Note: I greatly appreciate the reviews and everyone who posted. I've corrected some of the technical errors mentioned. (From everything I've read, however, the original Vulture is always 60-tons, not 65, so I'll leave that be.) Also, I realized that the Clan 'Mechs would not use a physical attack such as kicks. Thanks again for the help, everyone. Enjoy the revised prologue.

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Prologue

"So, this 'expert' of yours is supposed to help us out?" said Colonel MacGuire, speaking into the mic on his head set. "I heard you the first time, Major... I was listening! You said this guy knows Clan tactics inside and out... Look, I know we need help, but do you really think hiring some rogue is the right way to go…? My problem…? Well, for land's sakes, man, you don't even know this guy's name! What? 'Volsung' is it…? And how do you know that's his real name?" He shot a quick glance into the other room. An officer stood by the door waiting for him. "Look, Major, I gotta go... Yeah, yeah... I'll talk to you later... Yes, we'll see how he does, but don't go hiring any more people without my consent, you got that…? Good. MacGuire, out." He quickly hung up the comm and walked over to the officer.

"The tactics expert sent by Command is here, sir. Shall I show him in?"

"Yes, go ahead," MacGuire said.

As the officer moved to the door, a man with a rugged look about him stepped into the room. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt, a cooling vest, knee length shorts and heavy boots-- the usual on-duty garb of a MechWarrior.

"Evenin'," he said coolly, as if his presence was expected. His voice seemed rough, but mellow. It was not the gruff and seedy tone that MacGuire had expected from a rogue.

"I'm afraid I can't see anyone at the moment," said MacGuire quickly. "You see, I'm expecting our tactics man-- Volsung." Then MacGuire said, "You don't happen to know where he might be, do you?"

"You're lookin' at him," the man replied. "You're Colonel MacGuire," he stated, rather than asked.

"Yes…"

He ran a scarred hand through his dusty brown-blond hair and frowned as he looked around the room. After a moment, his gaze met MacGuire's. His eyes were grey like mist and, though grey, they looked bright and had a strange quality to them like the aura in the eyes of a wolf. It was a rather disconcerting. Volsung flashed a predatory smile as if MacGuire's uneasiness amused him.

"I heard you have an infestation of flea-bitten Clanners," he said. "Shall we get to work?"

"Um, yes," said MacGuire after a moment. "I think we ought to start with the northern border."

Volsung paused, stared into space for a second, and narrowed his gaze, much the way an animal would when it hears something odd. "I'll take a look at that later. I'm going out for a quick patrol," he said slowly. "I'll be back around 08:00 hours."

MacGuire noticed that Volsung did not punctuate his sentence with "sir." It was a subtle, but clear indication that he was here strictly on his own terms.

With nothing so much as a nod, Volsung turned around swiftly and walked out the door towards the 'Mech bay.

Striding down the hall calmly, the rogue MechWarrior reflected on his brief meeting with Colonel MacGuire.

'Good move,' he thought to himself, 'not arguing with me. That colonel's pretty smart. …Knows when to keep his mouth shut. He shouldn't give me grief, and for what I'm being paid, he better…'

Sigurd Volsung had hired his services to the pathetic militia of this backwater planet for next to nothing. He could have demanded more, but going cheap was his best insurance that this poor, out-of-the-way rock would hire him. In fact, he had gone so cheap, that one C-Bill lower, and it might not have been worth his while. …But then again, he might not get another opportunity like this. No time for "ifs," anyway, it would be worth it. After all, he had gotten exactly what he wanted: a front row seat in the fight against the Clans.

He entered the 'Mech bay and scanned the materials at his disposal. There was an old FLE-4 Flea, a Sentinel, a Locust, and a captured Vulture in this hangar-- nothing bigger than 60 tons. He wouldn't need it, though. He was only after a scout.

He caught the attention of a technician working at one of the hangar controls. "Hey, techie," he called. "Could you get the Vulture ready for me? If MacGuire wants to know where it is, tell him Volsung's got it."

"Sure thing," said the technician indifferently.

The tech opened the cockpit hatch and extended the retractable walk, but Sigurd didn't wait for the bridge to reach the 'Mech. He jumped off the metal catwalk and landed in the command couch of the Vulture. He buckled up, closed the hatch, and picked up the bulky neuro-helmet. The awkward device covered his entire head, but it felt like a second skin to Sigurd. Looking through the tinted visor, he reached down and touched the console to start up his 'Mech. He then took the machine out of the crouch position and walked through the bay doors.

Sigurd didn't really need anything as heavy as the 60-ton Vulture to get rid of a light scout, but then again, it was a Clan scout. It might not be alone, it might not be easy prey, and it might not be anything he had ever seen before.

That was the thing about Clan 'Mechs: you never knew just what they were capable of, or what their pilots would and could do. Sigurd had heard countless stories about MechWarriors meeting their fate at the hands of light and seemingly easy 'Mechs like the 45 ton Shadow Cat, because they had underestimated their opponent's abilities. He wouldn't make that same mistake.

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Although it was 07:42 hours GST, it was near midnight on this planet. Sigurd had been sitting patiently in his 'Mech-- radar off, passive sensors engaged, crouched, for almost twenty minutes. So what if the Clanner was hiding? He could wait. That would just make it all the more satisfying when he did destroy the enemy. A predatory grin spread across his face.

Suddenly, the sky was lit up with the bright flaming glow of a flare. Sigurd was blinded for only a second, but it was a second too long. In that instant, the scout had made a run-by and had knocked out the comm tower. Communications were cut, but the attack did not go unnoticed. Sirens sounded in the base.

Sigurd turned his radar back on and took his 'Mech out of crouch. He was not picking up any enemy units on scope, but they were here. They were shooting at him, and so were... the militia 'Mechs? He was taking friendly fire from an Urbanmech. Sigurd throttled up and moved out of the friendly 'Mech's cross-hairs.

'What is this idiot doing?' he wondered, while trying to dodge the friendly fire.

Then it struck him: the IFF. The Clanners were using IFF jammers, and the militia MechWarriors could not tell friend from foe. Sigurd hadn't thought about it at first. He'd always had a good head in battle, so friendly fire was never issue for him with or without his IFF.

Off to his right he saw two friendlies, a Whitworth and a Clint, tearing each other to scrap. This struck him as more than a bit stupid, since both were IS chassis and it was well known that the Clans disdained using anything but their own tech.

Meanwhile, the Clan Warriors were just taking their time picking off stray militia 'Mechs. They softened up a dueling pair with missiles and peppered up the stragglers with their ER lasers. The Clansmen were using medium and light 'Mechs, and not very many, either. Their forces consisted of two Shadow Cats, three Black Hawks, and a Cougar. Though still green, the militia outnumbered them and could have easily turned the enemies into shrapnel if they had not been doing the same to each other. With the comm out, Sigurd had no way of telling his side to stop ripping each other apart, and they were fully convinced that they were destroying the enemy.

It looked like it was up to him. Sigurd heaved a sigh and charged into the fray. He systematically rounded up and destroyed each enemy 'Mech, starting with the Shadow Cats and then going on to the Black Hawks. Then he looked for the Cougar. He couldn't find it...

Vzzzzt!

The green ray of a Clan ER laser shot through the left arm of his Vulture. He had taken a good deal of punishment from the heavy 'Mechs on his own side already, so the appendage came right off. As the limb exploded, Sigurd felt a brief twinge of pain in his own arm. He had suffered no damage himself, but it felt as though he had. A shot to his 'Mech was the same as a personal injury to him. Wounded and angry, he whipped his 'Mech around to face his enemy.

It was the Cougar.

The light 'Mech stood still, then in a burst of smoke and flame rose up into the air with its jump-jets. As it reached the apex of the jump, it opened fire with both of its missile racks. Two streams of Clan LRM 10's tore through the armor on Sigurd's 'Mech. Bright green coolant sprayed out from his Vulture like blood, as the salvos ate through his armor. The Cougar dropped to the ground and opened fire with every one of its beam weapons. It ran towards Sigurd while firing and began to circle him like a prowling cat.

The right leg on his Vulture, having taken a good amount of damage, began to buckle under the weight of the chassis. Sigurd was tossed from side to side in the cockpit, as his 'Mech was thrown violently by the spray of ordnance and he fought to regain control of the giant machine. His nerves and muscles screamed, as he attempted to force 15 meters and 60 tons of Vulture into an upright position.

Shards of broken glass from the neuro-helmet visor scraped his face. Blood mixed with sweat ran in tiny streams down his face and stung in his eyes, while a loose cable in the cockpit slashed his leg and something sharp and metallic dug into his side. A severed wire coughed out hot sparks onto him and whipped him in the chest. His clothes were soaked with sweat and the liquid leaking from his torn cooling vest. Pain gripped his mind and body, but he kept fighting for control, firing off missiles and lasers at the enemy when he could. It was getting bad, but he did not eject. He hadn't lost yet, he wasn't destroyed yet; therefore, he still had a chance. Small as that chance might be, it was still a chance.

Alarms began to sound in the cockpit as the computer's voice overlapped itself relaying the damage.

"Critical hit: left ar-- Critical hit: right tors-- Critical hit: engi-- Critical hit: leg actuator. Critical hit gyro. Critical hit-- Heat level critical. Critical hit missile-- Critical- Critical-- Ammunition explosion imminent in: five..." the computer informed him.

That was it. He had to eject now, or he would be killed. The ammo explosion would blow the reactor, destroying his 'Mech. He punched the ejection button.

Nothing happened.

The clamps would not release... He punched it again, harder. Nothing. A red light blinked on his console next to the "EJECT" button. It was every MechWarrior's worst fear: the clamps had malfunctioned.

"No!" he screamed and slammed a bloody fist down on the console. There was no way out...

Sigurd removed the cumbersome neuro-helmet to shake some of the glass out of it. He released his grip on the joystick, ran his hands through his sweat drenched and blood stained hair, and leaned back in the command couch. He felt a throbbing sensation in the raw places on his chest. No weapons... No engine... His 'Mech didn't have jump-jets, and the gyro was fried, anyway... No way out... Sigurd clenched his bruised and bloodied fists, then relaxed, drew in a deep breath, and calmly waited.

"Four..."

He was going to die.

'Odd that it should happen this way,' he thought. 'It seems kind of funny, really.'

He laid his head back against the command couch and closed his eyes. A grim smile crept across his face. Sigurd had spent so much of his life a hair's breadth from the threshold of death, that it had never occurred to him to think of what it would be like to actually die. He had not expected to die. He did not know what he had expected.

He hadn't expected it to happen like this, anyway-- not really. Dying seemed more like something in a book than something real, something that might happen to him. Now it was right in front of him.

There would be no last minute escape, no miracle save. No, he would die, now. He was not afraid, though.

'Not afraid, just waiting... patiently... calmly…' he told himself.

A few seconds and his 'Mech would be blown apart, and he would be a million tiny pieces strewn across the battlefield. Just a few more seconds... Just waiting...

It would be quick.

"Three..."

He wouldn't feel anything.

"Two...

An explosion and it would all be over.

"One..."

Just darkness.

Something shook his 'Mech and threw him headfirst onto the console. Sigurd felt a sharp stab of pain, and then...

Nothing.