They kept me holed up on the other side of Sand Island, the Grey Zone we'd called it. From the air, it looked like a fenced off compound with three oblong blocks which I had assumed to be accommodation. I was right in a sense, one of them certainly was a form of accommodation. Just not the typical Air Force standard. They'd somehow even managed to conjure up a meal that tasted even more like cardboard.

My room, or rather my cell, was dark and minimal. The three walls looked like they'd never seen soap or a sponge, and the bars that made the fourth wall certainly needed a lick of paint. All I had was a simple metal bed, with a thin blanket and a poor excuse for a pillow, and what I could only assume was a toilet. I was also acutely aware of the lack of shower facilities, and the Oseans had not given me a change of clothes.

You can imagine the state I was in.

On the morning of the third day, I was awoken by the deafening clang of bars, and two soldiers pulled me up from my bed. Neither of them spoke as they once again slapped handcuffs on my wrists and marched me out of my cell and across the yard towards the second oblong building.

I heard a roar, and looked up to see a pair of F-5 Tigers taking off in unison. I could only guess that ARCTIC had moved onto phase two, but I was dragged inside before I could continue to admire the two aircraft. They dumped me in a dark room with no windows, and a one way mirror. An interrogation room. The soldiers cuffed me to the table, not being gentle in the slightest, and left without a word. Seconds later, before I had time to adjust to the new setting, a dark haired man entered, and sat opposite me. In his scarred hands, he held a brown folder that matched the colour of his ugly suit.

"Name and rank." He ordered, not looking at me and instead focusing on the sole piece of paper he drew from the folder.

"Thomasin Fitzgerald." I answered clearly. "First Lieutenant." I told myself that everything was going to be fine. Everything will be worked out and in a few days I can get back to doing my job. All I had to do was answer his questions.

The man didn't look up from the paper, instead he just simply nodded. Then he looked at me, his eyes staring right through me. "I'll ask that again. This time, I want the truth. Name, and rank."

"My name is Thomasin…" I began to answer but I was cut off by the man tossing the paper towards me. I ignored them entirely. "Look, I'm an air force pilot. I was recruited in Oured and I'm based here doing the Advanced Recruit Combat Training Course. Why am I here?"

"That's not what the paperwork I have says." The man was unfazed by my attempts to demand answers from him. I looked down at the sheet in front of me, it was a personal file about me, my photo was at the top and underneath was my…

Oh shit.

Written underneath was my name. My real name. I stared at it in disbelief, how could the they have gotten such a document? Such a file would be hidden away, only those with clearance could access these documents. The man must have an inside source, which meant the whole intelligence agency could be compromised…

My face must have given the game away, because the man opposite me chuckled. "So, Miss Robolski. Let's start again. Name and rank."

"This has to be fake." I desperately tried to dig my way out of the hole I'd been thrown in. My whole world was crashing down around me.

"Actually, that came straight from Erusean Intelligence. As did this." Another paper was slid my way but I ignored it.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Spare me the bullshit Miss Robolski." The man snapped suddenly, catching me off guard. "I know everything about you. You weren't born in Oured, you were born in Farbanti. You joined the Erusean Air Force at the age of eighteen, qualified to fly the MiG-29, joined the Erusean Intelligence at twenty three and then sent undercover to join the OADF. After that…" He shrugged. "Well. I'll let you read the letter."

I did as he asked, awkwardly picking up the paper with shaking hands. Everything he had said was true, but I quickly forgot about all that as I read the document. It was written in Erusean, but I could easily read it and understand what it meant. And I knew the man opposite also understood what the document said.

The man leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Let me tell you how screwed you are..."


After the Usean Continental War, the Erusean government saw an opportunity to rebuild it's armed forces and change the way they were trained. They wanted their Air Force to have the best training and the best equipment supplied from the EASA. And who better to learn how to train top pilots from than the Oseans?

But obviously, Osea wasn't about to give Erusea access to it's selection and training program. For several years Erusean Intelligence tried to get information out of the Osean pilots, usually through dating apps, but to no avail. So then they decided to put somebody through the training programme, but the young agent they sent failed the selection process and very little information was gained.

That's where I came in. Young, proven and trained, it was predicted that someone like me could pass the OADF selection and then get access to Osea's training for the highly skilled recruits, namely their Advanced Recruit Combat Training Instruction Course. And obviously, I did. My prior training and experience with the Erusean Air Force allowed me to excel at the Osean training courses and be offered a place on ARCTIC. And all the time I would write 'letters home', that I would give to my Erusean Intelligence contact in Osea, who in turn would send them back to Farbanti.

But I learned from the man in front of me that the Osean CIA had uncovered my contact long ago, and that the CIA had been receiving my letters from the very start. So when the Eruseans had not received my letters, they'd sent one to back to our contact. And when that got no response, assumed that I had gone rouge.

The letter in front of me stated just that. That I was now a out on my own, and a traitor to the Erusean state. On top of that, the Erusean government had revoked my citizenship, and sent the letter out to the Osean intelligence stating that if found, I was to be returned to Erusean custody for trial.

However, the CIA had some other ideas.

"There are three options." The man explained, holding up three slender fingers. "One, we send you back to Erusea. Maybe the Erusean intelligence really do want to try you for being a traitor and a defector, or maybe it's just a ride to get you back to them." He dropped a finger. "Two, we hold you here in one of our prisons. It would be a shame, a young talented girl, a pretty girl, like you being held up alongside murderers, rapists, drug dealers, all whom really despise foreign spies I hear. Or three…" Another finger fell. "You can tell us what we want to know. Answer our questions truthfully and perhaps we can help each other out. Obviously we can't let you go free, but there's a place we can send you, where your talents wouldn't be wasted."

Honestly, the idea of being locked up in an Osean prison surrounded by dangerous people who would love nothing more than five minutes alone with me scared me a little. Okay, it scared me a lot. In a place like that, I would probably give myself a fortnight if I was lucky before my sentence was cut short by someone's shank in the shower. And I knew there was no way I'd be sent back to Erusea. It left me just one option, and the man knew it. He had me right where he wanted me.

I felt dirty asking him, but I had no choice. Erusea had sold me out and Osea was not my home. My priorities had changed, from the mission to simply survival. I slid the paper back across the table and now it was my turn to lean forward, resting my arms on the warm metal. "First, I want some assurances."

"I'm listening." He said, leaning back in the chair. I doubted it but fuck it, it was worth a shot.

"My mother." I began. "She lives in Osea…"

"We know." The man interrupted, but I continued nonetheless.

"She can stay here, right?" It was more of a plea than a question, and I knew it.

"In the eyes of the law, she's done nothing wrong." The man shrugged. "She can stay."

"And this place you mentioned, you will send me there?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Now I sat back in my chair, as well as I could since my hands were bound to the table. I took a breath, understanding what I was about to do. My father would be turning in his grave, but to hell with it. Erusea had hung me out to dry. I had no more loyalties there. "What do you want to know?"

The man reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. I half hoped he'd offer me one, but alas he lit his own and slid the lighter away. "So, what can you tell me about drones?"

I told him everything I knew, which if I was honest wasn't much. Occasionally the man would ask a question, or slide me a picture for me to look at and try to explain. I tried to answer everything he asked, in fear that he would change his mind. The more helpful I was the more chance there was of the man holding his end of the deal. There were some details I didn't know, how many drones were operational. Where they were, their capabilities, how they were controlled.

There were some questions I was able to answer. The topic of the questions moved from Erusea's drone project onto the state of the EAF. Pilot morale, training, general standard of maintenance of the aircraft. I answered them all as truthfully as I could.

Then finally, after what seemed like hours and the feeling in my legs had all but disappeared, the man stubbed out his third cigarette and stood. "Thank you Miss Robolski. You've been very helpful." He turned to leave."

"Then the deal stands?" I tried to keep from sounding too hopeful but I knew I'd failed when I heard the words leave my mouth. The man turned as he opened the door, and the same two soldiers re-entered.

"There's a plane leaving for Usea tonight." The man answered as the soldiers unlocked my handcuffs to unravel them from the table before quickly putting them back on. "You'll be on it."

Relief washed over me. The man left the room, and the soldiers walked me out after and back to my ugly cell. I had been lucky, for once. Well, as lucky as a captured spy could be. Exhausted from all the questioning I collapsed onto my bed, I didn't even know what time it was as I closed my eyes and let the darkness of sleep take me.


The CIA man in the ugly brown suit had kept his word. That night I had been awoken again by the clanging of bars by two soldiers, different from the ones that morning, and marched out towards the aircraft that would carry me to wherever this place was. The C-130 Hercules was packed to the brim with pallets covered in plastic sheeting and black rope securing the cargo, and I was surprised to find that I wasn't the only passenger on the aircraft.

They sat us together, still handcuffed, and the aircrew strapped us in with the seatbelt. There was almost no room to breathe, I was acutely aware of our bodies crushed together with no regard for personal space. I was once again conscious of how badly I must smell, and felt sorry for the poor guy.

It could be worse, I suppose. At least I wasn't being shipped off to an Osean prison surrounded by murderers, rapists and drug dealers.

I hoped.

Then the aircrew tossed earplugs at us, and the aircraft began to start up. Hurriedly I pushed the yellow ear cheeses into my ears before the roar became overwhelming and tried to relax as much as I could. The man next to me, a pilot as well judging by his flight suit, looked down at me and smiled, holding out his hand for what I assumed was a handshake. I took it, his grip was firm, and that was that. Our sole communication for the entire flight.

What followed was several hours of pure uncomfortableness. The cabin lights went out just before takeoff, and we both sat in darkness. Shortly after, the pilot next to me fell asleep but unluckily for me I was wide awake, daydreaming about this place the CIA were sending me to. What talents was he referring to? The only talents I had were flying, possibly espionage and playing the guitar. And I didn't know how playing a guitar would help the Oseans in any way.

The sun was just beginning to rise as the Hercules landed and the ramp lowered. I nudged the pilot awake as the aircrew unbuckled us, and marched us off the aircraft into the waiting custody of two more soldiers, this time dressed in the grey UCP of the regular military. There was no vehicle waiting for us, we were forced to walk from the pan to towards the hangers ahead.

Sadly, my hopes for cooler weather were disappointed. This place was just as hot as Sand Island, although thankfully not as humid.

As we walked towards the hangers, I assessed my surroundings. We were obviously held on an airfield, albiet a very run down one. The hangers looked like they were built in the 1950s, and filled with what appeared to be old, run down jets. Further down the pan, two of them were sat in the open while ground crew in orange coveralls crawled over them, a blue Flanker and a Hornet. Each bore white lines on their tales, two for the Flanker and one for the Hornet. I had no time to wonder what they were for before we were escorted into the hanger in front of us and towards a desk in the near corner.

"Names." The sodier manning the desk demanded in a bored tone as he studied a clipboard. The other pilot grinned at me and nudged my arm.

"Ladies first."

I brushed off then irritation and answered. "Sabina Robolski."

"Otto Reus."

This seemed to satisfy whatever was written on the clipboard. After scribbling something down the soldier waved us on to the next desk. Here we were issued basic clothes and toiletries. Two flight suits, five t-shirts, five pairs of socks, five sets of underwear, basic military issue toothpaste and shower gel. Reus' presumably light humoured request for moisturiser to keep his hands nice and soft was met with a gruff order to "Fuck off, convict!" And with that we were whisked out of the hanger towards the accommodation block.

Imagine a small military airbase crossed with a prison camp, and that's the best way to describe the place. There were a small gaggle of people dressed in olive across the small grass yard outside what I could only assume to be a mess hall, guards in UCP wandered about in pairs carrying rifles and several people who I guessed were other inmates were heading towards the hangers dressed in the same orange coveralls as the engineers working on the jets. The atmosphere was quiet, but I could sense a certain tension between the convicted pilots and the guards as was to be expected.

The cell block was marginally better than Sand Island's Grey Zone. The bed was still metal framed with the standard waterproof green matress I'd slept on during the Osean basic training, but at least now I had access to a sink, and a curtain to pull round the toilet. Reus was directed to the cell next to me and he seemed unfazed by the condition of the cell.

"Nice and homey." He grinned, to the amusement of the guards. "Looks like we're neighbors, Sab."

I didn't know what annoyed me more, his carefree attitude or his new nickname for me.

The soldiers gave us just enough time to dump our newly acquired clothes on our beds before they directed us across the yard past the mess, my stomach reminded me that I'd not eaten since lunch yesterday. The next building we were pushed into had a single room with a speaker's stand and projector screen sat in front of three rows of battered plastic seats, most of which were occupied by pilots jabbering and joking about something. The room fell silent when we entered, all eyes turned to bore holes into us.

"Fresh meat!" Someone shouted from the front.

"One's a girl too." Another pointed out the obvious. I'd assumed everyone in the room was a man, but the other woman's voice gave it away. It had been an easy mistake to make with her shaved head and defined arms.

Reus nudged me, and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "What's the general rule of prisons, find the biggest man and make him your bitch?" It sure got a reaction, several of the men stood up quick with chairs screeching as Reus laughed, holding his hands up. "It's a joke. I'm kidding, relax!"

"Better watch your mouth, Belkan." A tall man in the grey UCP uniform and hair to match entered the room as the men sat down, muttering to themselves. "I see you've met your new wingmen. A Belkan anarchist and an Erusean spy. Anarchists, they're like newspapers. Always want to change the world but just end up talking shit."

The comment got a a few murmured laughs. "Shut up!" The man shouted. "Now listen in new kids. I'm Commander McKinsey. Your sorry insignificant lives belong to me. You so much as sneeze out of line and I'll make sure you get nice and cozy in solitary confinement! You understand?"

"Yes sir." Reus gave the commander a half-assed salute, and I just simply nodded. I didn't want to draw any attention to me, and I was happy to let Reus be the shit deflector.

The Commander scowled. "The ground crew have some planes for you in the hanger. We've already taken the liberty of painting your sin lines on for you, go get yourselves acquainted with them. Better be a quick learner too, there's a sortie tomorrow and you're both on it. You better not crash, those planes are worth more than your asses."

I turned to leave, Reus hot on my heels. The hangers were only a short walk away but I could already feel another bead of sweat breaking out on my brow by the time we got there. Inside, several more technicians were working on the skeleton of an aircraft, the F-15's parts scattered about the hanger. Upon seeing us, one of them hobbled over, I noticed they wore a metal brace around their knee. As they came closer, I also noticed that they, or she in fact, was covered in dirt and grease from head to toe.

"You the new guys?" She asked, one hand on her hip and the other twirling a spanner nonchalantly.

"Yeah. Name's Otto." Reus grinned at her. "And you are? You don't look like a guard."

The woman snorted. "Pilots aren't the only convicts sent here. Someone has to fix the birds and they sure aren't sending regulars out here." She gestured over her shoulder towards the rear of the hanger. "You can call me the Scrap Queen. Your planes are in the corner." The Scrap Queen turned to head back to work, calling back as she did so. "Try not to break them, I only got them working the other day."

The grin didn't leave Reus' face, and I began to wonder if it ever did. The hanger was large enough to fit seven aircraft down each side, although most of the planes were in pieces and would likely never get airborne again. The sight of so many broken steeds started a trickle of doubt in my mind if our planes would be in any fit state to fly, let alone start up.

"Guess she means these ones." Reus pointed over to two in the corner free of work benches and piles of rusted and broken components. Mirages, two of them. Agile multirole fighters that I'd only seen in videos, I began to wonder how on Strangereal I would be able to figure out how to fly the thing before tomorrow's sortie. It was only when we were standing in front of the two jets that I then saw the distinctive white lines on the tail, one for Reus and two for me. And I also saw that his plane seemed to be in a better condition than mine.

Reus had noticed too. "I'm not complaining." He patted the fuselage affectionately. He climbed up to examine the cockpit, jumping down a few seconds later with a roll of papers. "Looks like we've got homework too. I'll see you around Sab." He waved the papers and waltzed back down the hanger. I wondered how he was so carefree, a nuclear bomb could go off nearby and I would put money on Reus not being fazed at all.

Well, the Belkans did nuke themselves seven times.

I smiled to myself at my own joke. I too climbed into the cockpit of my own Mirage, and saw my own wad of papers. I climbed in, sitting in the seat that was somehow more uncomfortable than the Hercules we'd come here on. Settling down, I flipped through the pages and groaned. There sure was a lot of homework written in what appeared to be hieroglyphics, or someone's incredibly poor handwriting. With a sigh, I began to read.