The solo kill - holy grail of the combat pilot.
Not the honor duel, the tournament, or the cleaning up of leftover ships during an evacuation - the real deal.
Ever elusive, pilots of all levels seek for it, if they admit it or not. Some more successfully than others, but when it happens, it is one more story to tell when meeting up for drinks.
And of course the queen of it all - the very first one. The hunt. The decision to engage, despite all the previous losses. And then, unexpectedly, finally, the kill.
The story you’d always remember.
There was no such story for me. The ‘Solo Kill’ label emblazoned on my CONCORD record? Just mockery.
There had been no hunt. No clash of matched arms. No risk.
There had been just a shuttle, sitting idle at the gate, jump cloak long dropped. And me, moving a Harbinger after repairs. Still wound up from confronting Eta.
And I had lashed out.
No glory. No honor. No skill. Just pointless destruction.
My story was still out there, waiting to be discovered.
But yet... in that split second at the gate, when I could have just warped off, I had not just crossed, but outright barreled over the line I had drawn myself so many years ago.
And I had enjoyed it.