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The areas of Hudson Bay that the ice breakers had missed was covered almost completely in fishing shacks--patchworked little shanties, some with a soft fluff of smoke pouring out of their chimneys. It was becoming dusk, so many of the fisherman had packed up their catches (if they'd been lucky) and headed back to their not-as-patchworked homes in the nearby settlement of Inukjuak, Québec (also known as Port Harrison Quebec). Its population barely over 1,284 souls and hardly unchanged since the early 20th century when wily humanitarians of the nearby Fort Albany had taken it upon themselves to gentrify the Inuits and get them to go to school and brush their teeth. Many had adapted during that time since the fishing had been bad that season, and many of their descendent's followed the same practices. But, not this day. A storm had enveloped the sky and was pouring a fresh layer of powder over the permafrost. Visibility was next to nil, winds up around 35 mph, roughly twenty degrees below zero. It was a miracle anything survived in such a harsh landscape. But oddly enough, an entire military convoy was doing just that. The 87th Integrated Fleet trudged through the snow, slowly but surely. At its lead was its flagship, the Hillock Gilfaethwy, doing its best to act as its own ice breaker. To its aft was the Big Tray, Black Hawk, it made its way over the ice with sonorous vindication, quite damaged from its last victory over the enemy. From the Hillock, Harris Cunningham, acting captain, inspected the Big Tray as it moved ominously through the blustery landscape. Even though Lieutenant Messanfer was in charge (a name, he thought, was far too Zeonic for an officer), he felt he had the wheel. Rumors were he was leaving the fleet, anyway. With Jarvis Ackart on the other side of the continent, it was hard to tell exactly who was in charge these days. Of the battle group, there was really only one officer--and from what he observed of the rest of the lot, that was it. The fleet had sustained heavy damage and needed a port of call badly, and that was New Amsterdam. It wasn't the ideal situation for an aspiring commander. Nevertheless, Captain Cunningham was a sound strategist and believed in himself in the utmost. When danger reared its ugly head, he'd be the one to get on the bullhorn, tell the men what to do and assure them they were in good hands. Although, this storm had given him quite a chill and there had been reports of Zeonic activity in the area. Why anyone would try anything in this weather was beyond him, so he merely dismissed it the thought with a twitch of his mustache. Ando Shoji and Aldo P. Armastad had arrived aboard the Dragon only minutes before it'd made contact with the fleeing Federation fleet. They walked in close proximity to one another towards the bridge, neither bothering to make eye contact or idle chitchat. What did a super hero and a heartless, ruthless bastard have to talk about? Aside from having oddly similar first names, they'd made very dissimilar life choices. Though both could be viewed as energetic, charismatic Zeonic personalities, the methods they employed on the battlefield showed a divergence. It was war, after all, and war paired strange bedfellows. Who could really blame it? Hugo and Donny trailed behind them, cat calling at female officers and inquiring crudely about one another's sexual preferences. Aldo quieted them as they neared the bridge. "Commander on deck!" Aldo moved to give the first order, as was his nature, but Ando slid onto the command deck, arms outstretched, cape flowing gloriously behind. He uppercutted the air and gave the first order. "Men! It's time to show the enemy what we're made of! They're weak! They're scattered! They're unprepared! Launch all units on my mark!" A silence incurred for only the briefest of seconds, then the acting commander-in-chief of the Dragon raised his hand. "Sir, severe storms prevent them from the facilitating ground units. I'd assume their flight decks are severely iced over. I'd suggest an airborne assault." "Okay! Launch fighters! Leave the 433rd Myrmidons in reserve!" Aldo glanced sideways at Ando, jaw clenched in that all-too-familiar-way. Acting Captain Joe McCousky raised his eyes to the sky, wishing the snow would stop. But it didn't. The Black Hawk "soared" through it, regardless. Messanfer had put him in charge in his stead, and no matter how many calls that loon Cunningham left, he'd remain as such. He started towards the communications officer, wishing to radio his Medea support and get their status when sudden clusters of ricocheting light brazed the sky. It was an attack, this much he knew almost instantly. How they'd found them all the way the hell out here he had no clue. "Get on the horn! Tell all ground forces to hold their fire until we can get a targeting solution on whatever Zeek force is on top of us. Tell the Platypus and Striker to launch fighters immediately to intercept!I don't want them anywhere near those bastards!" McCousky cursed Mother Nature's cruel humor. Jack Fitzgerald's Tin Cod wasn't suited for cold combat, but so wasn't Jack. Being a Florida boy, he didn't know much about what happened to condensation when it hit freezing. It was simple science, sure, but who could imagine that everywhere, though? Sure, it got cold near the keys if a wind whipped up. Cold enough to ruin any barbecue, but it rarely snowed--at least, it never accumulated. How he got here he had no idea. Luckily, he'd been on CAP from the Black Hawk when the bastards hit them. He and five other Tin Cods swung around the rear of the Platypus and readied themselves. Sadly, his wing was fairing worst than he was. He didn't blame them. At this temperature, it was like flying an ice cream truck without a steering column. They flew a loose formation towards the incoming Zeon squadron, attempting to engage them at a distance. He spotted over two dozen blips on his radar, one unbelievably enormous. Before it registered, they were on top of him. The odds were deplorable, and simply that fact only made the situation that much more hopeless. His right wing had already been turned to a fiery ball of fuel and metal. The only warmth felt throughout the carnage. He jinked left, then right, then left, then did a barrel roll. AA fire had reduced more than half of the CAP to slag, the fire from the Medea's only added unneeded chaos. Two Don Escargot's smashed into the incoming horde, their maneuverability gone. Where are rest of the fighters, for fuck's sake? He wondered as he saw the snout of the "enormous blip" punch through a patch of heavy condensation. Its fore MPC's jittered with anticipation as they powered up. Snow fell luminously as two giant energy beams soared from the Gaw and struck the Desert Striker. It exploded in wondrous shades of green and red, radio static echoing its crew's cries of jubilation and terror. He felt his gut wrench, worse than any zero-g maneuver. "All remaining air forces, on me. We need to get those flies off the Platypus!" It was too late. Although the Medea had scored a few lucky hits on several cocky Dopps, the remaining fighters strafed the Medea mercilessly. Before they could reach their position, smoke had begun to plume from Platypus and it began descending rapidly. He saw men jumping from its side, with and without parachutes. Even those lucky enough to land risked severe hypothermia. He gave them a small prayer. He couldn't believe what he was witnessing, still. But it didn't matter after the swarm had enveloped him, too. Ando jumped in his seat, victory stance at the ready. He and Aldo had exchanged even fewer words during the engagement, which was near-impossible seeming. Ando could tell the man craved the carnage that lay out before them, and saw how deeply inactiveness agitated him. Still, he carried himself well. He shook it from his mind. Back to action! "I request a status report, and I require it fast!" The first officer turned meekly to his superior, "Uh, yes sir. It looks like we've lost half a dozen of our Dopps, plus change. Dragon is operating at peak performance despite the storm, and, obviously, we've sunk their Medea's. Their forces appear routed, sir. No word from their ground forces, but we postulate that they are operating at zero visibility and do not wish friendly-fire. There is also a good chance that snow accumulation has sullied their canno---" "Enough! I am pleased. Next orders: regroup and withdraw." Aldo turned to his goons and informed them of their level of usefulness--none. Though he was glad to see some Feddies burn, he was equally pissed he hadn't been the one doing the burning. Next time he'd thrust in Ando's face, and it wouldn't be a fist. His big ol' member would be in that smug anti-hero sonovabitch's mug. And, then, he would be the alpha male. Ando Shoji - 8/2 VP gained, no damage Aldo P. Armistad - 8/2 VP gained, no damage "Cargo Transport Craft, Horsemans Banquet, you are to slow down to a complete stop and prepare for boarding by order of the Maritime Regulation Number..." Captain Maharah Villina dashes over to her ship's civilian communications console. The lights of the the Horseman's Banquet's bridge spills over her scrumptious form like chocolate icing over an ice cream sundae. The various members of her crew watch their succubus of a captain assume an authoritative expression as she listens to the transmission. Villina's golden brown eyes twitch as a suspicion grows in her mind. Planting the heel of her knee-high boots into the deckplating, Villina materializes over the helmsman's shoulder. "Show me the other ship," her voice coos dangerously with her command. A monitor flickers with static before snapping to a view of their pursuer. The captain of the Horsemans Banquet squints her eyes as she leans over the console to get a closer look at the image. Her violet bustier curves with her arcing back, distracting some of the crew for those precious seconds. "Son of a bitch!" she mutters quietly," I sold that ship!" Seaman Nadia Adelaide closes the helmet clasp of her Zeonic Company flight suit. Inside the storage container of the Prince of Aargau the Zaku I MPSET readies itself for battle. The MPSE gear is still damaged from the spar with Caleb DeGrau but stealth is not necessary for this mission. In the adjacent container, Alice Slimek readies what she hopes to be another successful hour logged in an enemy GM type. A hiss of static assaults Adelaide's ears. "Ma'am? We have a transmission from the target that you might want to hear." "Patch it through," said a curious Adelaide. "To the IDIOT that is currently behind my ship," the static clogged voice of Maharah Villina warns over the radio," I know my merchandise when I see them and I know who I SELL them TO. Keep this up and there may be 'difficulties' the next time you need me." Adelaide sighs as her own CTC crew reports the transmission has been cut. "So much for diplomacy. Alice? Let's do this." "Captain! They're jettisoning their cargo!" But Villina wasn't paying attention at the moment. She was speaking in low tones to a radio headset. "Yes yes... I would definitely love to speak to you again darling... oh I do remember last time... listen love, I need to ask a favor..." An urgent shout rang across the small bridge of the CTC. "Two mobile suits are inbound!" "... Thank you hon, I will bring you your favorite when we meet." Tearing off the headset, Villina looks at the main sensor screens. "Where is Emil?" she asks. "Back there in the De-classified Operation Room." Seaman Emil Myberg looks up as the door to the cabin opens. Even in a state of emergency, Maharah Villina enters like a lingerie model stepping out of the shower. "What's going on?" asks Myberg nervously as Villina picks up Myberg's flight helmet and lowers over his head. "We need your help Emil," she explains," we have a vessel out there attacking us... with mobile suits." Myberg's blood temperature drops. After spending all that time alone in space, after all that time fighting losing battles, he still need to go out there again. "But I-," began Myberg before Villina puts a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Don't worry... I trust you," Villina said to him. Or more like, the caged breasts in her bustier appear to say to him. A few minutes later, Villina steps back into the bridge. "That Feddie kid just launched in his mobile suit." "Good," approves Villina," I hope our repairs worked." "Duct tape makes miracles happen... mobile suits identified as a Zaku.. and a GM type?!" "Nadia, they launched a mobile suit!" Adelaide zooms in on the light speckle that detached from the Horsemans Banquet. Sure enough, it moves like a mobile suit. "Looks like we were right," concludes Adelaide," let's take him down." Inside his GM-E, Emil Myberg grits his teeth as he fight back the anxiety of being in combat again. His computer soon locks onto the two mobile suits signals approaching him. One of them is a Zaku and the other one is... The ghost of Lars Finne came back full blast in Myberg's mind. His eyes went wide as he saw the now Zeon colored GM-E come at him with its 90mm machine gun blasting. Behind it he saw a Zaku open fire with a 105mm machine gun. It didn't take much of a leap of faith to understand what that Zaku was. These are the people who faked a distress signal. These are the people who took advantage of his trust. With a shout that startled the people back on the bridge of the Horsemans Banquet, Myberg charges the Zeon colored GM-E. Bullets ricochet off both shields until the more experienced GM-E pilot kicks away Slimek's machinegun. Myberg slams the face of his shield into the enemy GM-E's chest to disorient the Zeon pilot. But before he can open fire at point blank range, a hail of 105mm rounds tore apart his mobile suit's left arm. Slimek took the chance to retreat back to the Prince of Aargau as Nadia Adelaide presses her attack. Both suits are suffering from incomplete repairs and are not responding as fast as their pilots are used to. A deadly dance begins which lead them back to the Horseman's Banquet. As Myberg dodges a swipe from Adelaide's heat hawk, the Zeonic company pilot saw her chance to disable the fleeing CTC. She grabs one of her panzerfauts and thumbs the trigger. But at that exact moment, Myberg slams the butt of his beam saber on the Zaku I's hand. The warhead missed its mark, but the high explosive warhead detontates close enough to the Horseman's Banquet to rupture the cargo hold. Dozens of emergency systems began wailing as their inventory of Air and Water containers are exposed to space. Adelaide considered trying again with her last panzerfaust the next time she can shove Myberg away. But suddenly, new contacts emerge on everyone's scanners. Republic of Riah gunships bore in, forcing themselve between the pursuers and their target. A very authoritative voice broke in on everyone's radio channel, warning them that no fighting is allowed in this region. Villina and Myberg had made it to the boundaries of Side 6. The Zaku I MPSET pilot sighs as she watches the Republic gunships launch their units. Despite the array of old equipment poised against her, the numbers are against her favor. With one last look at the fleeing Horsemans Banquet, the Zeon force returns back to the open space side of the Side 6 border. Nadia Adelaide - 7/2 VP gained, Repair +1 Emil Myberg - 5/2 VP gained, Repair +2 Mahara Villina - 6 VP gained |