Augustgrad – Northeast
Thick neosteel plates clattered against plascrete no more than five paces to Jim's left, six other marines were marching in a loose formation around the rest of the siege tank and the SCV that closely tailed it.
"Keep it comin' Hammer," a marine, one of Valerian's men assigned to Jim, called through the comm.
"How 'bout you watch my six and let me do my job, Private?" This siege tank pilot, Sgt. Hammer, had a merciless sense of humor that Jim immediately took a liking to; but mostly he loved how souped up the siege tank was, it reminded him of some of the mercs he had hired in past times.
Mercenaries always had the best toys.
Walking over a car that was freshly crushed in half, Jim cast his eyes to the sky for what felt like the thousandth time since this mission began. All his eyes could see, extra pupils and all, was fog and it grated on his nerves. Roughly, he shouldered past another heap of scrap metal, teeth grinding together when his hidden spines scraped paths through the obstruction with an unnerving noise.
Annoyed, he shoved the metal away and forced himself to look forward and ignore the shimmering blue of the diodes rebuilding the image of a normal human shoulder, and the eyes of nearby men. A heavy, sick feeling was sitting in his guts and would not budge for anything, coupled with a strange, electrifying sensation in his brain that continued to grow in intensity with every step.
"Pick up the pace, Sgt." Jim shifted the negligible weight of his rifle around, an excuse to fidget that would not rile anyone with more tender nerves. "We ain't got much time."
Augustgrad - Southward
Greg seemed to have forgotten the thinly veiled threat to his person after Nova pulled her disappearing act, because he had yet to shut up since. Tychus was privately debating a tragic, zerg related accident when he began to hear others muttering about the fool too; shrugging to himself, he casually cut Greg off the comm system.
They did not need to hear from him until it was time to do his job and Findlay questioned if it would be necessary even then. Reaching under the neck of his mask, he fidgeted with the small diode affixed to his skin that he had turned off to spook Nova, using the tip of a claw to turn it back on and restore the guise over his face.
"Haha, someone took 'em off the mic!' One of the men laughed and the gloomy atmosphere became ten shades lighter as everyone else joined in with relief; Tychus smirked, glad for his choice.
Two marines were side by side, shouldering an overturned truck to the wayside while Tychus fidgeted impatiently; he should be up front shoving anything that got in the way out of the way, but opted for caution instead. Big theatrics were his specialty, but he acknowledged that a firing squad at close range would most likely see him dead.
The current two-way street they were traversing was narrow and congested in typical Korhal fashion, but would lead to a thoroughfare and their goal: a large intersection between towering buildings, a great choke point for further maneuvers against the Mengsk palace.
Taking point again, Tychus made to resume the trek until he saw the wide spotlight beams of the SCV staggering unnaturally in the fog overhead. Turning on his heel, he looked towards the big machine; its faint outline seeming to stagger drunkenly, it could be attributed to the narrow and uneven space it was trying to pass through, but it was more than cause enough to investigate.
Others, eager to get moving, seemed not to notice what he did. "Something wrong?" Daren questioned, rifle half-raised.
Grunting in annoyance, Tychus said, "Put that idiot back on the comm, I want to know what he thinks he's doing." Impassively, he watched as the silhouette of a mechanical arm crunched into the wall it was nearly rubbing against, rubble crumbling down.
"Yes sir," another marine, whose name he had not cared to learn yet, responded with the tone of a skeptic.
As one, every CMC spun to face the SCV and every gun raised at it, ready to fire. Greg was screaming, a high pitched squeal of terror.
"HELP! CAN'T YOU HEAR ME!? IT'S GETTIN' IN! HELP ME YOU BASTARDS!" The jerky motions of the SCV made more sense now; Greg was trying to grab something off the front of the vehicle with its clamp-shaped hands and he was not succeeding.
"I see it!" a marine closest to the SCV called in a voice just a hair shy of panic.
Tychus shouldered past the others in the tight quarters, he would bet any money no one had the balls to ask him how he could shove CMCs around anyway. "Well quit talkin' about it and shoot it son!"
"Can't get a clear shot sir, pilot is right behind it," the man reasoned. In this special case Findlay would have forgiven him for any friendly fire 'accident', but he could not exactly say it out loud either.
Raising his rifle and squinting, Tychus had to admit the man had great eyes, the target in question was very small and left a cold feeling in his stomach; long hair streaming and small hands slamming at steel, it was just a child- that was why it had not broken through already.
"KILL IT!" Greg had no reservations given it was his life or soul or whatever about to be sucked out of his face, the ratty man was flailing around inside the mech and barely keeping his head screwed on. His screeching took on a higher pitch when the small girl's fists did, in fact, create a large crack in the glass.
"Hell," Tychus snarled while everyone else watched silently. If they started firing, Greg would be as good as dead and if they did not, he was as good as infected. Fingers loosening from his rifle, it clattered to the ground and drew some questioning eyes, eyes that widened when he grasped the large knife on his belt and unsheathed it.
Fifteen feet tall and rocking like a ship in a storm, the SCV would be an impossible climb for any of the men in a CMC, it was up to him. To kill a little girl, he reminded himself grimly; another crack was smashed into the glass.
Mind the claws, mind the claws, he repeated to himself in a mantra as he leaped to the knee of the SCV and clung hard, taking more time than necessary to adjust his grip. Everyone was watching and even if they could not see that well, gouges in metal from claw marks were obvious.
Reaching upwards he made a grab for a wildly swinging arm and missed the first time, nearly getting clocked in the head for his effort. From the corner of his eye he watched the intensely focused infected girl, ravaged and starved looking under filthy clothing; she was in rough shape even before the fog got to her.
Someone cut Greg from the comm again, leaving them with the dampened rumblings of his desperate struggle and the dramatic waving of spotlights. Measuring distance and taking in a slow breath, Tychus reached up with his free hand and caught the SCV arm in a steely grip, pulled into the swing towards the infected clinging to the cockpit glass.
To his alarm the SCV wobbled and the hydraulics of the arm strained against his weight but held strong. Several hundred pounds of huge infested collided with the child, whose weight could be more fairly compared to the amount of food he ate on an average day, swiping it off the glass and crashing into the brick wall with it.
It just wasn't fair, Tychus scowled heavily, but he would not ask others to do this task anyway. You're rubbin' off on me Jimmy, he thought towards Jim, who until then was minding his own mental business.
What are you talkin' about Tychus? Jim responded immediately, while Tychus and the kid in his hands tumbled down the wall.
Busy Jim, voice tight with annoyance, Tychus had not meant to call up Jim like that. After what felt like forever, they hit the ground.
Daren watched while his stomach threatened to void itself of the concrete-like rations he ate earlier. Brick dust and fog obscured the results of Findlay tackling the infected, whose shape he did not realize to be so tiny until compared.
Not busy at the moment, Jim made it his business to see what got his friend riled up. With difficulty, he left his body behind and took a glimpse through Tychus' eyes.
Uncharacteristically mute, Tychus stared down at the still-twitching demon child under his hand, blood dripping from his knife in the other; her head was mostly severed and the body had not caught up with the trauma yet.
My god Tychus, I am sorry. Jim felt sick, felt Findlay's numbness and never felt so bad for his lifelong friend when he perceived the experience being folded up, filed and locked away in a dark place; this was how Tychus dealt with trauma and Raynor was never meant to behold it.
Just get back to the mission brother, Tychus' tone came out flat, kid was infected, no other way. Summoning up his strength, Findlay firmly pushed Jim back where he belonged: in his own head. As the brick dust settled a CMC foot stomped into view, directly behind the half-severed head.
"Did what you had to," Daren noted clinically. No doubt he had taken the imagery and done much the same with it. "Saved Greg," he did not sound too keen on that part, "when we couldn't."
After what felt like an age the body stopped twitching under his hand and Tychus stood up slowly, swiping the blood off each side of the knife with his pant leg and sheathing it. "Right," he said, turning around to look up at the SCV and its occupant. "Still alive in there?"
"You fuckers," Greg's voice, normally nasal and higher than it had a right to be, had a wet quality to it. "My neck," he gurgled.
"Bring the cab down!" Tychus barked at Greg, infusing his tone with authority and threat; with any luck Greg would refrain from panicking and listen, which he did. The SCV's legs locked and lowered the cab to the ground with a long, hydraulic hiss.
In the lit cockpit, Tychus could see Greg squirming in his seat and clenching at his neck with both hands, he could also see the jagged hole where a shard of glass had been pounded in and hit the pilot like shrapnel; thankfully, the shard that shattered off and caught Greg in the neck was only an inner piece and the cockpit remained sealed, but the front of Greg's white work shirt flooding with red did not bode well.
He stared back at everyone with renewed panic, realizing the conundrum; they might as well be in space, the result of opening the door would be similar. Tychus held his accusing gaze grimly, Greg's lips moving like worms and blood spattering out from between them; no doubt he had a few choice expletives he would like to voice on his death bed.
"Greg," Daren spoke calmly, stepping up to the glass and catching the man's eye. "You need to administer treatment to yourself, get the first aid kid and start bandaging the wound before you lose too much blood;" odds were it was already too late, but Daren resolved to attempt to help.
Greg jerkily undid the seat buckle with one hand, shaking hard as his panicking heart pumped lifeblood out of his mortal vessel even faster; his wavering hand reached down out of sight and he looked once from Daren and back to Findlay with dead eyes.
"No!" Tychus roared, slamming a hand against the glass as he caught on at the last second. Guns clicked and clattered as the cockpit let out a hiss and the cover lifted smoothly, fog pouring in.
"Ha ha-hurk!" Greg laughed wetly, grinning with blood in his teeth; they would pay for cutting him off and leaving him to die, he would make sure of it now, he breathed deep.
"Desperate bastard," Tychus noted icily, watching as Greg's body jerked and shook; his head tossed back, exposing the thick slice through his neck as his face twisted from sick anger to one of fearful revelation. Their former SCV pilot screamed soundlessly as his eyes clouded with black.
Having seen enough, Findlay lunged forwards and caught the front of Greg's blood-soaked shirt in a fist. Leaning backwards and using his body as a counterweight he flung the fresh corpse puppet overhead, narrowly avoiding having his mask swiped by curled fingers.
Six marines, each tracking the projectile, raised their gauss rifles and let loose. Puppet Greg was thoroughly perforated, his body losing the momentum of Findlay's toss and being thrown aside by the power of 18 sonic spike bursts per second; a pile of meat crashed against the brick wall and landed in a smoking heap.
Flabbergasted, Daren swore, "Did you see that?" All guns remained aimed at the still body.
"Wanted us all dead for what we did, I reckon," a marine remarked; Tychus began to feel accusing eyes.
Hopping out of the cockpit and straightening, Findlay moved with the self confidence of a man who knew he cut a frightening figure; with his suit, the fog and his size being outlined by the cockpit light, he witnessed grown men in CMC suits take a half step back. "Who can pilot one of these things?" he asked.
No one responded and he frowned. "Guess we're goin' without," he glanced back at the machine before shouldering through the gathered marines, more relaxed and cautiously now that they were paying full attention and moving on their own; Tychus could pilot a SCV, it should be simple, but he sure as hell was not volunteering that bit of information.
Horner. Tychus thought about the cranky pilot, reaching his mind easily across the miles.
It seemed that Matt Horner had done little in the way to cool his temper, the sensation of contacting him was like touching boiling water. What? He snapped.
You tell those chair jockeys that my team lost our SCV, comms been out since we stepped out of that blue bubble.
Consider them notified, came the curt response.
Tychus rolled his eyes, attention returning to his immediate surroundings as they filed out of the claustrophobic two lane street and hung a left onto the large thoroughfare. Daren had been talking the whole time and Findlay was not paying him any mind until he heard a certain word.
"-Zerg," Daren growled, his tone feverish. "You had to be on Minehoff to know what I'm talking about, see it for yourself." Tychus glanced casually behind his mask towards Daren, who was clenching his gauss rifle hard; he could imagine the glaze of zealotry on his face and in his eyes.
"Heard Minehoff was real bad, but the Raiders helped them refugees out," one marine said.
"Damn straight the Raiders helped," Tychus joined the conversation with the subtlety of a cannon. Common sense was dictating his choice of words, including not mentioning just how little he cared about the refugees at that time.
"You were there?" Daren's CMC shifted awkwardly as the soldier inside adjusted his shoulders, "So you know where I'm coming from, how they twist civilians and use them as cannon fodder...If it meant killing every one of the zerg, I'd die for that in a heartbeat."
Tychus felt the roaches tunneling below, face blank as he brought them up from the rear and put them directly under the marines. "Oh yeah. I know where you're comin' from partner, them zerg are bad news."
Bucephalus - Rebel Base
Prince Valerian Mengsk prowled his private quarters like a caged panther. As soon as all the infested left with his best fighting men he felt helpless and out of control, this was a sensation he could live without.
"Prince Valerian," the comm sprung to life with the captain's voice, "we have received several status updates from the infested men."
"How?" fine brows furrowing, Valerian swept a hand across his work table and enabled it with deft fingertips; written reports and information arrayed in crystal clarity appeared in the air, projected by the table.
"It seems the infested men can still communicate with one another mentally without any interference sir," captain Vaughn said.
"Yes, I remember," Valerian tapped open General Warfield's report, reading at a feverish pace. "Their abilities are proving impressive and more useful by the hour."
"One of the men also informed me that the protoss requested an audience with you sir," Vaughn sounded uncomfortable, Valerian doubted anyone but those most well acquainted with him would be able to discern that.
"Lasarra?" It came as a surprise the protoss would request a meeting, rather than simply communicate with him mentally; he decided to ask about it. "Of course, our honorable friend is welcome to an audience with me."
"I will be sure that she is informed sir, permission to do such?" Vaughn requested, ever observant of formalities.
"Yes, you are dismissed captain; see to it you get some rest in your downtime as well," Valerian reminded in a stern tone. Vaughn was a major culprit in not taking his due hours to recover and unwind. He imagined the captain smiled before closing the comm, as he normally would.
Finishing with Warfield and Findlay's reports in short order, they were rather lacking in his opinion, Valerian frowned faintly; losing both a SCV and a siege tank before even reaching their defensive positions did not bode well. He felt the cold fingers of doubt tickle at the back of his subconscious. What if this is another Char?
Knock Knock
"Come in," he said automatically.
Prince Valerian, Lasarra entered the room at a steady pace, flowing in that strange way only protoss managed, she had Valerian's attention immediately. There are terrans coming. No further inflection could be gleaned from her telepathic message.
"More terrans?" Valerian parroted, immediately thinking about the Kel-Morians and Umojans, who else had enough power to move on Korhal in its current state? Odds were good that neither of the terran powers did, even now.
You will receive their message soon, Lasarra pointed a thin finger, tipped with a long claw, towards his console. I am giving you due warning to ready yourself. Lasarra knew Valerian well, it seemed; before he could ask, her eyes smiled. No, I have not read your mind that deeply.
"I see," any simple questions he wanted to ask the protoss about her choice of meeting or of her races people became shelved. "Do you know who it is?" Again Lasarra gestured at the work table and patiently Valerian followed along; protoss operated differently and it was important to observe that.
A waiting call, red colored and blinking, glared back. "Oh," he breathed, tapping it quickly.
"Prince Valerian Mengsk," a familiar voice crooned, "or should I say, Emperor Mengsk? Be a dear and disable that pesky Drakken defense network before we all get blown up, would you?" Mira Han regarded Valerian with both eyes, one flesh and one cybernetic.
"Mira!" Valerian's eyes widened and glanced at Lasarra, this was unexpected indeed. "Korhal is not yet under my control, Miss Han. We have discovered the situation to be far more dire than we could have anticipated; as such, the Drakken defense network is still under my fathers control."
"Oh, that is a shame," Mira's cupid lips smiled, telling how she really felt about it. "You will be happy to know that the captain of Jackson's Revenge has personally volunteered to lead the operation to dismantle the pesky thing anyway; hopefully his crew agrees."
"Jackson's Rev-" Valerian's eyes widened further, "Mira, did you bring an army of mercenaries to Korhal?"
"You might say that."
Valerian wondered if it would be better to leave the zerg and hybrid to fight over Korhal's remains, would there be anything left of the Mengsk family fortune after a swarm of mercenaries had finished dipping their hands into it?
"As I said Princess," Mira crowed, "the pesky defense system will be taken care of soon. Perhaps we should talk about where reinforcements are needed most, and what we should expect on the ground? I am sure you would agree that a minimal loss of life, for us, is preferable."
"Yes, of course. Allow me a moment to bring my council to the call, they will have all the details for you, Miss Han." Already, the Heir Apparent's fingertips were rapidly drumming out the sequence of keys that would bring more professional minds to the call.
"Be my guest," Mira paused, squinting and leaning forwards as though she could see more with the gesture. "Is that Lasarra?"
As Mira Han was still in space, Lasarra could only step forwards and nod in confirmation, unable to reach her mind from so far away.
"Why yes, she informed me of your arrival a short time ag-" Valerian's brows pinched together before smoothing over as Mira orally steamrolled him.
"Good to see you, Lasarra. You will let dearest Matthew and James know that I am coming to the rescue, won't you?"
Lasarra's eyes smiled.
Augustgrad - Southern Entrenchment
"This is stupid," Daren said through clenched teeth, muscles straining even with the CMC bearing the majority of the load and then some. Others grunted and groaned in response and the fake spectre to his right kept silent, face hidden behind that signature creepy mask.
All seven of the remaining team were in the process of heaving a heavy duty transport trailer in place across the road, shuffling along at a snails pace. Their entrenchment was meant to be at the center of the large crossroads of the thoroughfare, but without a SCV to throw up walls it was proving difficult to erect proper defenses; they couldn't even dig trenches because the SCV would be required to break through all the plascrete.
The massive slab of neosteel creaked and groaned along with the men, but Daren's eyes were watching Findlay's fingers. Those hands smashed a dent clean into the cab window of Greg's SCV, and it was done in an emotional moment; now, he could clearly perceive finger shaped dents being flexed into the neosteel of the trailer.
Anxiety trickled a hot trail down his spine; Findlay was not what he seemed, but what was he? James Raynor, even Valerian Mengsk, trusted him. Why shouldn't I? What does it matter?
Confusion read clearly on his face when, as they lowered the trailer together, Tychus pulled his hands away and there was a brief flicker of a familiar blue; there and gone too fast, he could not confirm if it had been imagined or not. Daren took a moment to wonder if the fog could still get at them in their suits, if he was not just going insane in a unique way.
"Yeah, well, when no one is smart enough to pilot a SCV, this is what happens," Tychus sounded amused, and more tellingly, not winded. "No more big rigs nearby that I saw, start grabbing whatever you can get your hands on gentlemen; groups of two and one of three."
Daren caught himself staring at the fingerprint dents in the trailer before forcing himself to walk away. Footfalls, softer than a CMC, announced that the center of his thoughts was tagging along. I am not crazy.
As soon as they were out of sight of the other marines, who split off down the three other roads, Tychus spoke.
"Somethin' buggin' you, son?" Findlay's voice came out soft, dangerous.
Catching himself clenching his gun nervously, Daren forced himself to relax his grip and thought about how isolated he was with the other man right now; he was also taking too long to respond apparently, Tychus continued before he found his words.
"Noticed you had a mark on your rifle," standing so close, Tychus saw the faint outline of Daren's head turning to no doubt look towards his gun. "You said you were on Minehoff. Fight with the zerg much, Lieutenant?"
Licking his lips, Daren slowed his walking pace, making sure to keep Findlay at his side rather than behind. This whole conversation, and situation, was raising his neck hairs; Tychus' tone and body language were not threatening, but it felt forced and Daren would be damned if that feeling of being scrutinized by a large predator was not back in full force.
"This whole situation is grinding on me Sarge," Daren made sure to use Tychus' temporary bestowed rank in return. "I never wanted Korhal to turn into this," he scowled, reaching for the truth and that righteous anger he used to burn away fear, "none of us did."
Tychus eyed Daren like a steak while the roaches below climbed upwards, sluicing through earth like water. "I'm a spectre, kid. There's more to it than that," he reached up and caught the CMC armor by the shoulder, bringing Daren to a firm stop.
Nostrils flaring, Daren gave his shoulder a sharp shake, "Nova told me you aren't," rounding to face the other man, he looked downwards and into the dark eyes of the spectre mask, "So tell me, what are you?"
A heavy silence squatted between the two, seconds ticking by. Tychus thought of a few creative expletives and hoped that little ghost managed to hear. "You're right," he said in a rather perky tone, smiling behind the mask. Switching gears, he clamped a hand down on the rim of Daren's suit and jerked him forwards. Hard.
Daren's eyes widened as his suit was yanked like a puppet, "what-"
"What, is none of your damn business," Tychus gave the CMC a good rattling, "You understand me son? I'm on your side, that's all you need to know; more than you need to know," It felt good to do a little man handling. "So keep your head down and your mouth shut kid," he shoved Daren and his CMC backwards, nearly tipping him over.
Stumbling and recovering, Daren opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it; the ground beneath his feet began to tremble and there was nothing remotely friendly looking about Findlay now. Swallowing his anger and confusion, his words hissed out between clenched teeth, "Yes sir."
"Good man," Tychus said levelly; the roaches, maybe 10 feet below now, stopped their ascent. Still, he wondered if having the good Lieutenant disappear into the fog and never return was not a better idea, "Let's find us some road blocks and get back."
"Sarge, you are gonna want to get a load of this!" A marine called, barely comprehensible over the static. Both men turned and ran back towards the base-to-be.
Weapons raised and ready, Tychus and Daren spilled back into their half-made shamble of a defensive point as though it were under siege.
Tychus, there's been a development. Matt Horner had some of the worst timing imaginable.
Son, unless you got a nice, shiny new SCV or a couple siege tanks rolling my way, I can't imagine myself giving a damn right now, Findlay grit his teeth as he started checking for anomalies with Daren at his side, which was a bigger trust building exercise than he cared to be a part of.
With a loud snap, four massive spotlights turned on, piercing through the fog over their heads not more than 20 paces ahead.
About that SCV... Horner's tone registered no small amount of snark.
"Jesus. What are you kids building down here, an entrenchment or a shantytown?" a rough, scratchy voice scraped through the comm system.
"We got a SCV Sarge!" someone said.
"I got eyes, Private," Findlay grumbled, gun lowering as he approached. The SCV seemed oddly shaped in the fog, but as he got closer he found out why; this was a far shot from a normal Space Construction Vehicle.
Yellow with black stripes, the heavily modified SCV had the usual clamps for hands necessary for building, but it also had massive cannon add-ons on its square shoulders, gratuitous amounts of welded on spikes, blades, and most importantly: a sloppily painted hog's head emblem in red on one of those shoulders.
"War pigs?" Tychus sounded as surprised as he felt; the metallic, electric scent of ozone leaked in through his air filtration system.
"You the ugly whoreson in charge here?" the new voice grated; it sounded off to his ears, strained, he did not like it.
Did nobody respect physically threatening figures anymore? "I've had a hell of a day kid, so if you don't want my boot to send you back up to space I suggest you get moving," Tychus growled menacingly up at the small figure in the brightly lit cab of the monster SCV; "I wanted this base built before you touched the ground, you scan me?"
He decided he did not care where the SCV came from and who sent it, so long as it came. Questions could wait until there were four walls and several feet of neosteel between his body and those infected bozos.
"Yes sir!" the newest team member occupying their fresh-from-space SCV snapped off a halfcocked salute with a mechanical arm and turned away; bells were ringing in Tychus' head, but he could not put his finger on what he was missing, not yet.
Where'd the war pigs come from captain? Findlay decided to be a little more polite to Matt this time, and who's the joker inside that thing?
An answer was not forthcoming, only a deep sense of mirth and the distinct feeling that he was being laughed at.
Agitated, Tychus barked orders with more fire in his voice than necessary and joined the group of marines in keeping a defensive perimeter around the SCV as it began to work.
Whoever was piloting the SCV, much like Greg, seemed not to have much regard for his own well-being; the comm opened up as he began welding a flattened car to the trailer they had strained and heaved over placing. "Not even going to ask my name, Sarge?" there was a mocking undertone that raised Findlay's temper from simmering to a low boil.
"No," it was a shame the pilot seemed competent at his job; given the current situation, he just could not rationalize ripping into the cab and strangling the twerp's head off, no matter how much he knew he would enjoy it.
"What is it with SCV pilots?" Daren muttered on the private comm and Findlay heaved a chuckle; he might be even more wary now, but at least Daren was not outwardly letting their little heart-to-heart interfere with the mission and their working relationship.
"Don't know, but I'll be glad to leave 'em behind and get to the action," Tychus said.
"You were always a bit dense," the pilot rasped a chuckle, much to the rising discomfort of everyone else.
Tychus' eyes narrowed, "You know me?" those alarm bells in his head were ringing louder than ever; if their open conversation was not being listened to by everyone before, it would be now.
Finished with one round of welding, the SCV swung ponderously to face Tychus, its metal footsteps reverberating through the nearby ground. "Tychus J. Findlay," the pilot teased, voice going as low as it could in an exaggerated poor impersonation.
"If you think I won't kick your ass if you don't hurry this along, you don't know me as well as you think," Tychus growled, eyeing the shape in the cab and trying to figure out who it was, but the black stripes covered the glass of the cab too.
With a hydraulic hiss and a strained laugh from its pilot, the cab lowered until it was on a level with Tychus' head.
He blinked.