Frontier Justice

by kpmh2001

Far from the Frontlines of the Frontier War, a Freelance Pilot and his Titan find themselves confronted with a difficult mission on the further reaches of The Frontier.

Of all the worlds that comprised the Frontier, Artemis was a very strong contender for the least remarkable. With a population of fewer than twelve-thousand, most of whom were spread out across the planet across hundreds of homesteads, it was decidedly rural. The climate was varied but generally tolerable, the gravity was almost exactly 1G, and it possessed no outstanding scientific or cultural landmarks.

Wellington did not care for it.

For one thing, Artemis was too damn quiet. While far from silent, thanks to the ambient noises made by alien wildlife, weather, and the odd signs of civilization, it was a far cry from what he was used to. Back in his hometown of London on Earth, he'd fallen asleep to the comforting sounds of industrial machinery, supersonic aircraft, and fights in the streets between local gangs. The barely-breathable air of Earth was far from ideal, but it was never bad enough to make him want to move out to the Frontier. No, it was unemployment that did that.

The Huntress Saloon, nestled comfortably in Diana, the largest settlement on Artemis, was just about the only place so far on the entire Frontier that Wellington had felt liquor was nice, but it was the people around him that offered him a sense of familiarity. Even without knowing any of their names or saying a word to them, they helped make him feel like he wasn't quite as alone as he actually was.

Not like I came here to think, Wellington grumpily thought as he forcefully banished any thoughts of his homeworld, or anything else for that matter. "Barman, another round!"

The bald man behind the counter wordlessly handed him another mug of… to be honest he wasn't quite sure. Whatever it was, it wasn't very strong and noticeably sweet, and an awful lot more appetizing than what had been available back in the United Kingdom. Of course, that wasn't saying much.

Whatever it was, Wellington downed a quarter of the mug in a single swig, attracting a worried glance from the Bartender. It was far from the first funny look he'd been given. The whole night, both the barkeep and the patrons of the bar had been looking at him, as though they could easily see just how out of his element he truly was. Perhaps it was the alcohol thinking for him, but it was starting to get annoying.

"You lookin' for trouble mate?" Wellington grumbled.

The bartender shook his head and narrowed his eyes at him, answering in a plain American accent. "There's no trouble here, Pilot. Not unless you brought it with you."

For a moment Wellington looked the man in the eye, before he slumped back in his chair and shook his head. He couldn't think of anything that he'd done that might attract unwanted attention. While the Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation did have a bounty on his head, as deserting was evidently something that they did not care for, that hardly made him special. The Frontier was littered with IMC deserters, and compared to the threat posed by the Frontier Militia, one loose pilot was nothing more than a footnote.

Then again, maybe it wasn't him that the barkeep was asking about…

"If you're talking about Beef, he's very well-behaved," Wellington replied. "If anybody wanted to try something-"

The bartender waved a hand to interrupt him, incredulity written out all over his face. "You named your Titan Beef?"

"Technically my old mate did; that way we were Beef Wellington. He thought it was quite clever," Wellington explained.

The bartender's expression had barely shifted, if anything, he seemed to be even further entrenched in disbelief. "And you just went along with that?"

"Well sure! What else am I gonna name a fifty-five ton unit like him?" Wellington answered with a question of his own.

The bartender put forward no answer for him, instead sighing and turning back to one of the other customers in the saloon. All in all, Wellington considered that a victory, and returned to drinking in peace.

For a whole four minutes.

"Excuse me, Pilot?"

Wellington turned to find a different man whom he actually had to tilt his head downward a bit to see. Granted, the saloon chairs were tall, but the man before him was noticeably diminutive. The stranger also looked very nervous, although Wellington recognized about a moment later that he'd leaned forward perhaps a bit too close to the man's face.

"Whoop, sorry," Wellington answered, leaning back in his chair and putting his beverage back on the counter. "What's up govna?"

The farmer blinked. Apparently Wellington had defied his expectations somehow, and it probably had something to do with his accent. While there were plenty of people with vaguely British accents on the Frontier, it seemed so far he was one of the few actually from the UK. The farmer, however, shared the same American accent as the barkeeper. "Um, are you with the Militia?"

"I'm freelance," Wellington answered, seeing no reason not to tell the truth. Still, the question was enough to put him on the defensive. He leaned forward and in a low voice asked, "Is that a problem?"

The little man shrank back a bit, and Wellington forced himself to take a deep breath. Apparently he was in a worse mood than even he'd realized; he wasn't normally this confrontational.

"Ah, I'm sorry mate, I've had a bit too much of this," Wellington said, holding up his drink before putting it back down on the counter. "What's your name?"

A bit of courage visibly returned to the man as he stepped forward again. "Frank, Frank Patrick. My homestead was attacked and I'm looking for help."

Wellington hummed aloud, briefly pondering whether or not discussing doing work after drinking was a wise decision. He wasn't quite drunk, yet, and he did have the option of using one of his stimpacks to sober up in only a couple of minutes, but that would be a waste of a very valuable asset.

After sparing a brief thought for his incredibly sparse wallet, however, Wellington realized that his decision had already been made for him. "I might be able to help, but I want details."

Frank nodded, relief warming his expression. "A few days ago, some IMC soldiers came and took over my homestead. They killed two of my farmhands who tried to resist and took everyone else prisoner… including my family. I was the only one who managed to escape."

Wellington considered finishing his drink, but decided against it. By the sounds of it, he was going to need to be sober in the morning. "How many were there?"

"I'm not sure, at least twenty. There were a lot, too many for us to fight," Frank answered. "There was a Pilot as well, and a Titan, a skinny one."

A Stryder-Type, probably. Maybe a platoon of infantry? Wellington thought, trying to cross-reference what he was being told from what he'd learned during his time in the IMC. "That's a lot for one homestead. Why'd they attack?"

"My grandfather set up shop next to one of the biggest Helium deposits on the Frontier. If I had to guess, they want that. We've been extracting it but… I guess they don't feel like paying for it," Frank bitterly explained.

Wellington nodded, now it was all starting to make more sense. In a galaxy filled to the brim with valuable resources, the IMC still wanted what other people already had. But of course, it was never really about the finances for them. It was about control, money was just a means to an end. "Bloody typical of 'em, am I right?"

Surprisingly, Frank shook his head. "We've never had problems with them before, it's why we didn't have a line on hand to call the Militia. Not that it would've helped, the first thing they took out was our radio antenna."

"It's a bit odd that; them takin' out the infrastructure," Wellington noted aloud. "And you said they took your people prisoner?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah. My wife, two sons, my daughter, eight farmhands, and my wife's sister."

Thirteen hostages, my lucky number, Wellington sardonically thought. Hostage rescue was very far from where he was at his best, but the IMC didn't take hostages. "If I had to guess, they've been taken as slaves… You understand this is a lot to ask from one man and his Titan, right?"

"I know, but I'm running out of options here," Frank replied, his speech accelerating as he sensed Wellington's reluctance. "I was going to make my way down to the spaceport on the other side of town and see if I could use one of the radios to call for help from out of system; but so far you're the only man who's given me the time of day."

Again, Wellington leaned back in his chair, before reaching down to his belt and unclasping his helmet. Like the rest of his armor it was a simple khaki color, scratched and chipped from heavy usage. Briefly, he looked at his own reflection in the T-shaped visor. His ginger hair was long and overgrown, both on his head and his face. Had he been in Frank's shoes, he would've also been nervous approaching such a man. Combined with the scars, he looked like a vagrant. An outcast.

I suppose I am, at least of sorts… Wellington somewhat sorrowfully thought, before turning the helmet around and putting it on. The systems came to life once more as his armor linked to the helmet. A familiar, cool sensation filled the back of his mind as his Neural Link with Beef was re-established.

Unsurprisingly, and a bit frustratingly, Beef was quick to highlight what he'd just been trying to ignore. "Pilot, your vitals are irregular, are you-"

"Later, Beef. How are we on firepower?" he cut in. He felt bad about being so curt with his friend, but now wasn't the time for Beef to overreact to him being a bit sad.

Obligingly, Beef listened. "Inventory shows that we are missing two-hundred rounds for the Predator Cannon. My power levels are approaching seventy percent. The recharging mechanism for my tertiary weapon is still broken, we will have only one shot in any given engagement."

Wellington sighed, he really was running out of excuses not to go and be a hero. "Thank you Beef. We might have a job here; I've just got to discuss payment with our client."

"Affirmative." Beef replied.

Wellington turned back to Frank and looked him over once more. Given his plain clothes and the complete absence of a weapon or any supplies whatsoever on his person, it was obvious to see that, at least for the moment, there was no way Frank could afford to hire him. Were he to get his homestead back, however…

"Alright mate. Bleedin' heart that I am, even I can't afford to work for free," Wellington stated. "What've ya got?"

Frank visibly hesitated, but eventually sighed. "We've got nine-hundred credits saved for a rainy day back at the homestead, and I can part with six-hundred more, if I must."

Well shit, maybe I can afford to make it off of this miserable rock after all, Wellington thought, but was careful to keep his hopes in check. Despite Frank's large promises, Wellington still wasn't sure about his honesty. "Beef, analyze his speech pattern."

Frank raised an eyebrow in surprise and perhaps a bit of concern. When Beef answered, he did so through the speakers on Wellington's helmet as well. "My analysis indicates that citizen "Frank" is telling the truth."

"Titans can do that?" Frank asked.

"It's a trade secret, and I'd consider it a great personal favor if you decided not to share that little tidbit," Wellington replied. "Fifteen-hundred credits… word of advice Frank; The next time you hire a merc, open with that next time. It would've saved me a lot of internal debate."

For the first time, the beleaguered father smiled. "So you'll help me?"

"I'll give it my all. But I won't lie, the odds don't look good. If circumstances were a little different for me, I'd have probably said no," Wellington answered, opting for brutal honesty. "In fact, when we're done here, you might want to keep going down to the Spaceport. If I end up getting killed out there, you'll need the help."

Frank, to Wellington's surprise, hardly seemed discouraged. "Thank you, I can't express how much of a relief this is. There's a few things you'll need to know…"

---

The Following Afternoon

Outskirts of the Patrick's Homestead

Wellington took a knee in the cold dirt, leaning on his rifle as he looked up at his towering friend. They'd been walking for hours, with Wellington taking breaks in Beef's cockpit to keep them moving. "Pull up the map again, would you Beef? There's no sense in attacking without a plan."

The Legion-Class Titan adjusted one of his "eyes," and from the glowing optic emerged a holographic map. It wasn't perfect, but based on Frank's descriptions and assistance, as well as some honest-to-god paper maps that a friend of Frank's had loaned them, they'd assembled a pretty solid 3D representation of the Patrick's Homestead.

It was a fairly sizable place given the planet's small population, with eight small sheds for equipment and/or utilities, a large farmhouse, two large barns which were probably still filled with livestock, and a grain silo. The homestead was surrounded by seas of barley, wheat, and corn, broken up by rows of evergreen pines roughly every two-hundred meters.

Perhaps most importantly of all was the small but sophisticated hydroelectric power plant, which depending on the IMC's intentions, had possibly been disabled or destroyed. Their destruction of the homestead's radio mast already struck Wellington as a bit off, as most of the time, the IMC valued developed infrastructure more than they valued their own personnel.

"Loadsa ground to cover here… we'll have our hands full," Wellington idly commented, briefly drawing his dataknife and making sure it was functional, before putting it back in its sheath. "What're your thoughts, Beef?"

"We can expect marksmen on the rooftops of the taller structures in compliance with standard IMC doctrine. The farmhouse and the grain silo are the most likely candidates," Beef declared, his monotone robotic voice perfectly fitting the dry discussion of strategy which, at times, Wellington could find quite tiresome. "Squads with Anti-Titan weapons will likely be stationed towards the center of the homestead."

Wellington nodded along, briefly running an inspection on his revolver as he listened. The Wingman Elite was his weapon of choice in almost any given situation. Obsolete design be damned, the classical "big iron" worked better than it had any real right to. "And the Titan?"

"If the hostile titan is a Northstar-Class, we may also find it in the center of the homestead," Beef answered. "Alternatively, it may be kept in reserve, possibly away from the homestead's territory entirely."

Wellington couldn't help but frown. There were far too many unknowns that they were basing their plan on. "Half of this is totally out of line with IMC doctrine already. I have to imagine there was a change in leadership… What else could have inspired all of this?"

"Whatever the case is, it is a variable we cannot control," Beef pointed out, to which Wellington had no reply other than to grumble and nod. "If the hostile Titan is a Ronin-Class, it will almost certainly be kept off of the homestead's territory, and react accordingly to our plan."

"And probably rip us up something fierce in the process," Wellington grumbled. "Lovely. Any chance we could go hunting for any stragglers around the homestead's perimeter?"

Wellington literally felt Beef's disagreement through their neural link before the Titan even spoke. "I calculate an eighty-one percent chance that we will be detected and bogged-down by enemy forces. The subpar terrain would also drastically reduce our odds of victory."

Hmmm, hadn't thought of that, Wellington had to admit to himself. While the dense evergreen forest would offer up suitable cover for him and Beef, it would do the same for the enemy, and that was something he was obviously hoping to avoid. "What's your proposal?"

"We adhere to our proven tactics," Beef answered. "You will infiltrate the homestead and neutralize as many hostiles as you can. Once you are compromised or you call for me, I will launch a frontal assault along the path of least resistance. From there, we link up and destroy the garrison with our superior firepower."

Wellington had to admit, it was probably their best chance of success. While he would've preferred to have a handful of cloaking modules for such a mission, he'd simply have to make do with doing things the old fashioned way. If he were discovered, there was scarcely a better distraction than a Legion-Class, particularly one clad in a bold coat of red and wielding a Predator Cannon.

A chuckle escaped Wellington's mouth before he could help himself. "You very much match the stereotype of the Legions, you know that?"

"Analyzing," Beef declared. "Legion-Class Titans are well-known for favoring head-on offensives and exploiting overwhelming firepower. Conclusion: you are correct."

Wellington outright laughed before shaking his head and running a brief inspection on his other gun. Doubling as both his anti-titan and long-range option, his Royal Ordnance L77 Gauss Rifle was his second pride and joy, right after Beef himself. It was furnished with treated hickory wood from the few remaining forests on Earth, and bore a remarkable resemblance to the ancient Martini-Henry breech loader rifle.

Given its obsolete operational method, exorbitant price, and the fact that fewer than five-hundred rifles were ever made, the L77 was decidedly an aristocrat's weapon. Nevertheless, it was a weapon that Wellington had put to great use through the exploitation of its greatest attribute: raw stopping power. At full charge, the weapon could knock out the main gun of a Paladin Tank, and had a similarly nasty effect on Titans. As for what it did to regular Humans… there simply wasn't much left when it got through with them.

Wellington's particular example was a weapon he'd rather shamelessly stolen from his superior officer during his defection from the IMC. The weapon's former owner had named the weapon "Thunder," in honor of the truly cacophonous sound that it made while obliterating the sound barrier. Naturally, Wellington had taken the fairly unimaginative title and given the royal weapon a far more fitting name:

Churchill.

Drawing a slug from his chest rig, Wellington loaded Churchill and cycled the power system. With the safety on it wouldn't fire, but the familiar hum of the weapon still filled him with a familiar excitement. "Right then Beef, we'll have it your way. You hold back here and get yourself sorted, and keep a low profile… well, as low as you can, anyway."

"Engaging Guard Mode." Beef replied simply.

Well, no time like the present. Wellington thought, as he began creeping towards the homestead.

---

It was nearly midnight when Wellington finally made his way through the concertina wire fence and into the borders of the Patrick's Homestead. Not even a kilometer away, Beef lurked in the cold moonless night, moving as little as possible with all of his external lights powered off to maintain stealth. They were maintaining radio silence in order to avoid detection through that avenue as well.

Of course, none of that's gonna matter if one of these pricks has a FLIR scope, Wellington thought rather grimly. For as quiet and dark as Beef could make himself, he was still a Titan, and on a thermal optic he'd stand out like a decent person in the House of Lords. Suppose there's nothin' we can do about that…

The thick fields of unharvested crops offered Wellington the perfect avenue of approach into the homestead, so long as he was careful to avoid making too much noise. His first and foremost goal was to locate the enemy Titan, followed shortly thereafter by finding where the IMC were keeping their newly-captured slaves.

Quietly and quickly, he moved deeper into the homestead until he found himself at the base of the grain silo. Just as Beef had predicted, there was a pair of marksmen on the rooftop, posing a serious threat to both him and Beef with their Kraber anti-material rifle.

Pistol and rifle are too loud, and I can't climb up to use the knife… Wellington rapidly ran through his options, before finally settling on the lone satchel charge on his belt.

Discreetly, he removed the safety and slid the explosive into a small burrow that a rodent of some kind must have made leading under the silo. With the bomb now concealed, he slipped away, feeling perhaps a bit guilty about the fact that he was going to blow up a part of Frank's homestead.

Still no sign of that Titan… Wellington noted. Was it too much to hope that it had been transferred away from the homestead once the place was secured? The IMC did have a dire shortage of Pilots and Titans, and it would've made sense. Then again, he'd learned the hard way that the IMC rarely did things that made sense; and the farther up the chain of command you went, the further from sense you were bound to find yourself.

With no sign of the titan and at least one major obstacle guaranteed to be removed from the inevitable battle, the next step was finding the captive civilians. The most logical assumption was that they were being kept in the farmhouse, and so that was his first stop.

The crops offered him good cover once again as he made his way to the farmhouse, only to discover an IMC rifleman on guard. Evidently their night vision goggles weren't very good, as Wellington was able to almost effortlessly evade them and peek into the lower story windows. Inside, much to his concern, were more riflemen. There must've been at least eight of them in one room alone, most of whom were sleeping. A more thorough search of the other windows confirmed his theory, and by the time that he'd rounded back to the first window, he was all but certain that none of the settlers were in the farmhouse.

Wellington fought the urge to swear aloud, keeping his frustration to himself. Where the hell are they?

Slowly he began to back away from the window… only to step on a fallen branch from one of the towering evergreens. His blood ran cold and the hairs on his arms stood on end. To him, it was the loudest sound he'd ever heard.

Around the corner, he heard the rifleman on watch move. "What the fuck was that?"

Time slowed down as Wellington was faced with the oldest choice known to man, fight or flight. With considerable frustration and fear, he realized that evasion would've been a fool's errand, with no cloaking device his only line of escape was to move quickly through the fields, where he'd surely be heard again.

Leaving him with only one real option.

In one hand he withdrew the detonator for the satchel charge beneath the grain silo, and in the other, his only gravity star. If he was going to have a snowball's chance in hell at surviving until Beef arrived he needed to kill the grunts who were using the farmhouse as their barracks, and fast. Thankfully, he had a hastily put-together plan in mind.

Putting his plan into action without hesitation, he triggered the detonator, and felt a sharp bit of satisfaction as the satchel charge blew the grain silo to smithereens. The deafening roar of the blast no doubt woke everybody on the homestead, and the towering fireball gave the impression of an early sunrise.

The next step was a bit odd, but crucial. He threw the used detonator through the farmhouse window as hard as he possibly could. Gratifyingly the glass gave way without issue, clearing the way for his other thrown weapon.

One distinct feature of the gravity star was its impact fuze, which did not give a damn about how far the thrower was from the weapon when it activated. But with the window now gone, Wellington's gravity star merrily soared through the window unobstructed, embedding itself in a no-doubt very expensive and ancient grandfather clock before activating.

Wellington paid no further mind to the chaos he'd just caused, ignoring the screaming of the soldiers who were now caught in the point of intense gravity. He could also distinctly hear the sound of shattering glass, the crashing of furniture and many other objects being sucked into the chaos, and the house itself straining under the force. Again, he ignored it, as he had bigger concerns.

"Beef, get the hell over here!" Wellington shouted into his helmet's radio as he deployed one more trick that he had up his sleeve, a holographic copy of himself.

The faux-Wellington quickly took off back the way that he had approached the window from, and as he'd hoped, convinced the rifleman who had been standing guard outside the farmhouse that it was the real infiltrator. By the time that the grunt realized his mistake, Wellington had already swept the man's legs out from under him and finished him off with a swift stab from his data knife.

It couldn't have taken more than a couple of seconds from the detonation to stabbing the guard, but it felt like hours had gone by.

"Engaging follow mode," Beef calmly replied to his earlier request, a clear determination present in his otherwise monotone voice.

Now comes the hard part… Wellington thought as he drew his revolver. There were still thirteen civilians that needed to be rescued, and he had no idea where they were.

Before he could even finish thinking up his next move, two wounded grunts stumbled out of the front door of the farmhouse with rifles in hand, still dazed from the effects of the gravity star. With no hesitation, Wellington shot them both dead with his Wingman Elite. He waited for another moment, pistol at the ready, but no further hostiles emerged.

Across the homestead, the sound of rifle fire erupted in conjunction with the occasionally visible muzzle flash, only for both to be utterly drowned out by the distinct and intimidating roar of Beef's Predator Cannon. The eight-barrels of the rotary cannon produced a series of muzzle flashes so bright that the visor of Wellington's helmet automatically adjusted its polarization to compensate for the bright light in the darkness.

"Hostile infantry engaged," Beef reported casually.

"Any sign of their Titan?"

As if in reply, a series of gunshots landed around him, and he dashed into the cover of the crops and trees once more. A brief inspection of the source of the gunfire revealed even more IMC grunts coming to kill him, accompanied with cries of "Hostile Pilot!" and "Come on, we can corner him!"

As Wellington returned fire, Beef answered him with the news that he'd been dreading. "Negative, but I am detecting an increase in outgoing IMC radio traffic. They may be calling for help."

"Bloody terrific!" Wellington bitterly replied, only to involuntarily cry out in pain as one of the incoming bullets grazed his right arm. Momentarily forced to drop his revolver, he unslung Churchill and fired off a partially-charged shot back at the offending grunt, blasting them into a foggy red mist. The rest of the grunts were momentarily intimidated by the display of firepower, giving him a moment to collect his revolver again, hastily inject himself with a stimpack, and take a moment to steady his breathing. "Shit… Beef; I could use a hand here!"

Right on cue, his gallant metal friend turned his fire towards the grunts that had Wellington pinned down. Every last one of them was hastily torn apart in a hail of cannon fire that was as terrible as it was familiar. Once the gunfire had stopped, Wellington uncovered his head and saw that Beef was only a few dozen meters away. With a hasty sprint, he rushed over to his Titan, who promptly picked him up in a large metal hand and seated him in the cockpit.

"Welcome back, Wellington," Beef greeted him as he got comfortable and took the controls. "The Smart Core is ninety-seven percent charged."

"Bloody good to be back mate, now we've just got to find those civvies…" Wellington replied, making a mental note of the state of their most powerful asset. "We'll check the barns, that's my next best guess."

"The northernmost barn has an unusually-high thermal signature," Beef pointed out, highlighting the relevant position on Wellington's Heads-up-Display. "I suggest that we begin our search there."

With no objection, Wellington began walking over towards the barn, leaving large indents in the soil with every footfall. Over four years of experience being Beef's Pilot had left Wellington well-acquainted with both the manual controls and the operation of their neural link. Wellington had found the neural link to be a bit sluggish, with IMC doctors unable to decipher what exactly was causing the noticeable lag in his connection with Beef. As a result, he generally relied on the manual backup controls to handle more basic things like walking.

The pair approached the barn with their Predator Cannon raised, more than ready to open fire if the need arose. While it was possible that the barn was host to the slaves, it was equally possible that it was simply holding an unusually-hot piece of farming equipment, or-

Wellington realized, too late, what they were marching themselves into. Like some kind of western-American gunslinger, the enemy's Titan kicked open the double doors of the barn and casually strolled out. As Wellington had predicted, it was a Stryder-Type, more specifically the sword-wielding Ronin-Class, but that wasn't what caught his attention as the opposing Titan came to a halt outside the barn.

Standing just before the Ronin's feet were two human-sized figures. With Beef's enhanced optics, Wellington could identify them as clearly as day; an older woman and a teenage boy, the latter of which bore a remarkable resemblance to Frank. Both were noticeably holding back tears of terror as they seemed to look him straight in the eyes, begging to be saved. The Ronin kept the barrels of his Leadwall revolving-shotgun aimed squarely at the hostages, making his intention clear as day.

"Goddamnit…" Wellington grumbled. He kept his finger on the Predator Cannon's trigger and kept the Ronin's Cockpit targeted.

"Well, lookie here boys, we've got ourselves an outlaw!" The hostile Titan's Pilot taunted him in a thick southern drawl. Behind him, a small fireteam of IMC riflemen fanned out to cover the Ronin's flanks. "Unlucky for you, the Sheriff's in town, and he's here to lay down the law!"

"Oh give me a fuckin' break," Wellington grumbled in reply. "Beef, gimme the bullhorn. Take the gun, but don't fire unless this prick does."

"Transferring speaker controls to Pilot, adjusting fire protocols," Beef complied.

Taking a moment to configure the volume, Wellington issued his reply to the enemy Pilot. "Keep those grunts where I can see them, Pilot. You're not the only one here with leverage."

As if to demonstrate exactly what Wellington was talking about, Beef momentarily spun the barrels of the Predator Cannon, and he noticed how some of the grunts nervously glanced at one another. In a straight gunfight, the odds were firmly against them, but this was a situation far divorced from the idea of a straight gunfight.

The hostile Pilot, however, was far too busy bursting out in a fit of laughter to be intimidated. "Oh my sweet baby Jesus, get a load of this guy! What the fuck kinda accent is that?"

Wellington fought the urge to rub his forehead as the hostile pilot laughed maniacally at his expense. "This is why I hate the Frontier…"

Apparently he'd left the loudspeaker on, as the hostile pilot was quick to reply, once he'd managed to stifle his laughter. "Oh, chin up outlaw! Just because you're a city boy doesn't mean we can't make a deal!"

"Right you are," Wellington replied. Although there was realistically very little hope of a peaceful resolution to their standoff, it did, crucially, give him and Beef the time to think up a way to get the hostages to safety. "Name your demands."

"Name 'em? What for? I hardly know 'em!" The hostile pilot said, cackling again with wild delight. A few of the grunts joined in the laughing as well, and judging by the exhausted looks on the hostages faces, this was hardly a new occurrence.

In the midst of the madman's laughter, Beef quietly sent him a radio transmission, an easy way for them to speak privately. "Wellington, I calculate a one-percent chance of successful negotiations. I suggest we take action."

Wellington double-checked that the loudspeaker was off before saying to Beef, "I'm open to ideas."

"I can use the tertiary weapon to damage the hostile Titan's weapon, possibly disabling it."

Wellington was not blind to the key word in Beef's statement. "Possibly?"

"I cannot guarantee success, but I have no better alternative."

Wellington only pondered it for a moment. There was no better option. "Beef, you're only gonna get one shot at this…"

"Correct, the weapon's recharging mechanism is still broken," Beef nonchalantly replied.

Cheeky git, Wellington thought. Well, one shot from that would charge our Core all the way, and that would let us mince the grunts…

Once more, Wellington was forced into doing nothing more than keeping a stiff upper lip as his decision was effectively made for him. "Make it count, mate."

"I will," Beef answered, pausing a moment before adding, "Trust me."

Wordlessly, Beef returned control of the Predator Cannon to him, and Wellington reactivated the loudspeaker. Doomed or not, he was going to give the kidnappers one last chance to resolve things peacefully. "Enough! Quit your laughing and state what you want!"

The hostile Titan's optic blinked, before narrowing as the Pilot answered. "Alrighty then you stinkin' redcoat… Twenty-thousand credits, and we'll be on our way. And don't tell me you can't afford it, you Militia goons have been robbing us blind for years!"

Recognizing that explaining his lack of a connection to the Frontier Militia would've been largely pointless, Wellington switched off the loudspeaker for good. One way or another, things were about to get hot. "On your cue Beef."

Several tense seconds of waiting passed as Wellington glared through his displays at the enemy Titan, mentally daring the IMC Pilot to make the first move. His instincts told him to pull the trigger while he had the enemy Titan in his sight, but he forced himself to have patience.

Patience…

After entirely too much waiting for Wellington's tastes, the Ronin shifted their feet, likely a subconscious move made by the enemy pilot as they prepared to taunt him once more. Whatever the case was, the barrels of their leadwall momentarily trained away from the hostages, and Beef took the opportunity.

Atop Beef's left shoulder blade, a small concealed hatch hastily opened and revealed his tertiary weapon, a Laser Shot taken from a fallen Ion-Class Titan. In less than a second, the weapon was revealed, aimed, charged, and fired. All of the IMC riflemen leapt in surprise as the enemy Titan glanced down at their ruined Leadwall. "Motherfucker!"

Unfortunately, the Leadwall was a Ronin's secondary weapon.

With dramatic flair, the enemy Ronin reached onto their back and clasped their massive broadsword in their mechanical hands. Enemy rifle fire ricocheted off of Beef's cockpit as the IMC grunts opened fire. Wellington, however, was far too busy listening to what he'd been waiting for Beef to tell him. "Smart Core, ready."

The Core of each Titan was, by nature of the equipment, its most powerful weapon. Beef, a Legion-Class, was no exception to the rule. His Smart Core would take control of targeting the Predator Cannon, and by linking the massive gun to a second belt of smart, programmable ammunition, temporarily increase the weapon's effective accuracy to nearly one-hundred percent.

With no hesitation, and not a millisecond to waste, Wellington threw the switch.

Beef's Predator Cannon roared with unrestrained fury as the hostages and rifleman dove for cover. Within two seconds, all of the riflemen had been reduced to chum as the high-caliber rounds literally steered themselves into the unfortunate mercenaries. The hostages, being marked by Beef's AI as non-combatantants, were spared the massacre and huddled on the ground as the opposing Ronin, predictably, vanished in a puff of smoke and distorted light.

Hostages are safe… now for the easy part. Wellington thought as he grinned. Mental as he might've been, there was undeniably a part of him that reveled in the thrill of a Titan duel.

To an untrained observer, it would've seemed as though the enemy Titan had simply disappeared. That was partially true. Unique to the Ronin Class was a phase-dash module, allowing the Titan to temporarily exit normal space and travel a short distance before emerging once more. The intention of the device was to permit the Titan to close the distance with the enemy in relative safety, as a charging Titan was very vulnerable. It made the Ronin a particularly dangerous class of Titan, especially in close-quarters.

"Beef?" Wellington asked.

Without any further elaboration needed, his Titan obligingly ran a quick sensor scan. "Scopes are dark," Beef hastily answered as Wellington swept the barrels of the Predator Cannon from side to side, waiting for their target to reappear. "The enemy Titan has not-"

As if on cue, a loud whooshing sound signaled the Ronin's return to normal space… directly behind them. Wellington's mind worked in tandem with Beef's AI as they dashed forward, very narrowly avoiding the Ronin's first slash with its sword as they brought the Predator Cannon to bear. The range between them was absolutely paltry, ten meters at most, and it would take the much-faster Ronin a mere moment to close the distance.

But a moment was a long time for a Predator Cannon to work.

Wellington squeezed the trigger and spat hellfire at the opposing Titan as Beef brought them backward to widen the gap. He managed to blast quite a few nasty-looking holes in the opposing Titan's hull, and even darken one of its backup optics, in the brief moment that it took for the Ronin to raise its blade as a shield.

The opposing Titan had been battered, but not defeated, and Wellington could practically feel the determination of his IMC counterpart. The Ronin retaliated with skill and dexterity, bringing its broadsword to bear and dashing forward. With a flash of small detonations and a flurry of sparks, the mechanical behemoth cleaved the front half of Beef's Predator Cannon off.

A chill ran down Wellington's spine. In retrospect, he really should have seen that coming. The Predator Cannon was the Legion's only mainline weapon; in one move, the opposing Titan had rendered them almost defenseless. But in a joint motion between man and machine, Beef and Wellington both cast aside the destroyed Predator Cannon in unison and clenched their metallic fists.

Almost.

Wellington wasted no time in delivering a hefty right hook to the "face" of the enemy Titan, grinning as he saw the light Ronin's primary optic blink… and then go black.

"Aarrgghh!" the enemy Pilot roared with fury and again they brought their blade down.

Wellington flinched even before it hit, knowing there was no way that he and Beef were going to dodge the blow. The armor of Beef's left shoulder was split as though it were paper, and sparks flew into the cockpit, which Wellington did his best to ignore as he retaliated with another harsh punch.

Far from a strategic duel between Pilots, this was a glorified pub fight. The two Titans traded blows, and although Beef's fists were hardly a match for the Ronin's sword, the lasting damage from his now-lost Predator Cannon was clearly weighing on the thinly-protected hull of the enemy Titan.

"Warning, sustaining major damage." Beef reported as they took yet another blow from the Ronin's sword.

Yet, as it landed, Wellington noted that the weight of the impact this time around was lessened. Compared to the first blow they had taken, it was little more than a grazing hit.

"Just keep punching this bastard!" Wellington practically spat back. "There's no turning back now!"

Beef obliged, but as he pulled his mostly-intact right arm back for another swing, the Ronin reacted. With a speed and strength that was far outside of what Wellington had expected it to still be capable of, it launched a downwards slash at Beef's outstretched arm, severing it at the elbow.

Beef and Wellington staggered backwards, the lights in the cockpit flickering badly as the damage took its toll on Beef's circuits. Wellington could sense that Beef was on his last legs, and it was readily apparent that even if his power core was still intact, he was out of the fight. "Steady," he ordered, as much for his benefit as for Beef's. "Steady!"

At the same time, through Beef's flickering displays, Wellington watched as the Ronin fell to one knee, impaling the ground with its blade to steady itself. Even so, it shuddered, and it was clear to see that the battle was not yet lost.

Wellington narrowed his eyes, there was only one way that this battle was still winnable. "Beef, hang back."

He reached for the switch to open the canopy. Beef immediately protested, his built-in protocol to protect the Pilot no doubt kicking in. "Pilot, I advise against-"

"I've got this mate," Wellington replied as he grabbed Churchill, his heads-up-display confirming that he'd remembered to reload it. "Trust me."

Beef remained silent for a moment, before finally replying, "Good luck, Wellington."

With no small amount of trepidation, Wellington threw the hatch open and leapt out of Beef's cockpit. He landed in the muddy ground and immediately began to charge Churchill's capacitors. Aiming the muzzle squarely at the Ronin's cockpit. He wasn't entirely confident that his shot would strike the opposing Pilot, but with the state of the Ronin's hull, there was little debate about whether or not Churchill could punch through the armor. The question then was if he could avoid taking the risk at all, and perhaps even take a prisoner.

Be a damn shame if I had to kill him. Sure he's an evil prick, but so was I, and he's a hell of a Pilot… Wellington thought. Either way, it couldn't hurt to try.

"Give it up already, you goddamn moron!" Wellington shouted. "Or would you want to die here? I'll happily oblige!"

The enemy Titan's loudspeaker crackled to life, the quality of the Pilot's speech clearly affected by the damage his Titan had suffered. "Heh, you've got spirit, outlaw, I'll give you that. You really still want to try and fight me, even without a Titan?"

"By my count I've still got my gun, and you're down to your knife," Wellington highlighted. "Make no mistake, I've got the firepower to gut your Titan from front to back!"

The opposing Pilot was silent for a moment, his Titan's last remaining optic shifting around as though looking for a way out of the situation he'd gotten caught in. Finally, he returned his attention back to Wellington. "Alright then… suppose I did surrender. Who's to say your Militia pals aren't gonna string me up anyway?"

It was a bit hard to discern the tone of the enemy Pilot through the static and popping, but Wellington could almost swear that the man sounded… remorseful? Luckily for him, he had a friend who was much better at sniffing out liars, and so he switched onto a private radio line with his Titan. "Beef?"

"My analysis of the Sheriff's voice pattern is inconclusive, the damage to his loudspeaker is affecting my algorithms." Beef answered his unspoken question.

"We are not calling him… oh, later." Wellington replied. It looked like he was going to be taking some risks after all. "Look, I'm not with the Militia, I'm freelance. I was hired-"

As he spoke, however, the enemy Pilot seemed to sense the fact that he was distracted. Subtly but noticeably, his Titan shifted its grip on the broadsword, his intent clear. In reply, Wellington took aim and fired… but not at the cockpit.

With a dexterous snapshot, the Ronin's hand and fingers flew off of its chassis in pieces as Churchill roared, the coilgun slug obliterating the sound barrier to such a degree that it caused some of the civilians cowering in the barn to scream in surprise.

As Wellington reloaded, the Ronin examined its newly-disfigured arm as the Pilot huffed with annoyance. "Alright, I'll give you that one, outlaw… nice shot."

"My offer stands. Come quietly. You don't have to die here today." Wellington replied. This time, he kept Churchill aimed squarely at the cockpit, making his intentions clear as day if the Ronin's Pilot didn't comply.

For a brief tense moment, they stood off in silence. The opposing Pilot didn't comply immediately, but Wellington failed to see how he didn't hold all of the cards… up until the very moment that the Ronin vanished once more.

Phase dash, goddamnit! Wellington thought, astonished that the Ronin still had the ability to perform such a strenuous maneuver. He leapt back with his Jump Kit, expecting the Ronin to reappear just before him and try to squish him to death… but instead, the Ronin reappeared some distance away, and began to run into the treeline.

"Sorry outlaw, maybe another time!" The Ronin's Pilot taunted him over the loudspeaker. Wellington aimed and fired, but even though his shot landed true, it failed to disable or destroy the Ronin. Whether or not the pilot inside survived… was anybody's guess. Either way, it continued to run until it was no longer visible.

Wellington casually reloaded as Beef strode up next to him, extending his remaining arm out. "Wellington, while I believe that our chances of catching up to him are minimal-"

"Let him go, Beef," Wellington reluctantly replied, looking off into the treeline, eyes narrowed behind his visor. "...We got what we came here for. Break radio silence and ring up Frank, tell him we won."

Beef looked off into the forest as well, and while Wellington could imagine that his programming was telling him to pursue and destroy the enemy… he knew that Beef would back his decision, no matter what.

Not like we could've caught him anyway. Much as I love the bastard, Beef's not exactly as spry as a Ronin, even on a good day… Wellington thought as he slung Churchill over his shoulder, and turned to go and greet the civilians that he and Beef had rescued. Then again, thirteen souls saved. If that's not a good day, what is?

---

It didn't take long for Frank to return to his family's homestead.

Contrary to Wellington's expectations of the man returning in a truck or perhaps a civilian aircraft, he instead landed in a Widow. The massive military dropship was purpose built for deploying an entire squad of Titans in one go. It could only mean one thing, Frank had done as Wellinngton had suggested, and sought out backup.

Curiously, the transport didn't bear the typical markings of the Frontier Militia, instead being adorned with a custom logo depicting the numbers "6" and "4." Ultimately, Wellington paid the dropship and its occupants little mind. He still had work to do.

Sleeping would've been a foolish and irresponsible thing to do while he was the only one around to guard the civilians, and so he'd kept himself awake with stimpacks as he worked on repairs. While the Titan only had one arm and the capability to do little more than walk, getting Beef back into working order was his top priority.

To their credit, the grateful denizens of the Homestead had offered what help and tools they could. Still, it was like putting a bandaid on a broken bone. The damage was such that Wellington had to ponder whether or not Beef was going to need a replacement chassis.

Suppose I know what we're spending the money on… Wellington thought pessimistically. Still, no matter how badly he wanted to get as far away from Artemis as possible, his last friend was far more important. Not like I'd be welcome back home anyway…

"Wellington?"

Beef's voice shook him from his stupor. Exhaustion and distraction were starting to get the better of him. It didn't help that impaired focus was one of the most common side effects of stim abuse, which his current actions probably qualified as.

Lowering his plasma torch, he matched his eyes against the glowing blue optics of his friend. "Yes, Beef?"

"Your vital signs are erratic," Beef told him, compassion somehow shining through his monotone voice. "I would advise undertaking no more hard labor for the rest of the day, and not taking another stim for at least the next seventy-two hours. You also will need to change your bandages soon."

Wellington couldn't help but sigh in response, before reluctantly switching off his tool and putting it aside. "Yeah… thanks mate. It's nice to know you're looking out for me."

"Protocol Three: Protect the Pilot." Beef dutifully recited.

For a moment Wellington considered saying something in response, but the right words eluded him. Instead, he sat down and leaned against one of Beef's legs, reassured by the solid and familiar metal.

He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been resting there, but at some point he must've dozed off. When he was awoken, it was by somebody gently prodding him with their foot.

"Pilot."

"Eh, what?" Wellington grumbled, before looking up to see another Pilot. It was a woman clad in white, and she was looking down at him as though she were a bit confused.

"Were you asleep?" the woman asked in an accent that was surprisingly not unlike his own.

"Might as well have been," Wellington admitted as he stood up. "I take it you're the reinforcements that Frank managed to find?"

She held out her hand for him to shake, which he accepted. "Frank tells me you're called Wellington. I'm Captain Gates, commanding officer of the 6-4."

In his addle-minded state, he hadn't entirely processed the meaning behind the insignia on the Widow until Gates, somewhat literally, woke him up. "Hey, I've heard of you. A buncha heroes innit? Helped the Militia save our asses out on Typhon."

"I'm surprised you heard about that way out here," Gates remarked, but was quick to shift the topic. "Frank mentioned you were a Freelancer on the flight over."

"That I am, myself and my only friend in life here," Wellington grumbled in response, gesturing a thumb upwards towards Beef's "face."

Beef'd better be ready to step in, I'm no good with a gun like this; although I doubt she's asking because she wants to steal the reward money… Wellington thought. Although Captain Gates and her now-legendary 6-4 mercenary company had earned their fame during the Battle of Typhon not too long ago, he'd heard of them even before that. They had a reputation for being some tough-as-nails folks, well-kitted, but also having a bit of a code of honor as to the jobs that they took.

As Wellington understood it, the only reason why the 6-4 wasn't an official unit in the Frontier Militia was because they didn't like to be told what to do, which he related to quite a lot. In a way, they were a bit like him. Only they had friends, money, and were just in general more successful.

"And why is that?" Gates asked.

"Why am I Freelance?" he mirrored the question, unsure he'd even heard it correctly. "Well, I fragged my C.O in the IMC after Demeter fell, for some reasons I'd rather not get into. After that, Beef and I-"

Gates, unsurprisingly, interrupted him. "Beef? Your Titan is named Beef?"

"That's his name," Wellington answered. If she truly wanted the full story, she could have it later. "Anyway after that Beef and I struck out on our own. We considered joining up with the Militia, but… well, let's just say I wasn't convinced that it wasn't gonna turn out the same way the IMC did."

Gates, somewhat to his surprise, actually nodded. "I respect that. The militia has had some… darker times. There's a reason why the 6-4 operates independently."

Wellington, for his part, had to think about her words for a few extra seconds before their meaning clicked. Clearly, it was either time for another stimpack or to wrap things up. "Is there something I can do for you ma'am? Not that I mind ya, but I've not slept in almost two days."

Gates was silent as she looked him over, before looking up at Beef, almost as though she were sizing them up. "Frank tells me you ran into an IMC Pilot while you were wiping out the garrison here which, might I add, is an impressive feat for a single pilot and his Titan to pull off."

Unsure of how to respond to the compliment, Wellington opted to answer what he could. "Yeah, he had a Ronin Titan. Bloke never said his name but called himself "The Sheriff," and talked like an American."

For the first time since Gates had started their conversation, Beef spoke up. "I have several stored audio samples of the hostile pilot's speech."

Gates listened intently to Beef before looking back to Wellington. "Sounds like he might be one of the bounties we're after… I don't suppose you'd mind sharing?"

"Sure. Beef, play it back." Wellington instructed.

His Titan did as he asked, playing back some of what the enemy Pilot had said during the negotiations and battle. All the while, Wellington and Gates looked up at him and listened.

When he was done, Wellington leaned in towards Gates. "Now my good friend here may be a baritone, but I can confirm that is what "The Sheriff" sounded like."

Gates stood, seemingly in silent thought, with her arms crossed, and it took a moment for Wellington to realize that she was probably talking to the rest of the 6-4 through her helmet's radio. After a minute or so, however, she turned to face him. "His voice matches up with some of the samples from our target. Frank mentioned that he escaped, can you shine some light on that?"

Wellington inadvertently flinched as he realized that he was going to have to confess to his own mistake. "It… was my fault. He said something that made me think that maybe he might be willing to surrender. I…"

Really don't want to get into it. Wellington silently finished his sentence, admittedly more than a little done with their conversation. So far Gates had been polite and professional, but he was exhausted and slowly being lulled into a stupor by a cocktail of stimpacks and painkillers.

Gates, refreshingly, demonstrated a patience that put shame to all of his former comrades with her softly-spoken response. Except, of course, for Beef. "I just want to know where he went."

Beef interjected with the answer she was looking for. "The hostile Titan was last seen in a badly damaged state, escaping through the treeline to the north."

Beef gestured to the position in question where the Ronin had disappeared through, where broken branches could still be seen on the evergreen trees.

"The Pilot was in the cabin, and may have been either injured or killed by a shot from Wellington's rifle that was fired one second before they broke line-of-sight." Beef concluded.

Gates let out a long breath. "He couldn't have gotten far, assuming he's still alive. I'll send some of my Pilots after him, thank you."

Beef remained silent, so Wellington decided to speak up. "Don't mention it ma'am."

Again, Gates remained silent for a moment, either in thought or speaking to the rest of her company, before she spoke again. "There was one other thing. I take it you're between jobs right now?"

Wellington raised an eyebrow, was she actually going to offer him a job? "I'm not quite available if that's what you're asking. I still need to pick up the payment from Frank, and I need to get Beef back into working order… poor bastard might need a new chassis."

"My team could get him fixed, although we only do work on our own Titans," Gates replied. "That said, if you wanted, I'd be happy to sign you on with the 6-4."

A faint bit of disbelief came over Wellington as he processed her words. He knew demand for Pilots was high, but he figured that out of all of the factions in the Frontier, the 6-4 weren't in the market for new manpower. "I'm surprised you're offering, mind you, far from displeased. Are you sure?"

Gates nodded. "Two of my own had to part ways with us recently, and although I'm not happy about losing parts of my family, I recognize that we're understrength. Besides, you've certainly got what it takes."

Family. Wellington's mind latched onto that word in particular. When was the last time he'd belonged with anybody, let alone a proper family? The IMC? His own delinquent family who were presumably still alive back on Earth? He'd never truly felt like he "belonged" with any of them, and ultimately, there was only really one person whom he truly considered to be a part of his family.

His own mind made up, Wellington turned his gaze upwards. "What about you mate?"

"A repaired chassis would allow us to continue operating together," Beef answered with much the same mechanical logic that Wellington had expected. "My databases suggest that the 6-4 is a reputable and capable company, and would make for strong allies."

Wellington, in turn, looked back to Gates. "That's a yes from me as well. I'll want to review the terms of course, but I'll do that once I've slept."

Gates, however, still had her attention firmly on Beef. "Out of all of the Pilots that I've invited to join my family, you're the only one who asked their Titan for their thoughts on the matter."

Unsure of what to make of her observation, Wellington shrugged. "It wouldn't feel right if I roped him into something like this without asking for his say first."

It was hard to really gauge exactly what Gates was truly thinking behind her helmet, but she nodded. "Alright then… Why don't you get some sleep, we can talk business with Frank in the morning… I think he's going to need our help rebuilding, and you've still got to meet the rest of the team."

"Sounds good to me ma'am," Wellington said, returning to his spot sitting up against Beef's leg. "I'll be here if you need me."

"Take care, Pilot." Gates said.

Once she had gone, Beef raised him on a private radio line, and he obligingly answered him. "Something on your mind mate?"

"Yes. While Captain Gates seems to be telling the truth, I imagine she will react negatively when she learns of our past actions," Beef answered. "Do you intend to tell her the truth?"

A difficult question indeed, not because it was hard to answer, but because of the ramifications of his answer. "In the morning, Beef… she deserves to know she's taking in an outlaw."

"Correction," Beef replied. "Two outlaws."

"...Aye, fair enough," Wellington said. "Wake me if you need me mate."

Author's Notes: I was a fool not to play Titanfall 2 sooner than I actually have done now. What a truly magnificent game. The fact that plans for a sequel were paved over is nothing short of heartbreaking. Alas, with the current state of gaming, I wonder if it would even be good. Probably be monetized to all hell…

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story! This was a one-off but I might do more in the universe and with Beef and Wellington if there's demand and inspiration strikes.

It's been fun, I hope we get the chance to do it again.

-kpmh2001