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Its 0612 now. It took half an hour for the squadron to gain permission to land on one of the lighter TSF carriers out in the fleet. And then it took another hour to actually get landed what with the Laserjagd teams needing to be retooled for general strike missions. Now, resupply is dragging on for your Avengers. Even out of the cockpit, you and Foss like to stick together, as a ward against traveling retards in maintenance who don’t get that a 2nd Lieutenant who was stuck in a nuclear death machine might be just wanting to relax and not talk shop. Fucking Pam.
“I’m telling you, that new album is garbage. Fuckheads don’t even GET what music is.”
Foss shakes his head. “Nah, it’s like… fucking futuristic shit man, they’re ahead of the curve. It’s like I’m listening to them before they get big almost. They’ll be all over the radio in a few weeks, bet your ass.”
“No fucking deal” you mutter out, before taking another bite out of the hastily prepared sandwich pocket of unknown origins that the mess hall had dragged up to feed your asses. “You’re always the fucking lucky one about this shit.”
Both of you are pointedly ignoring the mangled pile of metal sitting above the deck. The remains of Silver – 4’s cockpit are being carved open by one of the Damage Control teams, in the hopes of recovering at least something for to bury back home. Though there really isn’t anything left, not after something like that. Paste maybe, considering how crushed it was from the impact.