An Elite's Tale

Joha tilted his wing and gave the gravity propulsion drive a prolonged boost, allowing him to flip sideways through the air. He turned three full cartwheels to port and leveled out before plowing into the cliff face. Joha felt goosebumps of relief shiver down his spine and took it to be the close brush with death. A soft caress, a tantalizing warning.

This maneuver required a fine tuned focus. Risky as it was with the Phantom right below him (a less experienced pilot might have over tilted and crashed straight into it) the aileron rolls managed to get him to safety, or at least, bought him enough dodge time for the Phantom to respond to the ambush. The Hunters they'd freed from the jail cells were already on the ground with one Spectre overturned and destroyed and the other retreating and missing its gunner. The Shades were, to put it simply, decommissioned. The turret that hadn't fallen off its ledge was in two pieces, broken completely off its mount. Beside the wrecked anti-airs lay piles of charred Kig-Yar cadavers.

The Arbiter and Theg were further ahead and higher up, but by the looks of their Banshees, he could tell they'd taken the brunt of the ambush. He sped to catch up to them, only to see that their vehicles looked far worse than he had initially perceived. The wings and cowling on Theg's Banshee were all deformed by a latticework of plasma burns that had eaten through the metal like Sulfuric acid. The Arbiter's flier was by far the worst. It looked like it had flown through a shredder. Twice. Joha didn't even understand how the craft was still operating. He hoped the Elite inside was alright, but he didn't voice his concerns.

Theg called out, "Stay sharp, four Banshees incoming, directly ahead."

"Do not break rank," the Arbiter ordered, "We are in no shape to chase. Move into defensive formation."