakes, he would notice. It wasn't a mistake, per se - only a raised hand sticking out from behind a pretty drably-painted grey building. But, it was something, and something warranted action. He radioed the find in, according to protocol, but only because he had to; he was certain he could handle things alone. His Beretta 92 was already loaded, and he picked it up from the seat next to him, just in case. Veronica Wu heard the jeep approaching, and she did what she did best: form a plan. She knew they couldn't talk their way out of the encounter; they were dressed in standard Zeon recon gear, and explaining things away to your typical Feddie grunt was a bit outside her area of expertise. They couldn't outrun the jeep, and there wasn't enough cover around to hide them completely from a decent search. She hissed at Myberg to try the door to the drab grey building, and he scurried away to comply. One against one was decent odds for a firefight, and if she managed to kill the unfortunate soul who had discovered them, it could buy them sufficient time to escape. "Hands where I can see them!" Murphy shouted at the woman, sitting up as straight as he could; he would command the situation, even if he could not command his lower-half. "Of course," Wu yelled as she dived out from behind the corner, P90 hot in her hands. Bullets struck the jeep around Murphy, and he returned fire with cool accuracy as a round pinged of the apparatus connecting him to the jeep. One, then two rounds struck the strange woman - one in the leg, and another in the chest. Smoke poured from the hood of his jeep, and he struggled with the safety restraints while trying to reload. The woman had fallen to the ground, and was bleeding heavily. So much for a quiet day of patrol duty. Emil Myberg heard the shots. He saw his commanding officer, a woman he feared and respected more than almost anything, fall to the ground wounded. He saw the man in the jeep, struggling to escape his doomed vehicle. Rage filled him, and he sprinted from the locked door to the side of his fallen comrade, firing wildly as he advanced. Two more Feddies had joined the man in the jeep, and they took up defensive positions as they, too, opened fire. Fire and ice mixed in his veins as he shouldered his gun in one arm, and Colonel Wu over the other. She was going to kill him for this. Alex Sentara fell back as a round from the Zeek's Walther P99 struck his bionic arm. His trigger finger fell numb, and dropped limp, along with the rest of his arm. He was definitely getting too old for this. Despite confirmed misgivings about field duty - ie, not piloting a jet - he scrambled over to Jack Murphy in his jeep, trying to aid in his extraction from the vehicle. They had been fortunate to arrive when they did. Had it not been for Derek Carter's vigilant monitoring of the communications channel, help would have almost certainly been too late. The ingenuity of a few creative mechanics crumbled away from Murphy's body as he was pulled from the jeep by the combined efforts of Carter and Sentara. It exploded seconds later, leaving the trio breathing heavily. Fresh reinforcements came minutes later, but there was nothing left to follow. The pool of blood turned to a trail that disappeared soon after, and a careful search of the area yielded nothing. Murphy helped "bandage" Sentara's arm while they waited for a mechanic/medic to arrive. Perhaps working as a part of a team wasn't so bad after all. Petty Officer 2nd-Class Emil Myberg collapsed on the doorstep of Zeon's secret base, and Veronica Wu grunted as her body hit the ground. She was not accustomed to the ground, or to the blood that covered most of the left side of her uniform. Myberg stared at her weakly, then passed out; adrenaline had filled him before, but he was past empty now. Nothing a good meal and a night's rest wouldn't fix - kind of like her own injuries. Of course, there would be more medical care involved in her recovery, but they had done well. The Federation base was known to them; they could strike. She had led, she had fought, and she'd done both reasonably well. Beria would be pleased. Sun Wu would be pleased. And Veronica Wu was pleased as she, too, lost consciousness. Veronica Wu: 6 CP Gained, Injured 3 Emil Myberg: 6 CP Gained, No Damage Yoritomo Naizen: 1 CP Gained, No Damage Caleb DeGrau: 1 CP Gained, No Damage Roslyn O'Hara: 1 CP Gained, No Damage Breakfister Turbulance: 1 CP Gained, No Damage Jack Murphy: 8 CP Gained, No Damage Alex Sentara: 8 CP Gained, Injured 1 Derek Carter: 8 CP Gained, No Damage |