<h2 style="text-align: center" spellcheck="false">Gross Insubordination</h2>


    Three Years Later - 422 Interstellar Era


    High Orbit, Alanian Zeta - Alanian System


    Your HUD pulses with red markers. Warnings, damage reports, trajectory maps-all overlapping like blood spatters on a glass pane. But you ignore it. You''ve done this too long to flinch at the chaos.


    The Imperial mech in your crosshairs is burning from the inside. Antimatter breach. You ease off the throttles, watching it shake and convulse, like a dying animal trying to stand. The cockpit''s silence stretches, until the moment breaks.


    Boom.


    The enemy explodes in a flash that swallows two of its own.


    You shift your weight slightly, skin-tight pilot suit responding with a hiss. Your UMP-Burnout-twelve metric tons of engineered fury-freezes in place just meters from the annihilated wreck.


    Then you twist.


    Your leg sweeps out and collides with the fractured remains, punting the carcass into the enemy''s second line. The impact doesn''t just rupture metal. It ruptures morale.


    Allied units surge through the gap you''ve carved, plasma fire lancing through space like comets. It''s a slaughter. Efficient. Controlled.


    High Command chose right when they sent you in first.


    You are Teeril Corson after all, Titan Lead of the Accord. Hero of Plentaxian Delta. A name whispered across star systems. A symbol.


    Seventy kills when they gave you this command.


    Now: Seventy-three.


    The vanguard collapses. What''s left of the enemy force retreats in disarray, scattering like ants under flame. Their precision gone. Their spirit shattered.


    Behind you, the Accord fleet advances to press the offensive. Your job here is done. You glance at your tactical map, searching for your unit-your wolves.


    But your sensors ping something else.


    Three escape pods.


    Faint energy signatures. Fleeing. Unarmed.


    You raise your Burnout''s plasma cannons. The barrels rotate, heating up, whining like a beast caged too long. Your finger hovers over the trigger. One squeeze and they''re vapor.


    But you don''t.


    You exhale through clenched teeth and press your palm to your forehead. Sweat drips into your eyes.


    "What the hell am I doing...?"


    You could end them. No guilt. No witnesses. The war would call it mercy.


    But your hand falls away. You lower the cannon. The pods vanish into enemy lines, safe-for now. In the cockpit''s silence, you find a sliver of peace. Not everyone''s lost their soul to this war. Not yet.


    A voice, deep and sharp as a razor''s edge, slices through your reflection.


    "Gonna just let ''em go, boss-man?"


    Nicholas Draskoven''s face fills your comm-screen. Black-haired, predatory eyes, milk-tea skin, and sharp aristocratic features-he''s your second-in-command, a man whose skill may match your own, but whose bloodlust eclipses it.


    "They fought well," you reply. "They''ve earned the right to live another day."


    Nicholas exhales, a subtle eye-roll betraying his disagreement.


    "I''ll take your word for it, sir."


    A beat passes.


    "See that you do."


    You return your gaze to the war-torn void beyond. Fractured vessels. Burning wrecks. Flashes of light-plasma bolts and decaying thrusters. It''s beautiful. And grotesque.


    War has sharpened your instincts to a knife''s edge. You scan the battlefield, identifying every friend, every threat, every pattern.


    You fight for the UAOS - The United Accord of Outer Systems. Once a ragtag militia of idealists and defectors. Now a hammer poised over Earth''s imperial skull. The rebellion had long brewed. In humanity''s first steps into the stars, central authority was a necessity. But the Empire refused to adapt. As colonies flourished, Earth tightened its grip, silencing protests, stripping charters, and enforcing decree.


    The Empire claims unity. But unity is a cage when only one-seventh of humanity controls the rest. The colonies had outgrown Earth''s leash-and Earth responded with fire and chains. You responded with war. Revolution became inevitable.


    You joined after the rebellion found its teeth. Trysha had signed up when it was still a dream. But you? You joined when the Accord had evolved into a force to reckon with. And when you stood alone at Plentaxian Delta-when you faced the enemy without flinching-that''s when they started seeing you as more than Trysha''s shadow.


    A medal. A promotion. Your own squadron.


    And now they follow you like shadows.


    Five Titans, falling in behind your Burnout like pieces of a living weapon.


    Your HUD pings again.


    Two dozen Imperiax units, basic models, moving to flank the Accord main line.


    "Nicholas."


    He looks. Grins.


    "Target practice?"


    "Something like that. Titan Squadron-rally on me."


    Your hands glide through the pre-combat checklist. Burnout''s plasma cutter hums as its linkages glow green. The sword slots into the armature''s right arm; its blue flame ignites-a glowing lance of fury. You sweep it through space, ready for blood.


    You''ve modified your Burnout heavily. Enhanced proximity sensors, doubled range, sixfold resolution. You always see them before they see you.


    You move. The others follow.


    "This is Titan Lead. Ready for battle."


    "Titan Two-loaded and lethal," Nicholas replies, voice smug.


    One by one, your squad reports in. They''re good. Maybe too good. They''ve learned to fight like you. That''s the problem. They''ve also learned your flaws.


    Titan Squadron. A name you chose yourself.


    "Alright Titans, form up. Let''s go hunting."


    They fall into position with fluid grace.


    You contact Aegis Prime, the Accord''s state-of-the-art warship.


    "This is Titan Lead. Requesting permission to engage contacts Delta-Five-Two."


    "Granted. Good hunting," comes the brusque reply from Captain Frank Gilak-a brilliant tactician and a man with all the warmth of a cold blade.


    You gun the thrusters.


    As you close in, your mind sharpens. The Imperiax formation is textbook-heavies up front, lighter units at the rear for suppressing fire. You spot a weakness.


    "They''ll try to box us in," you call over the channel. "We hit them hard, head-on. Titan 4 and 6-flank and strike from behind. The rest, Armageddon Formation. Heavy fire. Let''s carve a path. Do you copy?"


    "Sir, yes sir!" Nicholas barks, louder than the rest.


    "Then let''s give them hell!"


    Your war cry tears across the comms channel, raw and electric, shaking loose the last remaining threads of hesitation from your squadron. It''s a primal sound—part command, part challenge—something that bypasses language and drills itself into the bloodstream. Behind you, your squadron answers as one, a chorus of fury and courage that echoes into the void.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Then you charge.


    Your UMP-Burnout screams forward, cutting through the vacuum with a trail of blue-hot contrails, thrusters at maximum burn. The battlefield ahead is a kaleidoscope of fury—plasma bolts lance out from the Imperiax line, painting the stars with streaks of cyan and red. The very space between you and your enemy ignites with the fury of a thousand energy discharges. To any lesser pilot, it would be a death sentence.


    To you—it''s a dance.


    You twist and roll with impossible precision, the Burnout pivoting through narrow kill-lanes no larger than the width of a hull. Plasma bolts zip past your cockpit like tracer fire, some grazing your hull and lighting up your shields in golden flares. Your HUD blossoms with alerts, each swiftly cleared by deft flicks of your eyes and thoughts.


    One bolt streaks past close enough to leave your cockpit awash in white light. You don''t blink. You don''t flinch. You ride the burn forward.


    Titan Five isn''t as fortunate. A bolt of concentrated plasma slams into her right shoulder, knocking her armature into a wild spin. You catch it out of the corner of your eye.


    "Five, status?"


    "I''m hit—but systems are green. I''m still in this!"


    Your lips twitch into a grim smile. "Then stay on me."


    The enemy formation looms ahead. Dozens of Imperiaxes, primitive but rugged, blocky frames bristling with outdated but still lethal weaponry. They open fire in unison, a wall of light and fury.


    It doesn''t matter.


    You cut in.


    With a scream of thrusters, you surge forward, plasma blade igniting in a blast of burning sapphire. The blade hums like a living thing, fire made solid, and you drive it straight into the heart of the lead Imperiax. It doesn''t even have time to react. One smooth thrust punches through its chest cavity, and then you twist—slicing upward and carving the machine in half from gut to skull. The halves spiral away, already slag.


    Before its neighbors can respond, you spin on your heel and dash toward the next. A backhand slash severs its weapon arm, then a stab into the cockpit finishes the job. The third turns to flee—you let it, only to fire your secondary thrusters and intercept, driving your plasma blade through its back like a glowing spear.


    They begin to panic.


    That''s when Titan Four and Six strike.


    They descend like shadows from above and below, perfectly synchronized. Plasma fire erupts from their cannons, cutting down two Imperiaxes instantly. Four lands hard, dragging his twin axes through enemy chassis with brutal efficiency. Six darts between them, his thinner frame weaving and stabbing like a serpent. The rear-guard folds in seconds. The Imperiaxes are staggered, disoriented—caught between the anvil of your vanguard and the hammer of your flanking pair.


    You should be celebrating.


    But instead, your upgraded sensors chime in warning.


    They''re adapting.


    You see it even before your team does. The Imperiaxes aren''t fleeing anymore—they''re repositioning. Regaining cohesion. Their commander must''ve recognized the pincer attack. Units surge from the flanks, and heavier models—bulkier, painted black with crimson helix insignias—move to intercept.


    "Brace! Reinforcements inbound!" you bark.


    Then the real battle begins.


    Two enemy units try to double-team you from the left. You flare your maneuvering thrusters, kicking into a sideways drift. Your blade lashes out in a brilliant slash that disarms one—literally—and cleaves into the second''s power core, sending it spiraling away in a flare of light.


    All around you, Titan Squadron engages in a brutal melee. Titan Three vaults over a collapsing enemy, raining down plasma fire from his shoulder cannons. Titan Five, despite her earlier hit, charges through a trio of Imperiaxes, her reinforced shoulder ramming one clean off its axis. Draskoven—Titan Two—moves with absolute grace, his heavy blasters shooting through the void as he lands lethal shots, while over-committing to the fray front.


    "Titan Six, watch your six!" you bark, as you finish off your sixth Imperiax by ripping out their damaged power core.


    "Already on it!" she calls, spinning just in time to decapitate an incoming unit with a clean swipe.


    A hulking variant—an Imperiax-727 "Reaver" unit—lunges toward you, its arms crackling with pulse shock-claws. It''s fast, far too fast for its weight class. You parry the first swing, your blade locking against its crackling claws, the clash sending arcs of energy dancing across both armatures. You roll aside, jetting under its follow-up strike, and drive your blade upward through its chest from below.


    It convulses. You wrench your weapon free, and the Reaver goes still.


    Your HUD is alive with data—enemy signatures blinking red, ally vitals flashing green and yellow. You scan for the command unit—there.


    And then you see it-disaster looming.


    Titan Two is in trouble. An Imperial commander-modified frame, crystalline rapier-bearing down on Nicholas, who''s too busy dealing with another target.


    "Titan-Two, acknowledge!"


    No answer.


    "Nicholas!"


    Still nothing.


    "Titan Squadron—full assault! Break the remaining! I shall go assist Titan Two!"


    You don''t wait for a response. You boost. Hard. A red flare ignites behind you as you slam into the Imperial mid-strike.


    You cling to it, cannons unleashing hell point-blank. Nicholas finishes his target and joins the brawl.


    The commander shoves you off like you weigh nothing. You stabilize mid-spin. Nicholas raises his monosaber.


    "Two-on-one, boss-man," Nicholas growls through comms, his voice crackling with anticipation. "Let''s dance."


    Your gaze locks on the approaching commander—a towering warframe of obsidian alloy, wielding a crystalline rapier that hums with arclight energy. His movements are unnervingly fluid, with no wasted motion.


    "He''s got reach," you mutter. "We disarm him first."


    Without warning, you fire—a tight spread of plasma bolts and kinetic rounds. Some find their mark, gouging glowing furrows across his chassis. Others glance off, ricocheting into the void. It doesn''t matter. You''ve got what you wanted:


    His attention.


    He lunges, the void warping around his thrusters as he closes the distance in a blink. His rapier pierces straight through your left shoulder, plunging into your mech''s core plating. Alarms howl. Shields collapse. You don''t flinch.


    You wanted this.


    The blade lodges deep.


    Your mech''s left arm—mangled and sparking—snaps shut around the weapon''s hilt. Magnetic clamps seal in tandem with a surge of localized antimatter containment, locking the blade in place like an anchor in a dying star.


    "Now!" you bark.


    Your thrusters ignite—flaring blue-white as you twist, hurling the enemy like a ragdoll. The commander''s bulk becomes a pendulum, his own inertia used against him. You swing him hard into Nicholas''s path.


    Titan Two doesn''t hesitate. He slams a massive armored fist into the enemy''s helm with enough force to crater the plating, and in one fluid motion, his heated monosaber cleaves through the trapped rapier''s linkage.


    Sparks explode in a burst of blinding white.


    The commander spirals out of control, free-floating and off-balance.


    You cover the void in between you both and pounce on the enemy with all your machine''s might.


    Your claws—razor-edged manipulators forged for this kind of close-quarters brutality—rip into his chest plate, peeling away layers of carbon-titanium like paper. Sparks and oil spray outward. Wires twitch like severed veins.


    You drag him into a headlock, your arm crushing around the base of his neck like a hydraulic vise.


    Across the channel, Nicholas''s systems howl with energy. His frame glows—a violent crucible of power. Plasma cannons spool. Necroa blasters charge with a sickly green pulse. Antimatter launchers lock on. A fitting display of might deadly power for the tank unit of your squadron.


    "DIE, YOU IMPERIAL BASTARD!" he roars, and then he fires.


    Hell descends.


    The void becomes fire—writhing beams of solar plasma, bolts of corroding necroa energy, and antimatter warheads that explode in micro-novas. You feel every blast slam into you—your plating superheating, joints straining under the pressure, cockpit rattling so hard you can taste blood.


    You hold your grip.


    Every instinct screams to move, to let go, but you refuse. You brace yourself like a wall between the universe and the kill.


    Then—


    "THAT''S ENOUGH, TITAN TWO! STAND DOWN!" you shout, voice strained.


    But the barrage continues.


    The heat rises beyond safe limits. Your vision blurs. Your hands white-knuckle the controls. Hull integrity hits 23%.


    "DRASKOVEN! STAND THE HELL DOWN!"


    A final warhead detonates.


    Then—silence.


    Your HUD flickers. The void cools. Debris drifts off your seared armor like mist.


    You loosen your grip.


    The enemy commander''s mecha—what remains of him—is slagged and crackling with a faded glow of energy surge, barely clinging to cohesion. You haul his limp frame up by the neck. His core—a flickering sun behind ruined chest plating—pulses in labored throbs.


    Without ceremony, you hurl him into the abyss.


    He tumbles weightlessly for a second, silhouetted against the stars—then his core implodes, collapsing inward with a sharp pulse of white-gold light.


    A ripple tears across space.


    Then—nothing.


    Nicholas whistles.


    "Now that''s what I call-"


    "GROSS INSUBORDINATION."


    Your voice stops him cold.


    "You broke formation. You compromised the plan. You ignored direct orders. One more stunt like this and I will personally end your career. Am I clear?"


    Silence.


    "Am I clear, Second-in-Command?"


    "...Yes, sir."


    You don''t need to see his face to feel the contempt.


    You sigh. Your comms flicker. Sensors sweep.


    Nothing.


    "Titan Squadron, confirm. Any hostiles left?"


    Negative. One by one, the replies come.


    Titan-Six adds, "I got one."


    Titan-Three chimes in, "Me too!"


    "I got five," Nicholas says, smug. "You, boss?"


    You think. "Seven. Maybe eight. I''ll check the footage."


    He doesn''t like that. Someday, he''ll want to outscore you.


    Titan-Five enquires, "Permission to state what''s on my mind, commander?"


    "Granted", you reply as your machine''s head cocks and turns to your own inquisitive movement.


    "We were heavily outnumbered. We fought well and decisively, but they had the numerical advantage of running us over. And yet, it seems as if they just-"


    "Disappeared. I know. I noticed it too." you complete her shared sentiment.


    Then comes a comm-line ping.


    Aegis Prime.


    Gilak''s face appears.


    "Status report."


    "Enemy engaged. No losses-though-"


    "Let me guess: they disappeared?"


    You nod.


    "We tracked survivors," Gilak says. "They linked with another squadron and dropped planet-side. High-priority objective. You''re going after them. Sending coordinates."


    You scan the data. Civilian district. No military targets for kilometres.


    "Sir... what are we walking into?"


    "You''re not cleared to know," Frank replies. "Even I''m not," he adds. "Just complete the mission. Aegis Prime out."


    The line goes dead.


    "New orders," you reply. "Prep for re-entry. Sending coordinates."


    Nicholas leans in. "More fighting?"


    "I hope not," you mutter. "I''ve spilled enough blood today."


    Nicholas grins. "I could stand to spill a little more."


    Titan Three looks downright disgusted at Nicholas''s bloodlust, while Titan Five mutters a curse. Some hesitate. Others steel themselves.


    "Titan Squadron. Prep for drop. On my mark."


    One by one, the members of your squadron report themselves ready for atmospheric drop. Your main display shuts off, obscured by the layer of ablative heat gel which will protect your combat armature from the heat of re-entry. You position your machine over the drop coordinates, flying on sensors alone.


    "Commencing re-entry," you announce. "Titan Squadron, follow me in."


    With that, you and your squadron begin the blind descent into Alanian Zeta''s atmosphere-into cloud and flame-toward whatever waits below.