"Critical Damage to Pilot. Please seek medical assistance immediately."

I'm flat on my back, writhing and clutching at my neck, as sickeningly warm blood pours from it. Red alerts flash on my HUD, but I don't need a computer to tell me I'm dying. A drop pod explodes over me, muffled by my helmet, while I'm deafened by the screams over my radio. Everything is too quiet and too loud at the same time.

I draw in a breath but get a lungful of deep red blood, and I lose more precious seconds hacking up my own throat. The pain is a dull roar but I know I'm in shock and that the worst is yet to come. My vision goes grey and a small part of my brain informs me that darker blood is deoxygenated and I realize I'm probably gonna die here, on a backwater planet, throat slit by a fucking IMC Grunt.

Hands grab my shoulder, pulling me up to look at the night sky. A Militia soldier looks down at me with wide eyes. His face is unscarred and he grips his rifle like he's afraid of it.

"A Pilot! I found a Pilot!" he yells, voice hoarse and strained. "She's hurt! Get a medic over-"

He stumbles back, clutching his chest, and I see clean-drilled holes leak red on his armor. My muscles jerk in an involuntary reflex to dive for cover as more fire pings off the rock shelf above, but hit nothing as the soldier falls to his knees and joins me on the ground.

Joins me… on the ground. Something's wrong with that, but I can't place it. I can only focus on the iron wall in my mind that blocks the pain and rising tide of hysteria.

A drone roars over the valley's ridge and floats over the retreating Militia line. "Attention Frontier citizens. You have been charged with trespassing on the property of the Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation," it blares in a canned voice.

A rocket streaks out from behind a hill and catches it in a fiery embrace, sending it spinning out of my vision. I blink as a wave of heat hits my face.

I have no time left to waste. I push myself forward and grab the soldier's pack and my weak fingers struggle to find the zipper. Blood drains onto my chest, trickling down through the cracks in my armor, and I feel the pressure on my neck decrease. My lungs instinctively draw in and I get some air instead of blood this time.

My vision shutters like a misaligned holoscreen and I stumble, aware of depth again. My jumpkit seems to be twenty pounds heavier but I clench my teeth and continue sifting through the soldier's pack. A grenade, several stray bullets and a photograph of some girl are all I find and the pit in my gut deepens, but then my trembling fingers find an extra medpatch stuffed in his boot.

I press its adhesive side to my throat as a clipped, controlled voice comes on the radio and says, "Pilot Melanine Riggs, this is callsign Advisor. Your Titan is prepping in Bay 5 of the Aurelius. Marking your HUD for drop."

'No!' I want to scream. 'Fuck no, send medical help! Pilot down!' Instead I barely manage a gurgle.

"EMPs in high atmosphere are disrupting our comms, so Titan ID Victor November 2577 will be dropping in shielded mode. Get there quick. IMC forces are moving west, back into the mountains."

Clouds pulse with light, scattering above me as orbital forces drop down the gravity well. They scream down past the ridges of cubed stone and I can't tell whether or not they're reinforcements or IMC.

I tap my radio and try to respond past the medpack, but the heat of the cauterization steals the air from my throat. At least I can breathe but now it's too fast. In and out. In and out. My tongue feels heavy and I can't speak and I'm cut off and I am certainly not fit to operate a Titan.

My radio crackles and I brace for the final, fatal words that I don't want to hear. "Pilot Riggs, prepare for Titanfa-" The line goes dead.

The sky lights up again, and a rolling boom rips the overcast cloud layer apart. I see a small dot of red blossom high in the sky and wink out. An alert on my HUD informs me that was the Aurelius. My comms explode as the rest of the Militia forces on Typhon let out a collective 'what the fuck.' They cut off as the EMP hits the atmosphere, leaving me in silence.

I guess the IMC ships got tired of slinging flak and started nuking shit.

The medkit lets out a beep and I realize that it's been done for a while. I haul myself off the ground, bracing for a headrush but getting none. At least the Militia still stocked the good drugs. I exhale once, then bring shaking fingers to my chin and slip them under the white plastic of the medkit.

A deep, knotted scar slants diagonally down my throat, the newly grown skin flaking off as I touch it. My helmet receives the medkit's report and I stare at the little flashing letters on the screen: 'User stabilized. Critical damage to larynx has rendered it unusable. Date until rehabilitation: not available.'

I know I'm lucky. The knife could've severed my windpipe instead of grazing it. My arterial veins could've been hit. It could have killed me, yet a small voice inside me asks if that is better than losing my voice forever. I don't have an answer.

What I do know is that I need to move, get to the extraction point, and get off Typhon.

The IMC forces are gone, along with the Grunt that left me on the ground, having fallen back to the research base that was supposed to be gone by now. Broken Titans lay across the valley, illuminated by the red flames of munitions burning. Their Operating Systems call out in garbled speech for a Pilot that will never return, slowly breaking down as the fire destroys their data cores. The sky is quiet, but the sounds of gunshots roll off the cubed stone hills towards me. Militia forces are still here. Soldiers that I could help.

An explosion shatters a rocky bluff not too far from my vantage point, and I see a squad of Militia soldiers stumble out from the cloud of dust. I can hear their hoarse shouting as they dive down for cover. Gunshots pepper the smoke and I realize they're running from IMC troops.

My gloves stretch as my hands ball into fists.

I take inventory as quickly as I can. My jumpkit is unscathed, the harness affixing it to my waist still secure. Its nozzles are clear of debris and the fuel gauge reads green. My knife is still in its arm sheath. One grenade hangs on my belt, words scratched onto the grey metal that read: Use upon capture.

My rifle is gone, so I draw my pistol and slide a magazine into the weathered groove of the magwell. The slide snaps forward and I feel a little bit better. Twelve shots. My voice may be broken but my hands still work.

The Militia soldiers, still exchanging fire with the IMC Grunts, are down the gradual slope of the valley and behind a deep gorge choked with boulders and vines. Depth warnings go off on my HUD as I peer over the edge and I make a mental map of how I'll cross without killing myself. The clusterfuck of rocks below may be impassable by Titan or Grunt, but not for a Pilot.

I lift off, my first jump taking me down to the edge of the gorge, a steep bank of stone that slants down into a straight drop. Another has me running along the vertical wall, jumpkit at a slow burn to keep altitude, my hand just barely touching the stone.

I leap sideways and burst my jets. My feet slam onto a rock shelf and I immediately lift off again, carrying me a short distance before I hit the ground and slide on my knees. A quick burst gets me into the air again. I repeat this, gaining speed, until I'm half-running half-skipping across the plain like a rock on a pond.

A Militia soldier trips and goes down, his squadmates dragging him back behind cover, and I push my pace even harder. My voice may be broken but my legs still work.

I fly past shattered boulders and rocky crags, jumping and riding with practiced ease. My breath is hot, misting my helmet and obscuring the high-heart rate warnings it displays. I let the auto-defoggers do their work as I sprint the final stretch, set my jumpkit's thrust to max, and leap over the Militia soldiers and into the rocky breach.

For a moment I see nothing but grey and hear only the rushing of air outside my helmet. Then the shouting reaches my ears and gunfire blossoms in the dust cloud. I aim for the first Grunt I see and slam down onto him. He doesn't even see me coming and falls to the ground with my knife in his forehead.

A second Grunt turns his gun on me, mouth open, and misses three shots before I return fire and put one in his chest. Eleven left.

The rest of the IMC squad scatters and moves back into the lower visibility of now what I see is a cave, their guns barking and puncturing the chalky haze with clear-cut lines. I duck low and run to cover behind a rocky spur.

Bullets whiz over my head as I peek over and fire three bullets at the offending source. I hear a scream and duck back down. Eight shots left.

From over my cover and deeper in the cave I hear someone say, "Great, a fucking Pilot. Fan out and prep 'nades, we can't afford to waste more bullets."

I make a mental note to go for what sounds like the leader first.

As soon as I hear the pin of a grenade release I burst my jumpkit, sending me skidding across the stone floor to the dead soldier. I rip my knife out of his face and charge into the smoke.

I immediately slam into something, hard. The air goes out of my lungs and I feel the iron grip of cold metal around my wrist. A singular red eye stares down at me. I barely have time to think oh shit before I'm on the ground and the Spectre is on top of me, twisting my arm back, servos whirring as its knee grinds my back onto the stone.

My vision fragments and I see the world through a kaleidoscope lens. I point my gun in a vague up direction and pull the trigger until the pressure on my chest decreases. The robot goes slack on top of me. I get a breath in and my vision snaps back, revealing an IMC Grunt peering down at me, gun to the side and eyebrows raised. I shoot him in the head.

The Spectre is surprisingly easy to wiggle out from underneath and it slumps down, open circuits sparking from holes in its armor as it loses power. I check my pistol. Two bullets left.

"Seriously? The 'nade's a fucking dud?" says the disembodied voice of the IMC leader, his voice tinny to my gunshot-accustomed helmet filters. "Alright, weapons free."

I barely get my head to the ground before a fan of bullets scythes through the smoke and ping into the stone behind me. I'm already on the move, crawling diagonally, gritting my teeth, moving toward the remnants of the IMC squad. I hear five voices and I only have two shots.

The back of the cave is smoke-free and has no exits. I haul myself up and kick forward, into the last cavern, and I am greeted by one Grunt holding a rifle and the rest clutching handguns.

In that moment I realize they're in a worse spot than the Militia soldiers I'm protecting, but that doesn't stop me from emptying my last two shots into the rifleman. He goes down with a sigh. The other four stare at me like I'm an alien.

I throw the knife into the first Grunt and sprint after it, ripping it out as soon as it lands in her chest and spin to the left, slitting the throat of another soldier who is halfway through drawing his pistol. As if I am merely a passenger, I follow the knife as it cuts through the squad, one by one.

Soon, the cave is silent. I fall to my knees and clean the blade on my pants.

I hear the shuffling of feet as the battered Militia soldiers file into the breach. One mutters, "Holy shit." I can't pinpoint who it is when I rise and turn to face them.

They stand in a loose circle, silent. A man with a shotgun slung over his shoulder fiddles with a medical patch on his dirty uniform. Another soldier, a woman, holds a pistol in one hand and a bruised apple in the other. A third loads his rifle with slow hands, staring at me with hooded eyes, dead to the world. He drops his magazine and squints at it through dusty glasses.

I had expected to feel some kind of kinship with these people. That we would all cheer and sit around a campfire together, trading stories, until evacuation came. Apparently, I was wrong. They stare with wary eyes and stand close together. Not seeing me, just a faceless Pilot. They see the helmet, the jumpkit, and the inevitable Titan from above. They prefer me as a faceless butcher rather than a real person.

A fourth soldier steps forward, dust caked to her face and a crescent-shaped wound bleeding above her eye. I notice the other soldiers watch her with quiet deference. Her brown eyes meet mine and I see she's slightly taller than me. "Sir, Senior Rifleman Riyah Vicks," she says.

I take off my helmet, letting my hair fall back, and offer a hand, wishing I could answer with my own voice.

Vick's eyes dart down to my blood caked neck, and back up to my ragged eyes. "Sir?" she asks, taking a tentative step closer. "That your blood?"

I point to my neck and draw a line across it.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

I take out my knife and repeat the action, hoping my eyes tell the rest of the story.

Her brow furrows. "Oh." She moves closer and says, "What's your condition?"

Hands up, I back off instinctively. Something in me doesn't want her this close, but I fight it and take a deep breath. She's Militia. She won't hurt me.

I peel off the medkit from my newly healed skin, trying not to enjoy the sweet release as the caked blood peels off, and hand it to her. "Critical damage to larynx has rendered it unusable," she reads. "Date until rehabilitation… Shit."

The soldier with the medical patch throws up his hands, turns, and kicks a rock. "Great. A Pilot shows up to help and we get a fuckin' cripple."

"Callahan," Vicks says, her voice cracking like a whip. "Be quiet or be useful."

"If the medkit can't do it then there's nothing that I can do here," Callahan snaps back. He looks at me and my eyes catch his. Something there makes him pause, and he says with a softer tone, "I'm sorry, sir, but nothing short of serious medical help can fix ya. I know someone on Harmony, though. My mum. She could help."

I open my mouth reflexively before closing it and smiling at him. He does a little double take and dances in his boots. I wonder if this is the first time he's ever spoken to a Pilot.

"Callahan, why don't you go check the perimeter? The Pilot and I need to talk," Vicks says, eyeing him sharply. She turns back to me. "Sir, can I see your identification? Not that I don't trust you, I just want to know your name."

I nod and raise my left arm, tapping on my wrist computer, and show her my Militia Record.

"Melanine Riggs. First class. Almost made it into SRS," Vicks says. "Impressive." She wipes some dust off her face and puts a hand to her chin. "Riggs. I think I've heard of them before. They were one of the first farming families on Evergreen, right?"

I nod.

"Then what's a Riggs girl doing in a Militia Pilot uniform? I figured you would be waiting out the war on the other side of the barrier, cozy in your own private ship."

I'm halfway through another nod before I realize that won't cut it. Frowning, I drum my fingers on my leg before I get an idea. I bring up my wrist computer and pull up the text interface, then type with one hand before showing her, 'Someone had to butcher the animals on the farm. I figured it wouldn't be that different.'

Vicks lets out a low chuckle. "And of course you found out it was."

I reply, 'Yeah, I did find that.'

"Most new recruits do. When the IMC came knocking who wasn't angry? These are our planets, and a deed can't change that. Too bad we have to pay for them in blood."

Her words strike me as odd and I realize that she's just reciting Militia rhetoric to make me comfortable. She deserves better than Senior Rifleman, but I've never been much to care about rank. I write, 'Can't help it either way. Just the way things are.' Ilook up at her and shrug.

The corner of her mouth tugs up. "You know, even with the computer you don't talk much," she says.

I smile and type: 'Never did.'