A green parachute emerged from the distant clouds that now flanked the ruinous husk of Gersanto. A green parachute with a man attached, desperately attempting to steer himself towards what seemed to be a soft landing spot, amongst the sharp steel of the fallen city.
He had watched the distant air-craft of an LSN complexion roar towards the great purple spire that now lay in ruins after it's electrical armageddon. The slight red strips of colour on it amongst the dark blue hull signaled a hint of customization that breached regulation.
The protectorate knew, red was almost banned in most schemes. Being a favoured spectrum by the ZorZackiens.
However this craft now sat itself snuggly atop a fallen building, and had somehow not noticed his slow begrudgingly terrifying descent.
As he gripped the two guiding holds of the parachute that held his life in it's thin fiber arms, he eyed this craft with an ever increasing ravenous hunger.
A spot just behind it presented itself. A narrow stretch of relatively clear ground that had somehow not been covered with rubble and death.
He pushed himself, causing the chute to plummet towards the position.
An array of fallen buildings rose towards him as his descent increased.
That flat stretch of ground would afford him a quiet vantage point at which to approach the vessel.
As clear as the skies were, the light dust clouds had only provided him cover until now, and now was the moment to strike.
He fell with that chute, daring to remove a hand, and grip his holster that held his small service-pistol - A hand-cannon if you'd like.
...7 shots worth of Galzion.
This godforsaken adversary of his quiet country would suffer rath.
He felt the service-pistols bulge, and satisfied, moved his hand back to its position on the guiding cord which flapped around like a leaf in a hurricane.
The ground began to gain on him, swerving left he angled in for a clean descent, pulling his legs in to prep for the landing that would need to be swift and aggressive.
He flew right over the LSN craft as an airlock blasted open.
Discovery would be swift if he stayed where he was, he had little time.
Dropping like a rock he pulled the small chute into an angled form.
The speed of his flight sent him gliding towards the landing-strip at a lightning pace.
He looked behind him, neck straining with a fearful anxiety. A woman in red-blue uniform had stepped out, completely oblivious to his arrival.
He hoped.
The momentary look, was quickly cut short by the reality of the approaching ground.
Breathing deep, he attempted to calm the shaking of his hands as he fell towards the strip of ground.
He hit the pliant surface running, legs nearly buckling under the force of impact as he connected with the rough earthen ground beneath him. He rolled, the parachute collapsing behind him.
After a few seconds of hard breathing as the anxiety of landing flooded out of him, he threw himself up, delatching the parachute, and pulling that small weapon of his out from its holster.
His movement was simple. A single green form darting towards the closest rubble that presented itself. As he planted his palms against the rough remains of a shattered building, he raised that service revolver to his lips, and gave it a light kiss.
His wife made that holster for him.
And he would make her proud.
Well... as proud as murder could make one.
Despite his landing, and the small pile of crumpled fabric that was his parachute lying out in the open of the flat strip of open land, there seemed to be no notice of him from the woman perched atop that distant building.
She seemed to gaze towards the spire with a sort of overwhelmed posture.
Was she someone he was after?
The idea struck him slightly, she may be...
Some poor woman returning from a trip, only to find her home in ruin.
His muscles slightly lost tension, and he let a slight breath of air escape his lungs.
Perhaps he was overthinking this.
Yet she wore uniform that matched what officers wore. But with a customization that felt not LSN at all. The heavy orange cape for one thing was... to his knowledge not allowed in the slightest.
And the red.
More so even than Red Leader.
Who pushed boundary himself.
Perhaps some... no.
He let his body lean against the fallen building with more strength. Rest, was what his shaking hands demanded.
He disregarded his body's desperate plea, and refused to sit himself down.
Down...
He looked down. At the ash covered rubble strewn scape that he stood on. The buildings that surrounded him like mountains of a valley, jutted with rebar and steel beams.
Amongst the reality that he had lived in, was now a ruinous heap of lost potential.
He refused to acknowledge it.
Firming himself, he gripped his revolver with a fierce determination, and pushed himself off the wall he had leant on.
In cold slow steps he walked towards that distant craft of an incalculable enemy.
His sworn adversary.
Not even taking notice of him.
Could he do this?...
...he must.