The frame of Keller's "Loki" rattled as he throttled up to hasten the process of acceleration, this particular ship had begun to not only show age but reflect slight negligence in terms of maintenance procedure. It had been passed down from mentor to pupil, inheritance handed down to the boy from a veteran of the cause that drew breath no more. If he was honest with himself, Keller half expected to die here.
A boy all caught up in the pursuit of Justice, abandoning the asylum provided beyond the border to come home and protect his fellow man from having to endure the same abuse as his family. A straightforward mission, or so it would have seemed. The Rheinland underworld was remarkably complex and the constant political posturing bolstered by effective propaganda meant that Keller sided with the Hessians and vowed to fight the good fight. This impromptu contractual obligation proved to be rather difficult to adhere to when he was more often than not being ordered to intercept or even extort what he considered countrymen. A particularly proud train captain fought back when one of the red wingmen perhaps became too enthusiastic in describing how he intended to administer justice on the ship's crew if payment was not rendered. His obsession with vocally detailing a mental image meant that he'd neglected to take note of the turret that had turned and put his ship firmly in the line of fire. At least he died instantaneously and was spared suffering. When the second in command took charge and ordered Keller to fire on the commercial vessel and make them pay for killing one of the pack, he made the worst decision possible. He did nothing. The target of opportunity limped away missing several cargo pods, but with all hands having escaped wrath. Keller could not say the same, not that there was much to be said at all when a particularly frustrated man twice ones size decides to apply his helmet onto the face of a stuttering and insubordinate child that could not do as asked. It certainly made residing among comrades awkward at best, with Keller likely to receive continual aggression for his meekness in the field. The Bundschuh of Bruchsal considered it the smallest act of charity to allow the stray dog to use their base as a refuge. Likely the only reason he's alive in the moment and hurling towards danger with reckless abandon, ignoring the warnings of target locks.
The Military would not abandon Dresden without giving their opponents a bloody nose. They were in the process of doing just that, having managed to ambush a supply line which simply could not muster the necessary escorts to repel the flight of four fighters that had committed to gutting anything bearing a Hessian transponder. The dromedary and its surviving escort broadcasted a distress frequency, to which this boy that had already proven himself to be a reliable liability, was the sole respondent. He did accomplish one thing, even if he failed to inflict any damage on one of the Military fighters that had fallen behind only marginally. He had their full attention, with all four fighters turning to pursue him and almost instantaneously causing a breach of his hull. It did however render the more aggressive of their formation open to retribution, and that much they would receive from a cantankerous dromedary and a sabre missing its secondary engine, bleeding an intricate trail of fuel as the surviving escort and its charge retaliated. They would terminate two of the Military fighters despite the critical damage their ships had sustained prior to Keller's messy and anxious intervention. And the boy felt brief respite, as if they had triumphed. Only to quickly realize that the two remaining Military fighters tired of chasing him and had turned around to tie up the persistent loose ends. He was alone here now, with one of the hostile ships on a direct intercept course and the other closing in from the rear. If nearly blacking out every few seconds would not kill him now, then the fighter that intended to charge right for him certainly would.
For the first time in his life, the boy committed to a decisive action and pitched the nose of his ship up, the guns followed with only minor protest. He fired early and generous, spraying the space in front of him consistently enough to cripple the shields of the oncoming fighter. But they returned the favor as well. The absolute smallest margin of error allowed Keller to score a hit on the fuselage, he'd torn into a fuel line and set their engine on fire. But he hadn't given himself a sizable enough window to pull out of the way, unable to avoid the smoldering wreckage that hurled at him with lethal intent. A sickening groan came from both ship and pilot as Keller lost his left wing and had been thrown into a violent spin. As circumstances should have it, the pursuing pilot expected his wingman to pepper such a clumsy and indecisive pilot without contest. Only to be surprised by the sudden appearance of a wounded but mostly intact Hessian fighter that he had not anticipated needing to pull away from at this angle. Attempting to do so only resulted in contact with his wingman's still mobile wreck, crippling the shield barrier and directing him right into the engines of Keller's fighter with a muffled crash.
The skirmish was over, albeit with little in the way of grace. A weary Keller woke from a concussion induced slumber as brief as his hopes of being able to plot a potent intercept course. A cursory glance at his surroundings revealed a fighter quite literally glued to the exhaust chambers of his ship. His engine system report several key failures, chief of which was that one of the units had failed due to how irresponsibly he had burned into action. He had fried one, certainly. But the other, the one lodged into the canopy of his wounded opponent. It could still be restarted. If one moment has ever stuck, it was likely this. There was no stuttering, no hesitation on the basis of ideological superiority or an attempt to hold onto abstract morality. Keller put the remaining engine into a full burn with a deft hand motion, frying an already battered man to a crisp and ripping himself free. Free for the next 1000 standard units until the other engine failed as well and necessitated a tow.
Though when his request for a tow was finally answered, it came with an unexpected level of preparation and readiness. And the course? Vogtland.
The Hessian people where only beginning to crawl from the void of disarray that the past two years had brought them. Generalmajor Jens Deher was missing, and no attempts to fill his throne were met with the type of "approval" the Hessian people looked for.
But that was all about to change.
Vogtland's overseeing HQ had a new hostess, and a new batch of obedient senior officers. Some were young and new, others were smart and old. The rest of them? Dead.
The Vánagandr as many knew her, for others the "Fenris", was running off pure adrenaline. There was little time, every second needed to have meaning, haste went without saying - otherwise she too would be replaced. Data purging was a tricky job, but it was also one she couldn't completely entrust to anyone else. Her parents were gone, so that wasn't much to think of. But her son, her time MIA was a gap that needed to be erased completely.
1 Hour later.
Papers were scrambled all over the room, some were in ashes scattered about the room. The room resembled a command center and a lounge, only for the highest ranking officers in the Army. There was a beautiful overlook of the indoor city below and a few other accessories that came with pristine vibe. The lights were out, the only light source in the room besides a few illumiated monitors were the pair of blue eyes hidden at the edge of the room.
The General sat down in a corner where the glass and the wall met, arms crossed over knees, a gun in one hand and a PDA in the other. Exhausted, sweat had cleaned out the gel in her hair, and the new uniform already needed a trip to the wash. Stress eroded the emotionless persona slowly, which became more and more apparent as the glowing iris got brighter and stretched to the neighboring capillaries.. Albert Rafnklesson, her closest ally and partner, stood in the center of the room looking down at the mess of a new "leader".
Everything's in place, if anyone refuses to follow the new chain of command I'm going to enforce it quite clearly. Said the General.
This position is already changing you... are we still friends, General? Responded Albert.
I'll let you call me by my first name if you let me call you by yours, sound fair enough, Albert?
You're going to need a battalion at your beck and call if you want to survive. I can't fight everyone off for you, and the Fenriswolf can't solve issues the way she's used to.
You've already gotten an e-mail about that. There's one person in mind that's close by already.
You're my superior now, you're technically everyone's superior now. You were at my side on Tangier, so I'll be at yours, but do you trust yourself to go forth with this? You can't exactly turn back.
Trust my rage.
I can can temporarily gather a few for you, but I can't deliver orders without...
Congratulations, Major Rafnklesson, may you do the Volksrevolution good service.
Good to see that rage doesn't control you yet, Annabelle. Get some rest while you can, things are only going to get more difficult from here on out.
This was pleasant in at least some fashion, having been put through his paces and forced to fight for his life was by no means without physical taxation and Keller was incurring quite a bit of it. Everything hurt but mostly his head. He'd have likely suffered a fatal injury without his helmet. Catching a glimpse of his reflection as the ship towing him dragged on into the nebula, he couldn't help but reflect on the look in his eyes, grim focus behind a woefully cracked visor.
He couldn't help but pass out again once the combat adrenaline had worn off and the pain truly set in without hindrance. And only the sudden jolt of being slung into place on a vacant landing pad as the tow came to a halt woke him. It almost felt like he'd die and had woken up in an alternate life. But that was likely too philosophical of an outlook for a recent concussion victim. He was honestly expecting to get wrenched out of his seat and beaten by his former wingmen, but there was an absence of the typical curses and audible aggression. In fact there was no noise at all, things were suspiciously quiet and almost ceremonious. A slim silhouette, likely warped from the ill fashioned protective glass on the left side of his cockpit attempted to open the canopy but to no avail. It was jammed shut and necessitated the combined effort of two additional, and quite burly, male figures in flight suits. But once the broken metal screamed open, Keller flinched as a hand rapidly shot in his direction, before taking note of the fact that he was being offered help to get up while all the safety harnesses were being undone. When he proved shaky on his feet he was promptly given support, but he was still a little too afraid to say anything. "She wants to see him. I'll take him there, but I'm doubtful he's feeling lucid right now." It sounded like a woman making that comment. "I can still sh-shoot straight." Judging by the accompanying laugh, his response had amused them. But at the very least he'd proved two basic things, he wasn't mentally damaged from potential head injury and he could even stand unsupported, though walking could only be achieved with a noticeable limp.
He didn't need to be instructed to follow, he understood that he needed to and likely had no choice in the matter. He'd come this far, killed three people to date. There was no going back now.
*Beep* The sound echoed through Heinrich's head repeatedly, as it cleared up she flinched awake. Quickly snapping up and turning off the alarm.
*General, you have 27 unread messages, and 1 missed call, source: ALPHA TEAM LEAD*
Fuck I need to change that. She thought to herself as she grabbed the PDA, peaking through the lists of messages, looking for one in particular. A new private garrison would be useless unless there was a set training course, more importantly they needed instructors, environmental conditions., funding - an entire set.
Fortunately, this wouldn't be too difficult for the young General, ranking officer funds were set aside and stockpiled from generation to generation for private operations. Nothing on the same scale, but definitely something similar. The training course for SOA's ALPHA team could be reconfigured slightly to host larger numbers, while not compromising too much on areas that made it stick out from the rest of the subdivision. Instructors were set in play, and Tangier would have enough training ground for those selected. The piloting course underwent a serious revamp however, the architect of that? One could guess pretty easily. All that was left were candidates, physical fitness, appearance, nationality, family, there was a long list of blank lines to be filled. The first batch, like that of any special operations division, would probably get some leniency though.
The rest was junk, some text about a new warship being deployed to Muspelheim - "Kassel". Along with it were threats from the new Core "Emperor" Erik Nodviet, vowing to personally destroy Hessian strongholds in Valhalla; Bretonian NAP pleas; Reutlingen mining station dominating the mineral market in Niflheim; a "Silver Reaver" wanting to meet and re-lease equipment (how the hell did that hit a DM?), and also - some dismissed warnings on Valhalla's Red Giant stability. Nothing really worth looking at.
*General, Oberkommando representatives: Brigadegeneral Draay, Direktor Dresner, and Major Stein will arrive in 1 hour.*
10 minutes later...
The shower was refreshing, as was the new Uniform. The rest of the bedroom was a mess for the time being but that didn't matter. All that was left to do was one thing...
Call... ALPHA TEAM LEAD. Shaking her head in slight embarrassment as the call sent out.
*Calling ALPHA TEAM LEAD*
Albert.
General, the first 20 are getting orders, two of them are in off shape. One's arrived on Vogtland, he's the runaway. His record doesn't hold much, but he's received some conduct warnings. Most of the others have nothing, it's just this one. He's also quite young.
How old?
18.
I'll oversee him a bit more closely, he might follow on easier. Where is he now?
Cell B infirmary, deck... 19.
Make sure the rest arrive on Tangier, I'm going to go look at this one. What's his name?
When it became clear that he was being taken to an infirmary, Keller finally just let himself turn limp and drift into quite possibly the briefest nap. When he managed to throw his eyes back open he wasn't quite sure what to expect. But he'd been laid out on a somewhat clean bed after having been given a healthy dose of painkillers and a dizzying assortment of drugs that the crackpot medical staff used to keep combat pilots relatively alive. He pulled himself up into a seated position and noticed that the room was empty, at least for now. But there was an audible thump of approaching footsteps just outside the closed door to this ward. He was instinctively tense upon hearing it and held his anxiety at bay for the moment, at least until visual confirmation of who it might be.
Dressed in an operational dress uniform to attract minimum attention, Heinrich navigated her way past the jumpy and occupied nurses running from room to room. The infirmaries on Vogtland never slept, there never a shortage of wounded or injured personnel. From station to station, if there was one place you could find someone or something - it was in the infirmary.
Heinrich had made countless trips from injuries herself, so being back here for someone who was close to "in her position" was a really touching trip down memory lane. Or so it felt for the moment.
Wearing no blouse, just cargo pants, a t-shirt tucked in, and boots - the nurses naturally resorted to waving her off as she approached the room where Keller was being kept. That would be dismissed in an instant once she waved her ID in their faces though. The show of authority changed the vibe of the entire area for a moment.
Do you have a hard copy of his medical and historical records on hand?
Ja, we do General.
Send them too me, how long until he can walk?
It may be a day or less, if you wish to transfer him we could ready him for stasis. He's... fit enough for that. There was a hint of hestitation in her words, they all seemed a little shook. Probably just from the rank being present, it really sent an empowering mental note to Heinrich.
No, I'm going to speak to him. I'll let you know if he needs anything further. That is of course, if he's fit for a discussion now.
He is.
Very well.
Pushing the curtain over head and making her way inside, Heinrich immediately fixed her eyes on the wounded Keller. He seemed aware and unaware, phased out and focused on something, but conscious of what was going on around him.
Rough day? Hmm? She spoke a bit softly as she walked around the bed and sat down. Still with eyes fixed on him. The Bretonian accent grabbed his attention, she was speaking without faking the Rheinland accent, something she did commonly to fit in.
When he realized who'd entered the room he'd try quite desperately to stand and show the respect the rank she held required. This would go as well as expected and almost result in Keller falling flat on his face if not for Heinrich's personal intervention to keep him seated. "It was s-stressful. But I managed. I'm s-sure, there's people that have to deal with worse." His stuttering rendered anything he said comedic because of the childish nature often associated to it. He was too nervous to say much else, feeling that excess chatter might seem disrespectful. Though at the same time he felt that he had to be courteous. "Do you need s-something? I wasn't expecting visitors, es-especially not someone like you." It occurred to him that he felt both incredibly honored and equal parts scared. Something he didn't think possible.
A bit of disrespect for authority, but he was under the influence of drugs, it didn't really bother Heinrich all that much.
I do need something from you, it's very important. She continued with the filterless accent, moving the chair over closer next to the bed. She leaned back, pulling out a PDA and crossed one leg over the other. A little over-casual for such a high rank.
Where are you from Lukas? She asked, still scrolling through the PDA to check any other mail, Ablert had already assembled the candidates to Tangier. So far there were no issues, just one person left to catch up.
A simple question that entailed an equally simple answer. "I-I'm a native, born on Berlin. My family used to live here too, but they s-sought asylum elsewhere." He had to wonder why she seemed to want to know this, he didn't dare question directly and could only hope she would explain voluntarily. It was only slightly reassuring that she was behaving in a casual manner, so at least it didn't seem like he'd done anything wrong or provided reason for further 'disciplinary' action.
In the back of his mind he was deeply concerned that his ship might be beyond the point of repair, he knew it had sustained critical damage due to his own negligence. But it was only through the grace of being so terrible that his assailants could not have anticipated what would follow. The anxiety cut away his grogginess in layers, the situation was becoming increasingly lucid and he could now keep his eyes open consistently, he tried to anticipate what she might need but he had next to no clue of what it might be.
You ran away and came back, back to us. Heinrich replied as she continued scrolling through the PDA, reading different pages/notes/emails.
Do you serve with us because you believe in the cause, or simply because you don't have a sense of direction right now? Bending people to her whim was a quality she had begun to polish. Slowly, but steadily, the need to manipulate those under her rose exponentially ever since she took an officer position. She kept one eye on Keller's movements, waiting to see which answer he would pick. Either way, it was one she could use.