One

Allen Quinn was the typical Irish guy… even if he lived several systems away from Earth and hadn't been to his homeworld since he was three. That didn't change the fact he had what he called his "Irish habits" of visiting the run-down pub almost every night and drinking down horrible beer that nearly melted his esophagus.

Habits I might need to be changing, he reminded himself as he stood outside the pub leaning against the dusty wall, pouring out the smelly beer onto the blue dust of Amaranthine's earth. Travers Tavern was a hole in the wall with a faded sign that had been painted a number of times because the changing owners never did figure out where the apostrophe was supposed to go and ultimately left it off. Actually, the pub wasn't even decent enough to warrant that term, and the drinks it served were pretty much on the same level. Only once had he ever drank something that people said remotely tasted like the real deal, and this fell far short, possibly even to toxic levels.

"Irish blood in me's a curse," he muttered under his breath. "Can't quench my thirst with this stuff. Heck, person with broke taste buds couldn't take this." Allen turned the bottle over in his hands, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He had wanted to drown his sorrows and misery in alcohol, but it turned out he couldn't even do that. Not for the first time, he realized just how much he hated this backwater mining colony.

There was chattering from around the corner, catching his attention. He peeked his head around the building's edge, blue eyes holding both curiosity and hesitancy. Allen had been in enough bar brawls to know he didn't want to deal with a miner's fist getting acquainted with his face anytime for the rest of his life. What he wasn't expecting was the sight of two off-duty soldiers from the Reynor Corporation's garrison in Demetra. This was a miner community, and miners didn't exactly like the corporate types, especially corporate security.

"He was there. Bancroft's second actually showed up like intel suggested."

"You know what that means. This place is good as gone. Good riddance to this tavern though. Always hate stepping in there. Feels like I need a decontamination the instant I step out."

"The tavern? I say this whole town. Hey, even the planet. I hate these backwater colonies. Just ready to get back to Trelyn to Molly and the kids."

"Just a few hours and Demetra will be a smoldering crater. We'll either get a new garrison or finally get shipped offworld. The boys of the 402nd are going to have a heckuva' time shooting fish in a barrel."

Allen could feel his heart thudding rapidly in his chest, his mouth suddenly dry. He wanted to believe that the beer was just messing with his hearing, but he had poured it out after two sips. The Reynor Corp was going to target Demetra just because a few members of the rebel faction had been seen in a pub. He knew their tactics to stifle rebellion tended to be heavy-handed, but this was just crazy. As the jeep revved up, he pulled his head back around the corner and slammed the back of his skull against the wall slightly. This was beyond bad news. If he just ran into the bar and told everyone what was going on, the soldiers would catch wind of it and probably start the attack while everyone was in a wild panic.

"Okay, thinking not my strong point," he murmured to himself, running a hand through his short, messy black hair. "C'mon, think, think, think… Bancroft's gotta find out." When it clicked in his head, he felt like slamming his palm right into his face. As a member of the rebel faction himself, he knew just who to call in to get a plan in motion. He just hoped he hadn't found out too late.

Hours later, he was positively kicking himself for his "brilliant" idea. The best way to evacuate as many people possible from the town was to cause a big enough distraction at the garrison to delay the launching of the gunships. Why he had been picked as one of the rebels to raid the garrison, he had no idea.

Oh, you know exactly why. You're the one who reported it, and because you're well known as the most yellow-bellied rebel fighters of all time, you've gotta prove yourself. Or maybe David got upset about all the money I owed him and he volunteered me.

Allen was sidled back against the wall, kicking himself over and over in his mind. If anything, he would be just easy target practice that even the greenest of guards could take out with one shot. For all the stereotypical "luck of the Irish" talk, he sure didn't have a lick of it.

Gravel crunched underfoot nearby, the signal that a guard was approaching on routine patrol. He had a silenced pistol tucked beneath his black jacket, but he had never once used a weapon before. Could he bring himself to shoot a man, even if his own brother was killed in cold blood over a year ago?

The thought of Desmond was what brought just the slightest flicker of what could have been bravery to his shaking body. He slid the handgun from his jacket, the weight of it unusual to the normally cowardly colonist. With one bullet, a life could be taken, just like that. One shot was what ended Des's after all. He rested the top of the pistol slightly against his forehead as he took calming breaths, the deadly steel cool against his skin. All he needed to do was pull the trigger, and that was it.

When he realized the footsteps had stopped, he aimed the pistol instantly to his left in case the guard was standing there and just waiting to fire for whatever reason. Instead of a trained soldier about to fire, there was nothing. His body quivered with fear and anxiety, but as the seconds passed the guard never rounded the corner. In fact, he never started moving again. Allen flicked his gaze about before edging towards the corner, trying to resist the urge to just turn and run. Counting down in his head, he stepped around the corner and leveled the handgun before him to fire, but the guard was already on the ground. And judging by the amount of blood pooling around the body, someone else had taken him out first.

Okay, uh, 'nother person here with me who took this guy out without a sound. So why did they send me in—

He suddenly felt hands grabbing him roughly from behind, an armor-clad hand coming over his mouth to quiet his shout of utter terror. His life practically flashed before his eyes, but instead of the pain he expected from that last gunshot, Allen was pinned against the wall with his mouth still covered. The armored figure that held him there was beyond imposing, standing a few inches taller than him with sleek, dark teal-colored armor. A black visor hid the person's eyes, and no weapon could immediately be seen. They kept one hand over his mouth, bringing the free hand's finger up to their mouth in an almost shushing motion. For a second Allen wasn't sure what was going to happen, but he gave a shaky nod in response and desperately prayed he wasn't about to get killed. Much to his surprise and relief, the figure released him and stepped back, scanning their surroundings before speaking in a distorted voice due to the helmet. "Follow me. Don't ask questions, don't slow down. Get in the gunship after me."

Allen couldn't help but stare with mouth agape, but before he could even manage to utter a syllable the figure had taken off at a brisk stride. Apparently any semblance of stealth had been abandoned, because this crazy armored figure was heading out of cover towards the landing pads. Three Eagle-class gunships occupied each position, and it looked like the vehicles were being prepared for takeoff soon. How were they supposed to get to a gunship without getting gunned down? This newcomer was armored, but he was very much not-armored. Allen didn't savor the idea of dying to a hired gun's bullet.

The explosions that came rocked the ground beneath his feet and lit up the night sky. Even as he ran as fast as he could, he risked a sideways glance to see the fuel depot blazing brilliantly and every available person rushing to deal with the fire. He skidded to a halt once his feet hit the concrete of the landing pad, his attention returning to the armored figure. "Well, that's one way to cause a distraction, yeah?"

There was no answer, the figure opening the gunship's cockpit and climbing into the pilot's seat. When Allen didn't immediately climb up the ladder, he could almost feel the anger in their voice. "Get in!"

"R-Right! Sorry!" He rushed to the ladder, taking the gunner's position for himself. "Um, hey, you know how to fly this thing, right? Woulda asked sooner…" His heart was racing fiercely within his chest right now, blood pounding through his body. This was a military-grade gunship they were about to steal, a huge step up from his usual tasks with the rebels. "'cause I mean, I can only drive a truck. Flying might be out of my skill level."

"Don't know how to fly, but I'll learn to." At these words, Allen couldn't help but crane his neck to peer back at the figure, his heart deciding to go even faster at this revelation. Armor-clad hands hovered over the controls, and it looked like holographic images were flickering between them. "Do a favor and get ready to shoot. We're about to get noticed."

Allen stared with his mouth hanging straight down, unable to believe his horrible luck. This person didn't even know how to pilot a gunship, and they were about to stir up the hornet's nest very shortly. "Oh man, why couldn't they have left me outta this," he muttered to himself, staring down at the controls. He had never even fired a weapon before, and this person expected him to know how to operate a gunship's mounted cannon. "You wouldn't happen ta have the instruction manual for this handy, huh?"

There was a sigh of frustration from the helmeted figure, just as the gunship's engines came to life. Now the soldiers were going to realize just what was going on. "Use the control stick. Back trigger is for mounted cannons. The screen shows you the view from the undermounted cannon that you can rotate. Anymore questions, figure them out for yourself. I need to fly this."

"Right. Use the screen. Right. I guess you got the big missiles and stuff." He watched the screen flicker to life as the gunship's systems powered up, playing around with the joystick to get a feel for the controls. When he spotted the armed soldiers running their way, he swallowed and tightened his grip on the stick. "Just like playing the arcade," he tried to murmur in encouragement to himself.  The difference was, these targets died for good. Allen steadied his trembling hand as he pulled the trigger, jumping in his seat at the sound of the autocannon firing. The rounds cut a swath through the charging soldiers while the whine of engines increased, the gunship beginning to rise from the ground. "Hey, um, no-name person! What about the other gunships? They're gonna attack Demetra and wipe it out!"

"Stormblade. That's what you call me. As for that problem…" Allen jumped once more at the sound of the missiles launching, the landing pads now lighting up with flames as the craft exploded violently.

"Huh. Wow." He stared out at the burning wreckages, though yelped as gunfire rounds pinged off the sides of the ship. "Oh. Right. My job." His eyes went back to the screen as he opened fire once more, trying to strafe the reticule on the screen across the running soldiers. All his life he thought he wouldn't be able to kill a man, would be the one to get shot first, but now… I'm protecting the people I care about, he told himself. I'm protecting lives. That justifies this… it has to. "I'll call ya Storm, yeah? How can we make sure they don't wipe out Demetra in revenge for this?"

"There's no guarantee." There wasn't the slightest hint of concern in that voice, the tone very matter-of-fact. "This shot will bring down the corporation's wrath."

Allen's heart leapt to his throat. They were simply rebels making guerilla strikes at Reynor Corp that were barely more than mosquito bites. They couldn't possibly handle the retribution of an entire corporation's forces. "Are you nuts? People will die!"

"It's life. It's war. People die."

His hands quivered as he stared down at the screen, anger simmering in his gut. That's what this person thought? They didn't care at all about the people who would be killed as a result of this attack? Allen's blue eyes remain transfixed on the blazing inferno engulfing part of the Demetra garrison, overwhelmed by everything now. This was beyond what he usually got involved in, and now he personally played a part in the beginning of what could be a war… or a mission of extermination. He opted to remain silent as this Stormblade person flew the gunship, bringing it down to land a distance outside of Demetra. At the opening of the cockpit hatch, Allen clambered out after Stormblade and jumped down to the blue dirt. "So what, you don't care? You come to Amaranthine and tick off some heavily armed corporate security, then not care of the consequences?"

Stormblade was fooling with a holographic map of sorts generated from the palm of their armor, not even glancing back at Allen. "It was either that or let Demetra get razed. The rebellion would start anyways."

Allen had done many stupid things in his life, but this topped them all. He grabbed Storm by the shoulders, trying to turn them around forcefully. "Stop takin' this so casually!" he shouted. "There are innocent people who will get killed! Families! Children!" Grasping the armor as tightly as he did hurt his hands, but he didn't care as he stared into that black visor. "Anybody with a heart would care, yeah? But maybe you're just some kinda robot who just cares about killing and objectives and stuff. Just like the man who killed my brother!"

He expected retaliation, maybe a metal fist in his face or gut. Instead, Stormblade raised their hands to gently pull his own shaking hands off their shoulders. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't be staying on Amaranthine to fight."

"You… you're staying?" Allen blinked rapidly with a look of visible shock on his face, both from the news and the lack of violent retaliation. "Oh, uh, you know, I'm suddenly feelin' a lot like an idiot right now. But uh… how will one person make a difference?"

Stormblade raised one hand, clenching it into a fist before a blade of crackling energy left from a small section on the forearm. Allen couldn't help but jump at this, the sky blue glow illuminating the both of them before the blade dissipated. "I was designed as a weapon. They're going to realize very shortly just how well they altered me."

Allen stared down at that clenched armored fist before flicking his gaze to their visor. "Reynor Corp… they experimented on you?"

"No. The Confederation." They turned away now, scanning over the gunship while speaking. "The story behind that doesn't matter though. I know what the Reynor Corp has done on Amaranthine, and they won't get away with it. Every drop of innocent blood they've shed will be repaid to them. That, I will guarantee."

He stared at Stormblade silently, the tone on their voice just a little unnerving. He had heard it many times before, from people who had lost everything and clung to revenge doggedly like it was the absolute last thing they had left. Frequenting the pubs as much as he had, Allen knew all too well what drove people to revenge and what that could do to them. Many miners had been made examples of before. "They call you Stormblade, yeah?"

"What of it?"

He continued on cautiously, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "Just, well, doesn't sound like a real name to me. Not the one a sane parent would give their kid and all. Who are you, really?"

"Doesn't matter," they answered curtly, but there was something in their voice that stuck out to him even with the helmet's voice filters.

"You say that," he continued on with just a bit more confidence now. "All that armor and high-tech weaponry makes you look like some, well, cyborg weapon or something." In fact, even at his first glimpse of Stormblade he didn't think they were human. "Beneath it all? You're still a person. Still human. Why're you running from that?"

The silence was broken only by the night wind howling across the dunes, Stormblade standing still with their head just slightly lowered. Allen wasn't sure if he had struck a nerve or got to the hardened warrior with this, but considering that he wasn't getting yelled at he assumed he hadn't ticked them off. After a few seconds, Stormblade squared their shoulders and climbed with ease back into the cockpit of the gunship, though they turned and held out a hand to help Allen back up. "Come on. We should get to the rebel commander. This fight isn't over yet."

Allen nodded at this, taking a step back before making a running jump to grab onto Stormblade's outstretched hand. He didn't expect the armored warrior to be so strong, pulling him into the gunner's seat. This time he strapped himself in, feeling just a bit more hopeful about the future. Maybe Stormblade could make a difference. Maybe the people of Amaranthine had a chance for freedom. This one warrior had gotten him out alive from an attack on an actual garrison of soldiers, and for the first time he had done something brave. Stormblade wasn't exactly an inspirational leader for people, but they could shift the tides of battle and show to people that the Reynor Corp wasn't invincible and could be hurt.

Sometimes, it just took one.