[ WP ] You and 3000 other adventure seekers wake up on your starship from a century long cryo-sleep , but only to find that the pilots are missing along with the escape pods and the course has been abandoned . The only connection to any answers is a note left to you from your father , the chief pilot .

The sudden breath of freezing air stabbed right into my soul, sucking me out of my dreamless sleep as I immediately pulled myself over the edge of my pod. Urged on by sheer muscle memory, my body dropped to the ground on all fours and rolled once before hitting the locker containing my helmeted vac-suit, pistol, and cryomed patch. The same motions, done hundreds of times - many of them occurring only minutes before a battle - also directed my sluggish limbs into the suit, magnetically clamped the pistol to my side, slapped the patch onto the dedicated med receptacle on my left forearm, and activated my link to the shipboard battlefeed in less than 10 seconds. Years of war had taught me exactly how precious seconds were, and I wasted no time in bursting out of my chamber as I examined the incoming data. 
 
 That is, I would be if there was any data. Panicked, flashing red lights lit up the halls of the *Astora* as I ran from the officer quarters to my muster point, but the Feed was completely barren. What the hell? This *never* happened - even in my UN Navy days, during the Riechtling insurgency, my battle brothers and I would at least stumble out of our pods and into a surprise boarding action with an idea of who to shoot. I almost stopped to check with one of the other officers sprinting to their commands, but the confused look on every face told me what I needed to know. 
 
 Fuck. 
 
 There would be confusion, but that's alright. Duskbreakers mercenary company thrived in unpredictable environments. However, as I worked my way to the bridge - nestled in the heart of the battleship - something nagged at me. No one was shooting at me or any of my battle brothers and sisters, but there was an odd emptiness to the old battleship. As I sprinted past the automated turrets and onto the armored command deck, a cold shock ran up my spine as I realized what was wrong. 
 
 I had n't seen a single Pilot on my way in. 
 
 Our infantry pounded ground better than anyone else, but no soldier *likes* dropping into hostile territory without space/air/ocean cover. Duskbreaker Pilots were all elite puppeteers, masterfully handling swarms of specialized fighter drones to screen, fight, and support our sorry asses as we burnt through whatever kindling had the gall to stand in our way. They are indispensable. If General Quarters had been sounded, I should have seen hundreds of Pilots running to command shuttles, strategizing around the command deck, or setting up the various defense drone networks aboard the *Astora*. I should be looking at Father, the Duskbreaker's commander and the best goddamned Pilot that ever flew in the Terran Navy. Instead, all I see on the command deck are the 9 other battalion CO's, looking at me with the same white-faced realization. 
 
 *Fuck*. 
 
 & nbsp; 
 
 & nbsp; 
 
 ************* 
 *to be continued, possibly* 

