Iron Empire

Five: The Prowler

Report: Quinn
The interior of Dropship 13.
Russian airspace.

The rough metal tread of the hangar bay floor dug into my knees as I landed, gasping for breath. You never notice how suffocating it is inside a mech until you're outside once again. I stood shakily, slick with sweat, and laughed, raising my arms and enjoying the cool air on my skin.

Below me hung the Prototype. The mech's once-smooth armour was scuffed and chipped, pitted with dents from bullets and other projectiles. One plasma cannon hung from the mech's side, its long, bulbous frame scratched and bent.

The launcher on the opposite side of the mech, however, was much worse for wear. A twisted hunk of metal hung limp, emitting an occasional spark as power ran uselessly through the crippled unit. Lucas wouldn't be pleased.

The interior of Dropship 13 was a dim, vast space filled with mechs that hung down from mechanical arms like sleeping bats. Reddish-brown metal grates lined the walls as well as the floor, doubling as both a catwalk and protection for the pipes and wires that lined every exposed surface.

As far as dropships went, mine was a tiny unit, with enough space for several mechs but not much for anything else. The interior of the hangar was the size of a football field, yet when filled with mechs the space became dark and claustrophobic.

Mechanical arms raced past me overhead, each clawlike appendage mounted to the ceiling by a series of long tracks.

Mechs loomed over me from all sides, each one dwarfing the Prototype in size. I felt like an ant surrounded by giants.

The walkway lay before me, the only remaining space in the hangar not taken up by mechs. I followed it out of the hangar and further into the dropship.

Though I occasionally referred to the dropship as my own, in reality it belonged to Lucas, who cared for it deeply. I piloted the mechs in battle, but he piloted the transport that brought me there.

My boots clattered against the loose metal flooring as I marched up the stairs out of the hangar. A metal door hissed as it slid open, hydraulics moving swiftly to allow me access to the next room.

The hallway before me was as efficient in design as the hangar bay had been, a gently-lit, hexagonal corridor filled with storage lockers of various shapes and sizes. We didn't use the storage for much, so most were empty. The only indication of a more personal touch was a single green hammock that hung, suspended, in the long space between two open locker doors. At the end of the corridor, another airlock door stood before me.

This second door, though identical to the one behind me, refused to open. It sat there, remaining stubbornly closed save for a small crack. Broken, not locked. I could hear music as I approached the cockpit.

I sighed and wedged my fingers between the door and the wall. One sharp pull jolted the door to life, and it hissed open in front of me.

The cockpit was small, at least in comparison to the rest of the dropship. There was enough space to stand and move about, but only barely. Just like the hangar bay, the cockpit showed its age. Benches lined three of the four walls, their cushioning long faded and tattered by use. Tucked in one corner was the ship's communications console, a sleek digital display perched atop a squat metal desk. At the front of the cockpit sat the seats for the pilot and copilot, overlooking the dropship's main controls and the world beyond the curved canopy.

I stepped through the metal door as old, twentieth-century music flooded into the hallway.

Lucas Stonewood was five foot five, lean and quick, with a nimble eye perfect for piloting a dropship. He had always possessed a short fuse, at least when I was around, but music seemed to help.