Function over Form

[Jayce]

LSF Senior Agent "Tracer" sat idly at the desk in his ready room. The "Willow Grove" was moored at Chesapeake, due for a refit revolving around the installation of the new Hedgehog missile defense grid. The project required far more paperwork than the Agent had originally anticipated. Delivery reports, performance reports, acquisition requests, funding sign-off sheets, it was overwhelming. The young man glared at the monitor on his desk, reviewing simulations of the new tracking system to be installed on his ship. His eyes burned slightly, lids heavy as if made of lead. Tracer was tired, but that was nothing new. It never once showed when he was on patrol, or in a briefing, or merely chatting with his crew, but it was there all the same, as it had been for years. Fingertips tapped against the desk to a slow rhythm, his breathing long and slow. The hum of the powerplant echoed quietly through the deck plates, singing a hushed lullaby. It took only a few quiet moments for the exhaustion to wrap around his body like a warm blanket, gently ushering him off to sleep.

The Rhino shuddered and vibrated as the engines were pushed far, far beyond their normal limits, and yet the infected ship trailing behind still gained distance, until those dreaded words echoed through the cockpit. "Incoming missile." It said, in a monotone voice, not at all concerned with the gravity of the situation. Tracer was slung forward against the pilot restraints as the vessel violently decelerated. He swung the freighter around, desperately searching for the auto-turret activation switch. It was pointless, however, as the Wraith rocketed towards him, and unleashed a volley of missiles that homed directly towards the bubble canopy. Tracer shut his eyes tight and grimaced, waiting for the moment to end.

It eventually did, and when he opened his eyes, the bridge of the Defiant-class gunboat "Menwith Hill" greeted them. The viewscreens were a veritable firestorm, Chimeras and Umibozus rocketed past, discharging deadly payloads in all directions. Silently in the background stood the familiar clouds and backdrop of the Shikoku system, Deshima station looming just a few kilometers away. In front of it was a more pressing matter, however: a Tokugawa-class battleship. The entire situation was a complete loss: Kempeitai operatives had managed to lay a trap for the quartet of Defiants, catching them in the sensor echoes and dead-zones near Deshima entirely by surprise. While the Kusarians weren't entirely keen on opening fire immediately, and simply demanded the LSF vessels to depart, they took less kindly to the "Bethesda" suffering critical engine failure just before entering the tradelane to Kepler. Rather than leaving the stricken vessel behind, Tracer ordered the remaining vessels back down the lanes, determined to bring their compatriots home. That was a mistake, and he was now coming to that realization, as a pair of Battle Razor antimatter cannons swiveled on their mounts aboard the Tokugawa, unleashing a wave of hellfire squarely at the Menwith Hill. The ship buckled and crumpled beneath his feet, bridge crew screaming and cursing as they were sucked out into the vastness of space, the would-be hero following not far behind. It was cold, he thought, in those last few moments before the void took hold.

Ever so cold. Tracer cursed the rationing caused by the lack of resources. No fuel could be wasted beyond the bare minimum to keep the crew of his ship, as well as Kodiak Research Station, alive. Without the resources of the Navy and the government in general, without their established supply lines, the Security Force in Alaska was thoroughly cut off. The Navy were well aware of this, and intended to take advantage of it at the earliest possible convenience. A general alarm sounded through the bridge as a hostile IFF appeared on the scanners of the Grove, piercing his ears like needles. The ship was almost on top of them, the cloud's sensor-scattering properties masking its approach. Tracer had only seconds to read the letters stencilled onto the hull plating near the bow. "LNS PLYMOUTH ROCK" was easily visible, illuminated by the plasma projectiles rocketing away from the Navy battlecruiser. The then-unshielded Grove took the first blow square on the chin, crumpling the knifelike bow so identifiable to the Interdictor. More weapons fire raked along the belly of his ship, then the side, slowly working up towards the bridge. With repairs still underway, and the engines offline, it was a one-sided fight. A few half-hearted attempts to return fire were made, but when the Plymouth Rock unleashed its coup de grâce, there was no more resistance. A pair of Apocalypse torpedoes nearly tore the ship clean in two, and the subsequent internal detonations finished the job. It all happened in slow-motion, Tracer's eyes following the heavy steel beam as it fell from the ceiling and pierced his chest, impaling the would-be traitor clean through. With luck, he thought, they'd tell his family it was a coup perpetrated by the director, and he had been mislead the whole way. Maybe they wouldn't be too angry, or disappointed. His vision swam as warm, thick blood trailed down the spear of iron, and soon it faded to black.

"Senior Agent Tracer, please report to the bridge."

The voice was startling, and the Agent nearly leapt from his seat.

He was alive.

And he was very, very tired.

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