Chapter Text
<< HULLL INTEGRITY AT 30% >>
This particular warning, louder than the countless proximity warnings and attack vector indicators that had been blaring in the penumbra of his war machine’s cockpit, was what it took for him to snap out of his carefully maintained war-trance.
And for what it mattered, Avignon Emperor Renard DeColde was not pleased about it.
He had complained about it incessantly during what little testing the Grand Archange had been put through: if you’re going to make a machine that relies on the pilot entering a perfect, zen-like state to operate at maximum capacity, then having a very loud warning bring them right out of it would tantamount to suicide. Yet the engineers, ever so meddlesome, simply went along with their plan despite nodding off in agreement with him. The condescending bastards.
Having them shot later on had been the right call, even if most of the charges were fabricated. It was unlikely he would have had any other chance to do so, given he’d been forced to basically run the war effort on his own – abandoned as he had been by the very men he’d appointed as advisors for this exact scenario.
As his colossal biomech impaled another enemy warship through a flurry of chitinous lashes, his thoughts wandered – fading in and out of the chemically-induced blood high he’d been so diligently locked into for hours on end now. Somehow, even the Ichor was failing him now: his own body feeling suddenly off-sync, as if his own nervous system was somehow experiencing packet loss.
For how annoying that hull integrity warning was, Renard knew that couldn’t have been the only cause for this sudden loss of focus – he just found himself somewhat short on the time necessary to run a diagnosis, busy as he was picking up the slack of his own planetary defense fleet. Whatever ailed his greater man-machine nervous system would be analyzed after he drove the Alliance invasion fleet away from his homeworld.
Block incoming fire, lashes. Dodge to the right, next target, punch. Grab the fleeing frigate, throw it at the other frigate. Rear attack warning, rear lashes out. He just needed to keep his head in the moment - just like Quatre told him. He’d be so proud to see him fight so well.
As tears began streaming down blood-shot eyes for the second time in the seemingly endless battle, time itself began melting into the whirlwind of chitin, steel and blood – and just like that, Renard believed to have found his focus once again. To the point where even the enemy’s movements themselves betrayed a gradual loss of confidence, culminating into what certainly looked like the beginning of a fleet-wide retreat.
They were afraid.
It all held a semblance of order, of course – despite its reputation, the Alliance Navy was an otherwise well-drilled force. Yet, anywhere he’d look, he could see them backing away – covering each other with volleys of suppressive fire as swarms of shining dots rocketed back to the ships closest to them. Despite having already shot down numerous escape pods, Renard let off, focusing instead on the fleet behind him: his own men, the Imperial Navy’s 1st Fleet. The same 1st Fleet that had suffered disproportionate casualties compared to their stated capabilities, and that had almost routed before he had a chance to sortie and personally turn the tide of the conflict.
No matter who’d win this fight, the Navy’s high command would be next on the chopping block.
And yet, despite the growing contempt for yet another branch of his empire betraying his trust, the emperor could feel a little spark of pride ignite his Ichor-blackened heart as he watched the surviving ships rally up behind him. A moment of beautiful defiance in the face these barbarous invaders...which was cut short by another, ever-troublesome cockpit warning.
<< UNABLE TO IDENTIFY INCOMING CRAFT – PLEASE PROCEED WITH MANUAL IDENTIFICATION >>
Pride, replaced by annoyance, replaced by confusion as a single fighter, of a shape neither him nor the Archange’s extensive data banks could recognize, was now barreling towards him from the crowd of enemy vessels - at a speed that would place it near mach 5, if it had been in atmospheric flight.
Renard’s mind, already strained from the hours of non-stop combat, tried putting together an explanation: maybe a defector, stealing a prototype as a bargaining chip...in the heat of battle, somehow. Maybe a fool, looking for his 5 seconds of fame. Maybe a kamikaze attack, one that didn’t consider how the last 250 attempted kamikaze attacks had gone during the battle. Maybe...
Maybe it was him.
Before he could finish the thought, Renard hailed the fighter.
No response.
<< SHIELD POWER-UP DETECTED >>
Well, then.
Whoever this pilot was, he was looking for a show – so who was Renard to deny it to him?
Surrounded by an audience of warship fallen silent, the Emperor ran both hands across his face before gripping the controls once more, chasing the sting of his neurojack as it administered a fresh dose of stimulants mixed with Ichor straight into his cranium.
One more for the road, as they said in the Alliance.