Love, Death & Robots

The air wing has a tradition:

rookie pilot gets the ship nobody else wants.

In my flight group, that ship was Lucky Thirteen.

There was nothing wrong with her, technically,

but before they gave her to me, she'd lost two crews.

They recovered the ship and the dead...

or what was left of them.

A ship surviving when all her crew dies is unusual, but twice?

I'd never heard of such a thing before...

or since.

Then there was the matter of her serial number:

- -13-02313.

It not only started and ended in 13, the digits totaled 13.

Pilots are a superstitious bunch.

Lucky me.

Fuck.

-She's all yours, Lieutenant. -

Rookie's get the leftovers, you know how that is.

Aye-aye, sir.

I took the liberty. Hope you don't mind, ma'am.

Chief Warrant Officer Jack Lee, ma'am. Call sign "Jacko".

Cutter, Colby. Good to meet you.

Hope you're not letting the talk get to you, ma'am.

I'm not the superstitious type, Jack.

It's just a machine.

Well, you're wrong there, ma'am.

- -Ships have personalities.

None of them are just machines.

-Thirteen in particular. -

Our first op, the enemy attacked one of our terraform stations,

so I'm hauling grunts planet-side to check it out.

They put me in Thirteen in front.

If shooting starts, nine times out of ten, it's the lead ship that doesn't come home.

I tried not to dwell too much on that.

Hen House, this is Lima One Three, confirm LZ is clear. Over.

Confirmed. Watch your sensors.

AWACS tracking two T-28 stealth fighters in your AO, running dark.

LZ looks clear.

The terraformer looks bent.

Let's get this done. Those T-28s show up, we're fucked.

Marines, five minutes.

Condition one rifles.

Condition one rifles!

You know what ship we're riding, right?

It's not a ship, it's a fucking coffin with wings.

Marines, one minute.

First team, you got the ten to two. Second team, you got the two to six.

Third team, you got the six to ten. Good to go?

- Oorah! - Let's go!

You, rear security.

Lima Squadron, this is Henhouse.

Detecting active radar emissions from two T-28s,

bearing 180 on your position.

Marines, fast movers incoming. To cover.

All hands, LZ is compromised.

Return for immediate evac.

-What are you doing, Seven Zero? - Getting the fuck out of here!

You've still got men on the ground, Jockey.

God.

All remaining units into Thirteen, now!

Two squads of enemy grunts in the brush,

and those type 28s are coming around again.

Henhouse, this is Lima One Three. We are a no-go.

Requesting air support.

They're jamming us.

Fifteen seconds to intercept.

Shit, we got one more.

Ten seconds to intercept.

-Not yet. - Wait for me, God damn it!

I got you.

Come on.

- Oh, my God! Come on! -

Spike!

-He's in. - Launching flares.

- Altitude! Pull up. -Cutter, you got this?

- Altitude! Pull up. - Cutter?

Altitude! Pull up.

- - I am shittin' diamonds here.

Guns!

Spike!

Chaff. Flares.

Jacko, take 'em out.

Copy that.

No joy, Cutter. These columns are too dense.

Proximity caution.

Jacko, shoot the columns.

- Cutter, they got a lock on us. - Proximity caution.

Splash one, motherfucker.

- - Straight ahead.