Wake the hounds up said a voice ,I woke up alongside 618, 619, and 620, each of us in our own ACs. Without warning, we found ourselves plummeting toward the surface of Rubicon 3.
"What the hell, Walter?" I shouted through the comms. "Next time, warn us when your calculations might be off. We're basically piloting Frankenstein mechs here!"
Walter ignored my complaints. "Hounds, move six clicks east. 621, we need to get you a mercenary license."
"What about the others?" I asked.
"They already have theirs. I managed to forge their licenses," he replied.
I grumbled, "Let me guess—you couldn't do that for me because the PCA tightened their security measures?"
After extracting ourselves from the junkyard where we crash-landed, I piloted my AC alongside the others. "Head back to base," I told them, watching as they blasted off into the distance.
As I flew over the barren industrial zone—now a hot combat area—I began searching for potential license opportunities. First, I found a wreck named "Monkey Gordo," but had to reject it due to its low rank. Then there was "Crash Test," but the pilot was still alive, so that was a no-go.
During my search, I spotted G7 Hackra's AC, barely operational but with its pilot still alive. I tossed him a repair kit before continuing my mission. Shortly after, I discovered another potential license—"Raven MIA." The AC looked similar to mine, so I snagged it.
618's voice crackled over the comms. "We took down a PCA heavy copter on the way to base."
I shrugged, but my moment of calm was interrupted by a crimson AC appearing in my viewport. It launched a barrage of missiles—the kind that would give ordinary mercenaries hell—but I dodged them easily. That's what being a Hound means. I paid it no mind and continued towards base.