An Unexpected Opportunity, Fish Mission near Alderaan[Attn; Conner]

[Lucifer Vice]

Though his swift gait didn’t show it, Lucifer was annoyed. Sure, he hadn’t gotten the assignment he was hoping for, but then he had aimed rather high for a raw academy graduate. He hadn’t even really gotten any clear assignment at all. No squadron, no idea where he’d be in a week; only some temporary duty to assist a thus far rather dull group of typical Confederate zombies in their attempts to track down some supposed Alliance terrorists they got wind of. The icing on this particular delicacy he’d been handed was that, as the most junior soldier present, he’d been saddled with the duty of explaining to the Wing Commander who’d just docked aboard the Inquisitor why exactly her leave had been cut short. He supposed it was some kind of honor to be the only fresh graduate to be assigned to this mission, and the opportunity to take some small vengeance on the Alliance was glorious, but the uncertainty still grated on him. He was a man of learned cause and effect, and while nothing was ever absolutely certain in medicine (particularly given the vast array of sentient life in the galaxy, a few of which were capable of seemingly miraculous regeneration), he still wasn’t a fan of the unknown or trusting to luck.

As the docking bay loomed closer, Dr. Vice ran over the bit of insight he’d been granted on the Wing Commander who he fully expected to chew him out, simply because he was there and an easy target. It wasn’t much. She’d be arriving on a VCX-350, a civilian ship named the Mockingbird, a designation that caused his eyes to subtly roll. He knew she’d been on leave on Alderaan, placing her close enough to the task force to have the misfortune of being recalled. And that was about the extent of his knowledge, other than the insignificant detail that she was in fact female, something he’d merely deduced by the pronoun his CO had used to refer to her.

Blowing a tiny sigh just before he entered the bay, the cadet resolved to suffer through the expected indignity without a fuss. Perhaps this mission wasn’t bringing him any closer to his father, but ending up in the brig would certainly be a step back. Emerald eyes made a quick sweep, his step pausing as he stood at the entrance. The light freighter wasn’t difficult to spot. It was the only civilian ship in the hangar after all. They hadn’t let him bring his personal ship along, something else he was moderately bitter about. His purposeful stride resumed as be made directly for the ship, out of which was just then emerging who he assumed was the Wing Commander.

The first thing Lucifer noted was the mild surprise that she was in uniform. Thinking about it, he supposed he’d have taken his uniform on leave as well, but he hadn’t expected it. For a moment he considered that it would have been more difficult to salute and submit to someone out of uniform, but then of course he really didn’t gold any genuine respect for the Confederation anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Coming to within a respectful distance, he halted and saluted, speaking clearly without much inflection. “Flight Cadet Lucifer Vice reports. I was told to brief you.“ As he focused on her face, an even more surprising realization hit him. He recognized this woman. He’d never actually met her of course, but in his eagerness to attain the assignment he wished for he’d examined her file, so he at least knew her face, her name, and her rank. His mind processing the information quickly, he added, without much noticeable pause, “Wing Commander Bravil.”

He still didn’t much enjoy trusting to luck, but he wasn’t about to spit in fortune’s face either. Here he was, suddenly face to face with the leader of Renegade Squadron! He considered offering her an apology for her leave being interrupted though he'd been given no orders or authorization to do so. Still, as interested as he suddenly was with ingratiating himself to the woman, he wasn't about to suck up in order to do so.

[Constance Bravil]

Conner's deep ingrained sense of paranoia had gone into just a teensy bit of overdrive when she'd been summarily yanked off her official leave. Correlation didn't prove causation, sure, but the timing alone was more than enough to concern her. Not that the Confederation should've had legitimate reason to suspect her so soon. Sorn's body had only been discovered yesterday, and she'd taken great care to leave no physical evidence of her involvement behind at the scene of the crime. The murder weapon itself was a few hundred light-years away by now.

In the end, all her worries were for naught. Instead of a hastily assembled firing squad awaiting her on the Inquisitor, there was a hastily assembled task force aimed at sticking it to the Alliance dogs committing piracy in the sector. Or at the very least making a flashy and expensive attempt at doing so. Sometimes the Confederation was inclined more towards show than substance. Propaganda was even cheaper than cannon fodder, which was what most of the brass on Dolomar considered starfighter pilots to be. Not that Constance was bitter or anything... oh wait, yes she was.

Another day living the big lie. Another battle fighting for the wrong side. All par for the course when you were a deep cover agent.

She'd let her astromech co-pilot bring the Mockingbird in on the approach course towards the Star Destroyer awaiting them outside the Alderaan system by himself. The droid knew the freighter's systems as well as she did, and he didn't need to change clothes to make himself presentable. She had a reputation for polished appearances to maintain, after all. Conner managed to toss her vacation wear and seal herself into the conformist black of her uniform by the time the Inquisitor's hangar deck officer cleared them for docking.

The comm in her quarters broke out into an arpeggio of beeps and squeaks just as the Wing Commander slipped the last few pins into her braided and bound hair. "I read you, Bucket. Bring her in nice and easy. And try not to scratch the paint this time." An indignant squeal from the droid made the speaker crackle from overload and brought a smile to the woman's pale face. "Oh, simmer down. I was only teasing. You've gotten testy in your old age, you know that?" The reply she received was petulant in tone and untranslatable in polite company. "I've told you before, humans can't interface that way. It's anatomically impossible." A rude buzz from the R6 unit had her chuckling despite herself. "I'll be up there in a minute, Mr. Cranky Bolts."

Still stifling the occasional snicker, Conner exited her quarters and headed towards the cockpit. One of the reasons she liked Bucket so much was his total lack of pretentiousness. Most 'mechs were far too uptight for her taste. That's what you got from frequent memory wipes, which was one of the reasons the pilot avoided dumping her droid's core unless absolutely necessary. The entertainment gained from letting the machine develop a distinct personality was worth dealing with the occasional eccentricities.

The subtle vibrations produced by the freighter's engines shifted in timbre as the droid cut in the VTOL thrusters. Soon after came the muffled thud of landing gear hitting the deck. Constance ducked into the control center of the craft right as Bucket began the regulation cooldown cycle. "Forgiven me yet?" A downright forlorn warble came in reply. The 'mech was surprisingly competent at guilt trips. "Don't give me that. I didn't mean to insult your piloting abilities. Just trying to lighten the mood." Peering out the transparisteel canopy, the Corellian took in the monochromatic landscape of the Star Destroyer's hangar deck. "Stars know this place could use a little levity. Not to mention some actual color..."

Shaking off the temptation to let her thoughts wander, Conner began to frame herself into a more professional frame of mind. "Run the usual diagnostics, then lock her down solid. I don't know how long I'll be, so you can take a nap too if you want." At the droid's confirmatory whistle, the Wing Commander left the cockpit again and headed towards the boarding ramp. The two of them weren't big on goodbyes. "And don't let anyone touch her but you!" the pilot called back over her shoulder, before slapping the door control on the vessel's main airlock.

Constance found another Confederate pilot waiting for her near the bottom of the ramp. No one she'd met before, as there was no way in the nine Corellian hells she'd forget a face--or a scar--like that. A quick glance at the man's rank insignia explained why he was unfamiliar. He's about the same age I was when I left the Academy. Stars, now I feel old... Conner was pleased to note that while the Flight Cadet made the proper gestures of respect towards a superior officer, she didn't pick up any of the overeager 'die for Dolomar' vibe that was so common among newly brainwashed recruits. He might be green, but he was of a higher intelligence grade than most of his ilk.

“Flight Cadet Lucifer Vice reports. I was told to brief you, Wing Commander Bravil.”

Vice seemed a bit surprised to see her for some reason. Strange, considering he'd specifically been sent to brief her in the first place. The spy noted the inconsistency, but let it pass without further comment. "At ease, Cadet." The fact that such a junior officer had been sent to brief her stunk of someone dodging their responsibilities--a phenomenon all too common in the Confederation. Or maybe someone had been worried Conner would throw a fit at having her leave cut short. Said theoretical someone doesn't know me at all then. Public--and explosive--displays of wrath were the trademark of another Renegade. "Where are the birds we're going to be flying for this mission? Lead on; you can brief me on the way."

[Lucifer Vice]

Dropping his hand from his forehead and clasping it with the other behind his back, Lucifer’s stance otherwise remained as it had been. “At ease” for him still meant a rather formal posture, his spine erect and shoulders back. That was one aspect of military training that had come quite naturally to him. He wished now as he had before that his clearance had allowed him access to more detailed personnel files (something he knew that he’d ironically have had he gone into the medical corps, but it would hardly matter then) so that he’d have some notion of what sort of woman Bravil was, what sort of pilot she looked for. While the vain arrogance he still held a little of shuddered at the thought of adjusting his behavior to suit another’s tastes, he’d be willing to make some concessions if it meant making a good impression and increasing his chances of getting into Renegade Squadron. Some things were more important than pride.

With first a simple nod followed by a sideways one, indicating the direction they were to go, the former doctor released his hands and broke into a comfortable (which for him meant fairly quick) stride away from the Wing Commander’s ship. The fighter bay was not far, was indeed the adjoining bay to where they presently stood, separated only by a wall of durasteel and titanium. As they walked, he outlined the mission as it had been explained to him, unsure of how much she had been told. “A number of deep space listening outposts have picked up Alliance chatter along the Alderaan trade routes. We are to patrol these routes and identify all ships moving into and out of the sector. If any are discovered to be terrorist vessels, we are to disable, board, and capture the vessel or vessels.”

Excepting a few alterations to make the pronouns appropriate (and correcting a grammatical error or two, really whoever typed these things up was overpaid) it had been word for word the mission briefing he’d received. Absorbing and regurgitating information in a very precise manner had been part and parcel to being a medical professional. It was another thing that had transferred well to his new profession.

As soon as they were in the fighter bay, Lucifer directed them toward a solitary ship on the far side of the bay. Without halting, he pointed out a group of fighters that were berthed on the left. They looked similar to a standard TIE starfighter, though their twin solar panels were more in the shape of arrowheads than the basic (and utterly hideous) hexagonal design of the standard TIEs. “I’ll be in one of the Interceptors along with most of the other pilots. They have something else reserved for you, Commander.”

Continuing on to the ship he’d been moving toward, he stopped his swift gait a couple dozen feet away from it. It looked very much like the Interceptor, the wing shape essentially the same pointed design albeit elongated some. All in all it was notably bulkier than most TIEs and had a third solar panel atop the cockpit. “The TIE Oppressor. Very dramatically named. I understand its speed and maneuverability are nothing to get excited over, but it holds an impressive complement of armaments and is equipped with deflector shields. An advanced ship, relatively speaking, though I imagine it’s less impressive than what you’re used to.” While Renegade Squadron’s missions and personnel files were inaccessible to him, he did at least know they flew TIE Defenders, easily the most powerful fighters in the Confederate Navy.

Vice was woefully lacking in any insight as to how Bravil would respond to what could be interpreted as criticism of the government, yet he knew that it would be better to prove memorable than simply a generic, obedient cadet. His physical appearance had likely already left some impression on the woman as it inevitably did with most everyone. He often wondered how many times he’d been referred to as “the guy with the scar.” Still, a face with no other thoughts attached to it would do him no good in her memory, so he added a final comment, his gaze still on the ship rather than the officer. “They’re still airless deathtraps of course, both the Interceptors and the Oppressor. Slightly less rickety airless deathtraps than the original model though.” It was his version of a joke, but Lucifer’s wit was exceedingly dry and his jests delivered without any hint of a smile so if the woman didn’t pick up on his humor she would hardly be the first to miss it, nor likely the last.

A tone sounded over the intercom and the other pilots who’d been inspecting their gear or standing around not really doing anything (what a proud tradition he’d gotten himself involved in) began suiting up and heading for their ships. Vice glanced from the Oppressor to the scurrying pilots to Bravil and saluted once more, waiting to be dismissed before heading to his own Interceptor.

[Constance Bravil]

Vice wasn't much one for hanging loose, it seemed. The Flight Cadet's posture remained ramrod straight well after he dropped the salute. Conner didn't hold it against him; there were far worse character flaws than being wound a bit too tight. That said, he'd need to learn to lighten up to some degree if he wanted to make it in the Starfighter Corps. You couldn't fly into the face of death day after day and expect to stay sane without bending at least a little. Of course, that assumed Confederate pilots had all their marbles to begin with, a tricky contention at best.

Taking the directional hint from Vice's nod, Constance fell into easy step besides him as he made haste away from the Mockingbird. Other men in the past had attempted to outpace her as a subtle form of dominance challenge, but she found no indication of that being what the scar-faced junior officer was up to at the moment. Either way, their heights were comparable, so matching strides with the Cadet didn't pose a problem for Conner. She caught the sound of the loading ramp lifting then locking in place behind her, Bucket on the ball when it came to following her directions as usual.

"...If any are discovered to be terrorist vessels, we are to disable, board, and capture the vessel or vessels.”

Translation: if they don't immediately kowtow to our demands, and/or the flag officer running this show takes an interest in confiscating cargo, we dub them 'terrorists' and proceed in blasters blazing. Angler may have gotten used to playing the part of jack-booted thug at the brass' whim over the years, but that didn't mean she'd come to enjoy it. Of course, the possibility did exist that they'd run across some actual rebel operatives on patrol. Sure, this would mean the Confederate Spook Squad was operating with far greater competence than usual, but stranger things were known to happen.

“I’ll be in one of the Interceptors along with most of the other pilots. They have something else reserved for you, Commander...”

A faint frown crossed her pale features at Vice's explanation of what she'd be riding today. Conner didn't care for getting preferential treatment as a rule--especially at the expense of the other sentients flying with her. Drawing such a stark distinction between the storied Renegade One and the other pilots drawn into this task force might well produce resentment. Not to mention Interceptors were far from the most impressive--or safest--starfighters available in the Confederation military. That said, she couldn't help but be a tad grateful that she wouldn't be flying one herself. Nothing illustrated the lack of consideration Dolomar's leaders possessed for the soldiers fighting and dying in their war better than the lack of shields on most TIE fighter models.

"An advanced ship, relatively speaking, though I imagine it’s less impressive than what you’re used to.”

Another odd hint let slip by her current escort. Sounds like someone knows more about me than just my name, rank, and serial number. Exactly what and how much Vice knew--or at least thought he knew--about Commander Bravil piqued her curiosity some. Casting a sidelong glance in the Flight Cadet's direction, Conner quirked a dark brow in a deliberately wry expression. "I'm sure I'll manage to make do somehow." Putting a few strides worth of space between them, the veteran pilot proceeded to give her assigned craft a thorough once-over. "I'm surprised they requisitioned one of these for the mission," she continued in a more professional cadence. "Haven't seen an Oppressor in action for a while. Their production run was pretty limited."

“They’re still airless deathtraps of course, both the Interceptors and the Oppressor. Slightly less rickety airless deathtraps than the original model though.”

That statement caught her attention straight away, as no doubt it was meant to. Constance paused in her examination of her assigned craft, pivoting about to face Cadet Vice straight on. The Wing Commander's expression remained impassive as her silver stare considered him with surprising intensity. Those words were no accidental slip of the tongue on the junior pilot's part, or a muttered sentiment never meant for her ears. No... Vice wanted her to know his less than stellar opinion of the birds they flew. But why? That didn't fit with the normal brainwashed behavior of standard issue Confederate cannon fodder at all. Then again, maybe that's precisely his point.

One corner of her mouth curled upwards in a half smile. "That's what happens when you work for an organization where manpower is cheaper than materiel, Cadet." Her response was safe enough to make even if other ears happened to be listening, taking the man's comment as a joke while still quite revealing as to her own point of view on the matter. Conner had never been known as a knee-jerk reactionary sort of patriot, and the relative weaknesses of Confederate snubfighters compared to the rebellion's favored craft were well known and often discussed. "We're an exercise in cost-effectiveness."

The chime from the hangar bay intercom system brought a swift end to her brief bout of banter. She was far too professional a person for cracking wise on the clock. Though she was mightily tempted to smirk again at Vice's second salute. "Get going, Vice. Seems the Admiral's in a hurry to be underway." Conner headed towards where her own regulation black flightsuit had been laid out even as she spoke. "And tell the other pilots they'd better doubletime it."

[Lucifer Vice]

Throughout the entire procession from Bravil’s civilian ship to the Oppressor, the cadet’s eyes remained straight ahead, save a solitary glance to the side as he pointed out the Interceptors. While his lack of reliable information about the commander had him eager to watch her every reaction for clues, he flatly refused to do so. This was more an issue of ego for him; he doubted a clear eagerness to get to know a superior officer, particularly one who headed such a prestigious squadron, was likely to be found offensive or damage his chances for entry into said squadron. Still the notion of letting it be known that the woman’s opinion mattered to him to the degree that it did irked the young (former) aristocrat, and so he avoided checking her face for hints as to her personality.

It would have annoyed him to realize that his pride cost him the sizeable puzzle piece Bravil’s frown provided as he explained that she was being issued a superior vessel. The loss was one that would almost certainly never register in his mind however, simply vanishing into the vapor like so many other little details that no one ever acknowledged.

Even as the deep-cover agent halted alongside him and shifted gray eyes his way, his own emerald orbs stubbornly remained forward. His peripheral vision however did catch the subtle lifting of one shapely eyebrow, and the dry humor of her response was clearly heard. As she moved away from him to inspect what would briefly be her ship, his gaze did finally shift away from the vessel to the back of Constance’s head. In spite of himself, Lucifer had to admit he rather liked the commander. Not in any amorous or lewd manner; crushes were not a thing the driven young man typically indulged in. More accurately he approved of her. He hardly considered what he knew to be a complete picture, but from her humor that seemed compatible with his to the precise professionalism of her dress, he felt she was a leader he could respect. This of course only intensified his desire to make a good impression himself.

Offering no response to her assessment of the Oppressor, Lucifer was careful to redirect his vision to said ship at the first hint that Bravil’s was returning to him, again more a matter of pride than anything. And again her gaze was observed only through the edge of his vision. The crooked smile she wore did little for him other than, combined with her earlier arched brow, to make him note that she likely favored that side of her face. Medically speaking, most people developed better control over the muscles on one side of their face than the other, not unlike the rest of their bodies. Her recognition of the carelessness with which the Confederation regarded its people, and the disdain he suspected lay underneath that recognition, nearly brought a tiny upward curl to the man’s lips. Nearly. Yes, he approved of Wing Commander Bravil very much.

A final slight incline of the head and spoken “Commander,” served as his farewell as Constance dismissed him, turning and breaking into a swift jog back toward the Interceptors. Choosing to run rather than walk places when on the job was one thing that oddly didn’t clash with his arrogance, likely yet another holdover. Vice knew that as a trauma surgeon a few seconds’ delay could easily mean the death of a patient. As a second tone chimed over the intercom, he was reminded that now the delay could mean his death. In two minutes the hangar’s airlock would open, whether or not he was suited up and in his cockpit. Cost-effectiveness indeed.

Reaching the TIE that was to be his for the duration of the mission, Lucifer quickly slipped into the flightsuit that was waiting for him and scampered up the ladder to drop into the spherical control center that could likely serve as his tomb. At least the Interceptors were obscenely quick, and combined with his keen reflexes, he was confident that he would make it through the mission unscathed if he flew smart. He couldn’t die anyway. He had far too much left undone. Fitting on and sealing the hideous black helmet he was forced to wear if he wished to breathe and keep his the moisture in and around his eyes from freezing, he adjusted the facemask and ran the preflight checks.

Minutes later he was admiring the lovely view of the Inquisitor’s outer hull as he fell into formation. The other pilots fell in as well, none of them nearly as green as the cadet. He was sure many of his graduating classmates, off on whatever assignments they’d been given, seized the first opportunity to pull some reckless stunt before actually readying themselves for orders in some idiotic attempt to impress their superiors. Lucifer knew better, and had no desire to goof around anyway. If this led to combat, which a large part of him sincerely hoped it would due to the opportunity it would provide, he would show the other pilots what he could do. Flexing his fingers as he gripped the controls, he awaited the commander’s orders.

[Constance Bravil]

(( Time jump for great justice, also less boredom! ))

Confinement in a snubfighter cockpit for hours on end was an occupational hazard in Conner's line of work. Not that most new recruits anticipated this comprising most of their logged flight hours when they signed up to die for Dolomar. Even Renegade Squadron couldn't get out of running the occasional patrol mission, thanks to the blind machinations of Confederate bureaucracy. Every pilot learned tricks to keep themselves comfortable and alert during long periods of standing idle. Well, at least they do if they don't want to get blown to plasma in the first ambush of their careers.

Constance's method of choice today involved treating the situation as though it were a training sim, with her being the officer assigned to evaluate the participants' performance. Considering she was in command of a hastily assembled pick-up squadron, the shoe fit. This collection of twelve pilots--unimaginatively dubbed 'Red Squadron' for the task force--was an amalgamation of two regular squadrons who'd suffered heavy losses as of late, three singletons from other commands, and one rookie. Since the smooth operation of a starfighter group depended much on familiarity with your fellow pilots, this mission proved to be an exercise in adaptation for all involved.

So far, Commander Bravil didn't have many major complaints regarding anyone's performance. Red Eleven and Twelve, late of Gorgon Squadron, tended to be a bit sloppy in responding to maneuvers, but not so much that they endangered anyone else with their laxity. She'd relay the information on to their own Wing Commander though, for all the good it would do. If they hadn't shaped up by now, it was unlikely they'd snap to at this late a date. Sure, they invited their own deaths, but that wasn't Constance's concern.

The brightest spot in her evaluations was Red Five, the aforementioned rookie. Vice possessed the least amount of raw experience in the squadron, but you wouldn't know it from the way he handled his Interceptor. He might act a bit of the stuffed shirt on the ground, but there was no stiffness or hesitation in his reaction times. She'd already made the mental note to check up on the Flight Cadet's record. Talent like his should be rewarded.

So far they'd handled three different encounters with suspicious craft, none of them of particular note. There'd been the obligatory bluster on the Confederation end, followed by the swift capitulation of their targets. Vessels had been boarded, illegal cargo confiscated, and various ne'er-do-wells roughed up by military boarding parties. Pretty much SOP as far as Confederate marines go. They never seem able to resist the urge to through their weight around. So far, the starfighter contingent of the task group hadn't been required to do anything more than look threatening and keep their weapons hot.

When the next victim of the cruiser's interdiction field landed in her gunsights, though, Conner had a feeling this encounter wouldn't end as cleanly as the rest. For one thing, the Quasar Fire-class bulk cruiser possessed a great many more weapons than was standard on the model. Not enough to violate any Confederation laws, but more than sufficient to make her wary. She also noted increased hull amour plating around several vital areas, another indication that this vessel had been modified for combat rather than hauling freight. Then there were more ephemeral indications of danger, like the freezing feeling that coalesced in the pit of her stomach. That wasn't something she'd ever include in an official report, but she'd learned to listen to her instincts.

As she listened to the comm officer on the Inquisitor repeat the usual demands for compliance, Constance focused her Oppressor's scanners on the target vessel. She soon found the cruiser's cargo hold impenetrable to her starfighter's sensors, another indication that all was not as it appeared. Whatever this vessel--whose IFF transponder signal read as the Azure out of Taris--was up to, it boded ill for Dolomar's designs. "Eyes front, Reds," the Wing Commander transmitted over the squadron's assigned channel. "I have a bad feeling about this one. Assume attack formation Besh." In the silent void of space, the Interceptors lined themselves up in neat diamond formations with their flights, Reds Two through Four grouping on Conner's Oppressor.

Conner's abundance of caution soon turned out to be warranted, as the Azure's cargo compartment soon expelled a flurry of starfighters. The TIE Oppressor's onboard AI identified them as X- and A-wings, favored snubfighters of the rebels. Angler's conscience promptly checked out of her head, unwilling to shoulder the upcoming burden. "Engage at will. Stay with your flight leads." No sooner had she given the order than she pushed the Oppressor's engines to full throttle, beginning a run towards the Quasar Fire-class cruiser which was the source of all the trouble. "Two, Three, Four, cover me. I'm going to try to disable the Azure's engines."

(( Does Conner manage to get in a successful bombing run on the Alliance vessel? If so, does she manage to damage its hyperdrive? Do her escort Interceptors take down any insurgent starfighters? ))

[Lysander Odakota]

((The bombing run is successful, and the hyperdrives are crippled, leaving the Azure dead in space except for her sublight engines. The defending Alliancers lose a couple of A-wing pilots and one of the X-wing pilots goes EV, taking him out of the fight as well. However, the Commander's wingmate, Red Twp, gets vaped in return. At least the Confederation doesn't seem to wail over casualties too much, so long as they're winning. Constance needs to watch her own back now.))

[Lucifer Vice]

While no verbal complaints were forthcoming, Lucifer was not overly pleased with his designation. Of course the entire squadron had been saddled with a name that was neither accurate in describing any facet of them nor invoking much fear or respect. Red Squadron indeed. Ridiculous. Furthermore, despite being assigned as Red Five, he was denied the position the fifth starfighter traditionally took as leader of two flight. Of course it was logical given how green he was, and beyond impressing the Wing Commander he had no real ambitions for leadership, but raised in a sort of noble class, he had grown accustomed to subtle insults under polite masks. To him, this denial was a slap in the face.

Thinking bitterly to himself how no fool handed the designation Red Five was ever likely to do anything of consequence, Lucifer nevertheless let his dissatisfaction float to the back of his mind as the mission progressed, not letting it affect his performance. It was not terribly surprising to learn that all his instructors (one might call them indoctrinators) at the academy had flat out lied when they spoke of how thrilling and glorious every moment sitting in a fighter would be. This endless patrolling was mind-numbingly dull, so much so that every ship they encountered had Vice fervently hoping the pitiful fools would try something simply to break the monotony.

Such wishing only led to more disappointment as the lowlifes invariably submitted and apologized, readily allowing the officers aboard to inspect and seize whatever they wished. Such pitiful behavior watered the seed of disdain the young cadet had for sentient life, though the bullying of his superiors also did nothing to inspire any faith. Those who had power at any given moment used those who didn't in any way they wished, in turn causing their victims to then go and abuse whoever was below them. The galaxy in a nutshell. Thoughts such as these were not uncommon, and the despair they evoked was warded off only by thoughts of his father and the vengeance he would claim. Somewhere deep down, he realized that by following such a course he was only perpetuating what he hated so much about the galaxy, and that knowledge lumped him right along with everything else in the pile of things he despised. Still, his bloodthirst gave him purpose, and so he avoided looking too deeply at himself.

Self-reflection wasn't healthy, so he told himself, Lucifer much preferring times when his mind had to be actively focused on something else. Thus as they approached the fourth potential threat to the grand Confederate way of life he actually felt some gratitude that the thing took his attention off his own introspection. No instinctual foreboding assaulted him as it did his commander, yet sharp eyes still picked up on all the clear warning signs the obviously combative ship showed. Commander Bravil's voice over the com had him immediately responding, his fighter moving into position even though he placed little stock in feelings. "About time, my ass is cramping." Red Eleven. Lucifer actually agreed with the sentiment, but having someone state it so brashly had his eyes rolling. Moments later those eyes narrowed as his grip tightened momentarily on his controls before relaxing back into a comfortable hold. Alert and ready, he watched the enemy ships flood out of the Azure.

At Bravil's order the second flight leaped ahead, taking a wider angle in hopes of drawing some of the fighters off Red One's attack run on the mothership. In order to keep him from the lead position, the entire formation had been reversed, Red Eight taking lead while Lucifer sat in the back, guarding Red Six and to a lesser degree Red Seven. Not three seconds after they'd began moving his com rattled at him again, this time Red Six ordering him to switch positions. There was nothing subtle about this slap, the Flight Officer claiming he didn't want "some wet behind the ears whelp" guarding his back. Dutifully moving ahead as Red Six fell back, Vice rapidly switched off his com so no one would hear the "Kriffing, condescending ass," he spat. Switching the com back on, he calmly added "Yes sir."

Following Red Eight's lead out and to the side, Lucifer held his fire even after a flight of X-wings had been engaged. To a man used to the precision of a scalpel, the thought of simply holding down his trigger in a "run and gun" style was unnatural and frankly barbaric. No, he flew patiently, waiting until an enemy was within his sights before firing off a few rounds of his quad laser cannons and keeping his eyes open for a next target. As his flight circled back he caught the series of explosions that was Red One dismantling the Azure's hyperdrive, as well as Red Two's final moments. The Confederation seemed to be doing well, though he couldn't tell where the third flight of Interceptors had gotten to. The first flight had only lost one and his unit was still complete.

That didn't last. In retaliation for the hounding they'd given the X-wings, a flight of A-wings was now hot on his flight's tail. They were impressively agile, surely just as nimble as the Interceptors. And they have shields and life support. Suddenly quite glad he was no longer at the rear of the unit, a flash or orange behind him had him glancing over his shoulder in time to see one A-wing emerge from the small cloud that had lately been Red Six. Despite the imminent danger and the supposed loss to his side, one corner of Vice's mouth quirked up slightly.

"Red Six is gone," he reported, keeping his tone as neutral as it had been when acknowledging orders, "They're right on top of us." For the moment he held formation, following Red Eight's evasive maneuvers, but growing concerned that doing so was far too easy. The A-wings couldn't have been having much more trouble staying right behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a second ball of fire erupt, just off his port side. This time no malicious smile accompanied his "Oh, lovely. Seven too." Straightening out a bit and hitting his accelerator at full blast, Lucifer calmly addressed his sole remaining flightmate. "Red Eight, follow my lead." If he left it up to that vapebait they were both dead.

Pulling up hard, Lucifer cut his engines completely and hit the forward inertial dampeners, Making an impossibly tight upward turn and then stopping entirely. It was a risky venture; hanging motionless made him and his fellow Interceptor quite the easy targets. Still cutting the forward momentum had let them make a much sharper turn , and while they had halted their motion forward, that same momentum would leave them rotating and for a second would put their canons right in line with the A-wings as they tried to pursue, their engines still firing and making their own upward curve far wider. A split second before pressing his own triggers he gave the order to fire, ensuring Red Eight wouldn't miss the opportunity. Letting loose with all four laser canons, he hoped it would be enough to take out the A-wings. Regardless, as soon as the moment passed he was opening wide his accelerator again, needing to rebuild his momentum quickly if he didn't want some other rebel pilot coming along to pick him off.

((How successful is Vice's maneuver? Are all four pursuing A-wings taken out? Do both Interceptors survive?))

[Lysander Odakota]

((It's quite successful, leaving three of the A-wings as so much space shrapnel and the fourth goes limping off, wounded and probably out of the fight. Both Interceptors do survive, though Doc does spend a moment or two thinking he's gone EV, his death flashing before his eyes on a close call.))

[Constance Bravil]

When it came to furthering your chances of survival in a firefight, it was all about developing the right coping mechanisms. You couldn't let thoughts of your potential imminent demise distract you, lest they become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And don't you dare take the time to consider the morality of your actions--or the utter lack thereof--in the heat of battle. Not unless you wanted to end up a digitized statistic on some ice-blooded flag officer's datapad. It was kill or be killed, simple as that. The law of the jungle, dragged into space and given energy weapons.

After eleven years in the black, Conner was a master at achieving a state of complete emotional detachment. Her state of mind as she jinked her borrowed Oppressor through the hail of suppressive fire spat out by the Azure approached the serene. One part of her brain calculated the precise trajectory for her bombing run, while another cluster of synapses kept track of the telemetry fed into her screens regarding her current comrades. The loss of Red Two registered on her consciousness as a mere blip in the data, a consequence barely worthy of note. It's not like these were her fellow Renegades, after all. Just mere Confederate cannon fodder, simple to replace and easy to forget.

Even as she dove into her strafing vector across the Quazar Fire-class vessel's aft, Commander Bravil took automatic note of the commentary transmitted between the pilots in Red Squadron. Seriously, no one at High Command could come up with a better name than that? Buy a fracking dictionary, for crying out loud! Six's demand to switch positions with his wingman brought a brief frown to Conner's face. Denigrating another member of your squadron was bad form, to say the least. Sure, Vice was green as grass, but every pilot started out that way. Only way to grow out of it was to get shot at a bunch of times and not end up sucking vacuum.

Pushing the starfighter's maneuverability tolerances to the limit, Constance hugged the hull of her latest prey. Quick compressions of her index fingers released half the Oppressor's payload of concussion missiles, each nuclear warhead precision targeted for maximum effect. Sure, she could've done even more damage if she'd blown her whole load during the run, but there wasn't the need. Besides, just because they only faced one Alliance cruiser at present didn't mean more might not show up. The 'dogs' tended towards the unpredictable, possessing a sheer ingenuity of strategy the smug and self-assured Dolomarian leadership lacked. Necessity was the mother of invention and all that jazz.

"Red Six is gone. They're right on top of us."

"Noted," came the calm response from Red Five's temporary CO. The Wing Commander wasn't about to get all up in arms about the rookie losing his partner. She was his squadron leader, not his babysitter. The fact he still breathed and his wingmate didn't said something about Vice's ability to look after himself. Talent couldn't beat experience, but it did help fill in some of the gaps.

"Oh, lovely. Seven too. Red Eight, follow my lead."

This development inspired some professional interest on Conner's part. The Cadet's behavior so far had been strictly by the book, devoid of personal flair, as befitted his bottom of the totem pole status. He'd taken the public demeaning of his abilities by the late Red Six without so much as a quaver of reaction in his tone. Now he took the lead, usurping the authority of the other higher ranked remnant of Two Flight. One portion of the Commander's attention shifted towards monitoring the success of Five's stunt. He was risking a lot, dumping the Interceptor's momentum like that. Staying still in a starfighter without shields was the metaphorical equivalent of flashing your ass at a sniper--gutsy, but potentially fatal.

"Three and Four, what's your status?" The tone of Conner's inquiry remained mild, almost paradoxically relaxed. The tighter the dogfight became, the further Constance retreated from her feelings. One would have to be watching their sensor screens to know she was in the midst of pirouetting about the streams of plasma spewing from a pair of A-wings as she spoke. You'd never know the Oppressor lacked the maneuverability of the Defender from the way she was making it dance right now.

"Picking off Four's tail," Three spat out, his own voice tight with strain as he fought to make his targeting lock stick on a persistent X-wing. Soon a gusty sigh of relief rasped across the open channel, in sync with a silent flower of fire off to port. "Got the bastard!"

Having lured one of the Alliance vessels closure by feigning damage to her port side, the Corellian surprised her adversary with a snap speed tumble end over end. The instant the A-wing centered in her sights, Conner opened up with her laser cannons. The wedge-shaped craft split apart into neat halves before it also expired in a flash of glory. "Another one down." No triumph to the announcement, only acknowledgment of a fact.

A short glance to her monitor screens showed the transponder IDs of Five and Eight still showing strong, whereas population of hostiles in their immediate vicinity had dropped sharply. Right on cue, Eight's peevish voice cracked across the comm. "What the kriff do you think you're doing, kid?!"

I expected this. A thug by any other name remains just as predictable. "Pulling your ass out of the fire, Lieutenant." This was no warning volley across her subordinate's bow, but a precision shot to center mass of the other pilot's ego. Nothing but blessed silence reached Conner's ears for the next heartbeat. Within this short space of time she came to a decision: splitting the two of them would be in the best interests of the operation. "Five, you're with me. Eight, join up with Three Flight, Twelve's ash now."

"But, Commander--!"

"Stow it." The Wing Commander's voice turned cold as the void in an instant. As COs went, she tended towards tolerance, but there were still lines not to be crossed. You didn't argue with her orders in the middle of a firefight, ever. The woman currently known as Constance Bravil would have no qualms about cutting this insubordinate jackass off at the balls and leaving him to die if his backtalk threatened the survival of the remaining members of the squadron. Fortunately for said jackass, some semblance of intelligence asserted itself in his brain and intervened to shut his trap.

Considering the matter closed, Conner wheeled her Oppressor about in a tight parabola of a course, giving Four a clean kill shot at the remaining A-wing hassling her. "The rebels are regrouping," she continued as though nothing were amiss. To her mind, there wasn't. "Seems they're about to make a run at the boarding shuttles. Let's show them the error of their ways." The Renegade punched up her ship's acceleration, hot in pursuit of the retreating Alliance fighters. "Pick a target and stick with it until it's down." After checking her scopes to make sure the rookie had matched her course, Constance dove into the fray once more.

(( Does Conner get to vape the first rebel in her sights before they know what hit them? ))

[Lysander Odakota]

((Naturally, though the remainder do wise up fast so as not to explode quite so easily. It is effective in breaking up their regrouping efforts, though.))