<strong>Everett Yoshikawa<br/>Santa Prisca Desert, Librios<br/>Deneb Algedi, Benjamin District<br/>1 January 3145</strong><br/><hr/><br/>The Crusher pilot was a veteran, but when he swung his Archer's massive missile batteries away to try and track Hiro's Spider, Everett knew the other Mechwarrior had signed his own death warrant. The Blitzkreig's oversized engine whined as he pushed it full-out, desperate to rush in under the Archer's guns before it could retarget. He didn't quite make it - the Archer pilot was indeed a veteran, and realized his mistake almost as soon as he had made it. Even as the coverings of the LRM batteries swung shut and autoloaders began cycling a new load of ammunition into the tubes, he was bringing his armored torso back around to face Everett's mad charge. Warbling tones warned of a strengthening target lock - Everett blitzed onward, straight down the larger 'Mech's throat as his own computers quested out for a firing solution.<br/><br/>Just as he came into maximum range, the Archer fired, belching forty homing missiles into his face even as Everett pulled his own trigger and thundered a titan's fury of autocannon shells at his enemy. Holding down the trigger, watching the incoming missile swarm, until the last second - then he dove, flinging his machine prone as the LRM salvo went terminal. With a shriek of tortured metal, his beloved Blitzkreig toppled forward, still moving at over a hundred KPH, and dug a 50-ton trench of dirt and shredded ferro-fibrous armor while thirty furious missiles detonated overhead. Damage warnings flared all across his back, almost as bad as the ruin he was inflicting on his front, but he made it through, and was able to watch the effects of his own fire.<br/><br/>The Ultra AC's shells had torn gaping hunks out of the Archer's torso, though sadly not the rear armor shot he had been hoping for - internal structure was visible, and the faint glow of a damaged engine. But it was still a brutal hammer blow; the Archer staggered, its pilot fighting desperately to maintain his balance under the gut punch he had taken. Fighting...and failing. Stumbling forward, arms out, and collapsing to its knees. Some detached part of Everett's mind looked at the scene and saw poetry - an enemy warrior, gutted but stoic, on his knees before the sword-wielding executioner. Everett had done his part, now it was the executioner's turn to carry out his duty.