Monsoon
New member
What is going on down there?
Rhetorical question. Gilgamesh had gone rogue and now everything would fall on his head. That was the punishment for breaking rank. If the plan were followed to a T, even if there were catastrophic failure, they could authentically say they'd tried their best with the tools they had. Instead, now, they'd never know whether the initial move would have worked. They could only deal in projections and models. It was Tijuana all over again.
Airborne. 200 knots. That's over 200 miles per hour. Changing trajectory, so not any kind of ballistic. T-03 has entered the game.
Monsoon was cool under pressure. He had to be. He'd been designed for it. No stress too much, no danger too imposing. He had aerial combat experience, but he wasn't much of a dogfighter. More of a light up the sky with reckless abandon type, fry everything around him. That was how he'd taken out the so-called People's Hummingbird back in '24. The Torres years were good years, despite what anyone had to say about them. And his race was far from run. This was his arena, where he thrived. He truly had no fear - or if he did, he was utterly desensitized to it, so that it might not even exist.
He'd dealt with AA before. Getting a missle shot at him was worse than a flying human. He'd shot it out of the sky. This would be no different.
Monsoon looked around, breathing deep. The bogey had vanished. Per orders, he'd begun gaining altitude, clouds coalescing around his form. But that had the potential to obscure his senses as well as the enemy's.
Then, the shriek. It sounded like feedback at first; Monsoon winced through the pain, face contorting into a brutal grimace. He instinctively lifted a hand up to the side of his temple, but didn't lose focus.
"Got a - problem here - YEARGH-!" he gasped, the air forced from his lungs as a formless shape crashed into him from down and to his left, forcing the wind from his lungs in a brutal aerial tackle. He spun head over heels downward, through the clouds - just as he did so, a thunderhead burst, a brilliant flash illuminating the sky.
When he forced his eyes open, he could see that he was nearly level with the tops of the tallest skyscrapers. Not good. Way too low.
Pain throbbed in his left arm - maybe a fracture - ? He couldn't tell and it didn't matter. What mattered was catching himself.
The poncho spread around him like a billowing cape as his figure righted itself, feet towards the ground, the horrifying tumble to his death averted. Mission control crackled in his ears. Would they even be able to hear him?
He tapped his headset, then realized there was a spiderweb crack through the supposedly shatterproof goggles. At least there wasn't glass in his eyes. The holoprojection of his surroundings flickered and faded out.
"Be advised. T-Computer's down," he muttered, tasting blood on the inside of his lips. He'd not been hit like that since boot camp. "Switching to manual."
With one aggressive pull, he yanked the headset off, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. They adjusted quickly. He was born for this.
He unclipped the ox mask too, letting it fall down the side of his breast. He could use that to speak if needed. The comm in his ear was still going, but the ringing hadn't subsided. It was all noise now. Mission control might as well have fallen away with the thermal gogs. It was just him and T-03. Nobody could hear him now.
"Let's dance."
Lightning coiled from hyperdense clouds forming at the tips of his fingers. Miniature storms roiled around him. The bogey wouldn't get a second shot.
He wasn't going by visual contact anymore. He was remotely viewing everything around him by aerial pressure. The moment something flew towards him, red light or no, he'd fire by instinct the moment it breached perimeter. 300 million volts of instant death. They were about to learn why he was a
Rhetorical question. Gilgamesh had gone rogue and now everything would fall on his head. That was the punishment for breaking rank. If the plan were followed to a T, even if there were catastrophic failure, they could authentically say they'd tried their best with the tools they had. Instead, now, they'd never know whether the initial move would have worked. They could only deal in projections and models. It was Tijuana all over again.
Airborne. 200 knots. That's over 200 miles per hour. Changing trajectory, so not any kind of ballistic. T-03 has entered the game.
Monsoon was cool under pressure. He had to be. He'd been designed for it. No stress too much, no danger too imposing. He had aerial combat experience, but he wasn't much of a dogfighter. More of a light up the sky with reckless abandon type, fry everything around him. That was how he'd taken out the so-called People's Hummingbird back in '24. The Torres years were good years, despite what anyone had to say about them. And his race was far from run. This was his arena, where he thrived. He truly had no fear - or if he did, he was utterly desensitized to it, so that it might not even exist.
He'd dealt with AA before. Getting a missle shot at him was worse than a flying human. He'd shot it out of the sky. This would be no different.
Monsoon looked around, breathing deep. The bogey had vanished. Per orders, he'd begun gaining altitude, clouds coalescing around his form. But that had the potential to obscure his senses as well as the enemy's.
Then, the shriek. It sounded like feedback at first; Monsoon winced through the pain, face contorting into a brutal grimace. He instinctively lifted a hand up to the side of his temple, but didn't lose focus.
"Got a - problem here - YEARGH-!" he gasped, the air forced from his lungs as a formless shape crashed into him from down and to his left, forcing the wind from his lungs in a brutal aerial tackle. He spun head over heels downward, through the clouds - just as he did so, a thunderhead burst, a brilliant flash illuminating the sky.
When he forced his eyes open, he could see that he was nearly level with the tops of the tallest skyscrapers. Not good. Way too low.
Pain throbbed in his left arm - maybe a fracture - ? He couldn't tell and it didn't matter. What mattered was catching himself.
The poncho spread around him like a billowing cape as his figure righted itself, feet towards the ground, the horrifying tumble to his death averted. Mission control crackled in his ears. Would they even be able to hear him?
He tapped his headset, then realized there was a spiderweb crack through the supposedly shatterproof goggles. At least there wasn't glass in his eyes. The holoprojection of his surroundings flickered and faded out.
"Be advised. T-Computer's down," he muttered, tasting blood on the inside of his lips. He'd not been hit like that since boot camp. "Switching to manual."
With one aggressive pull, he yanked the headset off, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. They adjusted quickly. He was born for this.
He unclipped the ox mask too, letting it fall down the side of his breast. He could use that to speak if needed. The comm in his ear was still going, but the ringing hadn't subsided. It was all noise now. Mission control might as well have fallen away with the thermal gogs. It was just him and T-03. Nobody could hear him now.
"Let's dance."
Lightning coiled from hyperdense clouds forming at the tips of his fingers. Miniature storms roiled around him. The bogey wouldn't get a second shot.
He wasn't going by visual contact anymore. He was remotely viewing everything around him by aerial pressure. The moment something flew towards him, red light or no, he'd fire by instinct the moment it breached perimeter. 300 million volts of instant death. They were about to learn why he was a
BLU-7.