I do not own the Storm Hawks. Though I do own some lovely knives, and a sword I picked up on Vacation in the USA. Sadly it has no edge, why would you make a sword if it is not designed to be efficent. It makes no sensde to me, General Jackson did not use a blunted blade, so why would you purposefully make such an inaccurate replica?

"A man ought to do what he thinks is right."

-Marion M. Morrison "The Duke"

Prologue

Sunset

The blue sky was turning crimson as the sun set. Like blood staining a cloth, the color of his eyes. Atop his Peregrine V5 a man rests between the endless sky and the mists that conceal the hellish wasteland below. It was a tenuous existence between two extremes, like the growing twilight.

His heart is slowing now and his wound seems to be stopping. He watches numbly as the Condor retreats from sight, the ship has sailed literally and metaphorically. In this state the only sense that reaches him is the warmth is the warmth behind him sharing the seat.

As humans, and despite what would later be said his humanity is never in question, in times of great change often do, his mind flees backwards. Like Hansel and Gretel frantically searching for a trail of breadcrumbs to give direction in a dark forest he seeks to remember how he came to this place.

If one was to be literal it began with his birth, but properly it began in his fourth year. His father had been a miner on a terra whose lifeblood was the bounty beneath the ground. By right it was a profession that should have brought honor and respect for brining wealth and prosperity.

Such sentiments would come later; a naïve boy did not truly question his families poverty. Crowded shared living quarters, the long absences of his father who returned exhausted, the scant meals, these more were simply the world. That year his mother left, that was when he first started to question.

Again all too typically he thought the responsibility fell on him. He recalled the sadness and loneliness that now filled the times his father was below. He remembered her as beautiful, with eyes like his, but with no pictures he could not safely say these images were more than a child's imagination filling holes.

He was an outcast amidst the other garbage, the other children were richer in that they either still ha their parents, or at least they had died instead. He became aware of how very little he had, and how little he mattered.

Wandering the filthy ghettos became his role, returning only to meet his father. The city was more than filth and poverty; he found beauty in the places he was not permitted to go. This terra was rather feudal in its make up, rather than land barons, ranching families, it was mining magnates and their flunkies who thrived under the Prince. All the wealth and labor of the masses went to these clean and green neighborhoods.

Perhaps that knowledge could have broken him as the injustice of the world set in, but fate had interceded. He had seen them for the first time; of course he had heard tales of them, eavesdropping on others bed time stories, but the sight . . .

Sky knights, their PSFs (Personal Sky Fighters) gracefully maneuvering about a sleek freighter as they approached the port. Where as his previous revelations had left him cold and emptier than he had been before, this sight filled him not just with envy, but fire. He had come to hate those he envied, seeing them and what they possessed as worthless. He did not want to be one of those spoiled brats playing in a pristine park; that was not him.

He wanted to be above it all, the filth and the decadence both. Perhaps more than the old desires for his mother too return he had wanted to escape into the sky, and look down on the world that stood over him. The stainless blue sky called to him. He was eight years old.

Five years later fortune or fate conspired to bring his world crashing down. The war had started up again, with the unification of Atmosia the Empire made a final desperate attempt to disrupt the consolidation of its enemies. The war came to his home Terra in a massive raid intent on disrupting the strategically vital mining industry.

It came down to a battle when troop transports landed in spite of strong resistance by the Sky Knights. The local military was mostly mercenary and ineffective against the Cyclonian Marines, preferring life to dying for their employer.

Rather than taking shelter he sought the battle, no logic explained this save that he might have been truly born for this. He took up a dead Cyclonian's weapon and joined the defense, becoming lost in a red haze.

The battle was over when he came out of it. Apparently he had done well enough to attract the attention of the senior Sky Knight. Learning the thirteen year old had no training the old Merb was impressed, making note of the lackluster performance of the actual soldiers of the terra.

When the Knight asked the question the boy was shocked. He had never truly abandoned his dreams of the sky, but he had littler hope for them coming true. Growing up as he did delusions found infertile soil in the face of relentless reality. A miner's son with no connections or qualifications would not even be permitted to set foot in an academy, unless he was there to clean it. His only realistic options were to follow his father into the shafts, or join the military and be used however the magnates saw fit in maintaining the status quo.

"Would you consider entering a Sky Knight Academy?" was this question the culmination of destinies long running conspiracies or just one of many possible outcomes created by many accidents and coincidences. Whatever the case his answer was made without even the slightest hesitation, yes.

His father had survived the battle and on learning what had happened the two had embraced. For two reserved individuals like the father and son it was a moment of intimacy such as thy had never and would never share again. Was it merely joy that his son would escape the fate he had been forced to accept? Or had his father also once dreamed of the blue sky, and received only the black mines?

A ranking Knight's endorsement got him into the academy. Soon disillusionment reared its head again as the pearly gates proved quite smudged.

While far above the bullying and corrupt police and soldiers he had previously encountered the Sky Knights of Atmosia where far from perfect. The rival orders had been merged over the years just like the once independent Terras to counter the threat of the Talons and the Empire. The Knightly Order of Atmosia along with their homeland had seized the helm of the new order, but their control was far from absolute. The academies were being pushed a the best approach while many still defended apprenticeship with trial by fire, and still other methods from sensible to bizarre where practiced.

It has been said that diversity was the great strength of the Sky Knights of Atmosia, and it was true. That did not stop diversity from also being their major weakness as well. In addition to traditional rivalries between former rival nations disrupting unity culture clash was common place. Patriarchies, Matriarchies, Atriacrhies, Absolutism, Oligarchy, Democracy, Monarchy, Theocracy, and the list went on. The Order was in all likelihood stronger than the Talons, but if not for the common enemy the Order would never have been formed, much less stayed together.

His lowly origins also left something to be desired. He drove himself to exceed at everything, determined to keep moving forward to ensure he would never end up back where he started. The intrigues and oddities of the student body where lost on him as a workaholic.

It seemed that his efforts either paid off or drastically backfired. After a little over one year at the academy he was tapped by a Knight Leader to join a squadron.

The Knight was Pyke of the Storm Hawks, a unit whose infamy even an anti social workaholic knew. Unorthodox, undisciplined, disobedient, but unusually skilled; these were the traits associated with the legendary squadron.

The unit was relatively new, but in less than half a century had gained greater notoriety than many ancient squadrons dating back to the First Cyclonian War and beyond.

Having prided himself on following protocol and conduct to the letter, being sent to the "interesting reject bin" grated on his ever sensitive nerves. He suspected that the elitist instructors had conspired to remove the filth from their allowed halls.

The answer he had received from Pyke on the matter was:

The Sky Knight had been a man in his late twenties, though his attitudes made him seem far younger. With slightly too long light brown a face more often than not coated with stubble and a laid back attitude he was hardly the recruiting poster image of a Sky Knight officer. "The reason the Council sent me to the Storm Hawks was they thought I had the right combination of responsibility and anarchy to shepherd this herd of ferrets. Thing is, after all these years I'm not sure I still have that balance. You on the other hand seem tightly wrapped enough to make up the slack for the rest of us. You're young, but that means you can adapt better than others, people always underestimate what youth can accomplish. Besides while I'm sure you would rather be somewhere else, you can go farther here than in one of those stuffed shirt squads," Pyke had answered. The Sky knight had always been a mercurial enigma, going seamlessly from a sagacious veteran to a cunning trickster. Both qualities had served the man well on the battlefield and in the Condor. And despite the unflattering first impression he possessed the loyalty and diligence that the Sky Knights were famed for in Spades and faithfully carried out his duties.

The Storm Hawks had taken him in, and accepted him even though their acceptance was not something he had really sought. As Pyke had predicted he had become the straight arrow of the group, this title even gave rise to a much hated nickname they would tease the red eyed youth with. He came in time to see them as comrades, one even as a friend. It was not fated to last.

During his time as a Storm Hawk the main war with Cyclonia had petered out. As usual non one expected it to last but for various reasons they decided to forego killing each other for a while. The action was in Wallopica, series of newly discovered Terras. The Empire and Atmosia entered a race to either vassalize, ally with, or conquer the new territory. The Storm Hawks where particularly suited to this environment, the Wallopi while technologically backward had a rich warrior culture which coincided with the ways of the Storm Hawks.

Of course in the shadow of glory the first seeds of doubt started to take root. While the journals painted the actions of the Sky Knights and colonists in Wallopica in a rosy light, he saw first hand what made it possible. They did not just fight against Cyclonians, much of their time was spent keeping the Wallopi in line. In a fair fight a Terran or a Merb was at a huge disadvantage to a Wallopi, but tech and superior training allowed the Storm Hawks alone to able to put down a Terra wide revolt.

The Wallopi's strength could not save them from domination, but it made them excellent laborers. This was how the balance of power was to be shifted the extraction of resources from the Terras of Wallopica to strengthen the economy and military of Atmosia. He could not quite dismiss similarities between the forced labourers and his old life.

The second part of their job was to keep the Cyclonians off balance in the region. Their approach was different from Atmosia, the land was their priority. Like his enemies Cyclonis made treaties and alliances with the Wallopi clans and kingdoms, but unlike them he preferred seizing land for his colonists from rebels rather than enslaving them.

He would never forget the raids they conducted on the colonies. What exactly they did depended on the resistance they meet. On one occasion they had located a fledgling colony, not more than sixty people and no Talons rose to meet them. Pyke had used it as an opportunity to send a message. Carrying out his orders he had recited his vow to serve internally, a mantra against his actions. The event went unnoticed back home and the command had rewarded them when the surviving Cyclonians withdrew from that terra completely.

So it had gone; he had soared through the sky for years with his comrades, adored and loved by the masses for heroics that he took no pride in. The sky was no longer pure and clean, the blue was many shades of crimson, and he waded through it.

Things changed. He had sent all the money he did not spend on gear and essentials to his father. It had gotten the man out of the mines, but not soon enough to save him from crystal sickness. The two had never been that close, but the loose left him like a kite with its string cut. Perhaps having always been there he had not understood what it really meant to have someone. Now he thought that had freed him from any real attachments and set him up for what was coming.

Without a doubt it had been the most important mission any of the Storm Hawks had been entrusted with, and the most dangerous. Their success would end Cyclonian involvement in Wallopica and possibly gain a permanent edge on Cyclonia. Using reliable intelligence they had raided a border Terra to kidnap the children of the Master Cycloinis. The Crown Prince was conducting inspections of the region and for some reason his younger sister was accompanying him. The opportunity to strike at the enemy's heart was too good to pass up.

Nothing would go right for anyone, Cyclonian or Storm Hawk. They were all accustomed to dealing with pampered or educated royals of the AC, and expected the Holy House of the Cyclone to be no different. We were wrong and Pyke ended up having to kill the Crown Prince in order to stay alive himself. In his entire life he had never encountered anyone who could employ crystals in such an intricate manner, and lacking any machines to speak of. So ranks thinned and one royal short they retreated to the Condor with a six year old girl to let their masters twisted Cyclonia's arm.

The girl had been surprising. First she resisted fiercely, biting off one of the Hawks fingers, and then she was a calm and reserved prisoner. Most adults did not account for themselves so well. Hiding in a treacherous, and thus deserted, section of the border they passed the days in the Condor, waiting for instructions from home. As usual the straight arrow had foregone the bawdy company of his comrades, this time taking the important but boring post of guarding the prisoner.

Despite years of service on the Colonial front, and dubious missions into the Cyclonian homeland, he had never truly been allowed to interact with the Atmosian Confederations bogeyman. He had asked her about her brother, rather he had complimented the late man. That had lead him to question the age difference between the siblings.

In turn she had volunteered that she had been a late accident. Miracle was the term the peasants used, a back up to the royal line, and an unexpected sacred child born with the violet eyes attributed to Cyclonis the Breaker. That had lead him to learning about how the enemy viewed themselves, he found much of their faith as ridiculous as any religion, but they seemed to actually follow it.

Did he do it because he liked her, so much like him despite coming from the opposite position in almost every way conceivable? Did he not intend to succeed and gone out on some elaborate suicide trip. Did he hate the Storm Hawks so much that he did not only want to leave but disgrace them? Or was it simply about leaving and nothing more. He could not say why, but he let her out and flew out of the hangar on his modified Peregrine and made for the border.

They had caught him of course.

The remains of the squadron had used the clouds to box them in. The Cyclonian princess, crammed into the seat behind him, tightened her grip around his stomach. He knew better than to mistake it for fear, her motivation was rational, to be as secure as possible when (not if) he had rip through the sky. As his former comrades closed in nine Sky Knights spread out covering any possible route of escape he decelerated, and waited for them to make a move.

The stand off cracked as Pyke advanced from the perimeter. The Sky Knights queerly cheerful eyes meet his subordinates brooding ones. Typically he entered the parley in good humor, his friendly voice carrying effortlessly over the distance and the rumbling of engines. "Arrow, I will not ask for an explanation. I doubt it would make much sense anyway. You've snapped; all things considered it's not surprising, I should have seen this coming. It's worse for tightly wound pricks like you. Give the girl back and no one outside the Condor need ever know. Hell, I'll treat you at our next leave, booze, food, women the works. What do you say kid?" Pyke had offered. They had managed to surround him, not surprising considering the extra weight of the girl. The air had been bound by tension and fear, none of it his.

"I am not going back, sir," he had answered.

"Would you prefer men then?" Pyke had queried. It had raised a laugh from the Sky Knights. The traitor was unmoved by the insult.

Carefree appearances aside Pyke took pride in excelling in most things, so not laughing at his joke amounted to an insult. "Don't make me kill you," Pyke had pressed. The knight was all business now, Pyke was not about to be cheated out of glory by the squadron rookie.

Pyke drew his sword without flourish, tough the blade managed to catch the sunlight. He felt the atmosphere as the other prepared for the impossible. This was terra incognita; he had seen this side of Pyke dozens of times but never been on the receiving end. He was surprised to find himself unafraid. "Likewise," the red eyed man had answered, igniting his weapon.

He had done it anyway though. Back in the present he still could not believe they weren't going to rise from the Wasteland to kill him. He had realized already that he had surpassed Pyke, but taking on nine veterans at once should have been his end. Had they held back, despite it all had they been unwilling to kill one of their own? Was he really that good, even outnumbered and carrying deadweight? He could only wonder as he watched the Condor retreat, imagining Stork freaking out at what he had witnessed. He was not pursuing anyway, it was a relief he had not been forced to kill the one Storm Hawk he had actually liked.

Aforesaid deadweight was now unwrapping herself from him, and he couldpicture her wearing that self-assured expression she seemed so accustomed to.

"Congratulations, Ace," she spoke up.

"What?" he responded, the first words since his exchange with the deceased Pyke.

She spoke. The roar of his motors almost drowned her out. As she had proved herself to be before, she was as usual calm and collected. Far beyond the taciturn silence of a moody child, he realized now her words were almost always heavy enough to make up for everything else left unsaid. And they were invariably sarcastic. "You killed the Storm Hawks, Ace," she said to him, words dry. Almost bored. "That alone would make you a hero to the empire. The fact that you also rescued me from them has secured your place of honor amongthe Cyclonians."

"I'm no hero," he said in response. He meant to leave it at that, but somehowhis lips kept moving and he found himself speaking his mind. "I killed my squadron. The brand of traitor is on me now, little girl, and the stigma will follow me for as long as I fly the skies." The former Sky Knight could almost hear her rolling her eyes; he did not care. He had already crossed the border of Decision and was headed towards the land of Consequences already; might as well get all of them in there since it was on his way.

"Then I guess you're a Dark Ace," she corrected herself. Then he felt her straighten, her tone changing to one of authority. "Either way, it's only getting colder so why don't we get going?"

He had committed crimes against the Empire himself after all. More importantly he had killed his own dreams, and violated the code that had dictated his life. What was he going to do now, who was he now? In his search for freedom he had found himself bound by a code of honor and forged an identity around that code. But now Pyke, the paragon of those knightly virtues and honors, was dead. Did that mean the Ace was dead too? Did that make him free?

"From one thing, another is born."

-Tansen shah Gamalani

Many Thanks to Xethstrin for betaing and increasing the potency of this story five fold by volunterring to Beta. She has proven herself awesome many times over.

That is all for now. I likely will not return to this until one of my other projects is concluded. In the meantime review and let me know you care. I worry that I put too much info here, did I? Also the more reviews I get the more likely I am too turn this oneshot into a sequence.

Danke.