The Master's Ribbon

Since Ace Combat Infinity ended on an apparent cliffhanger, it's up to our imaginations to continue the story. Here's my take on the end of the war against USEA.

Prologue

April 21, 2019

My employer gave me a neutral expression as I expected for this kind of interview, sitting across from me with a laptop filling out whatever document he had.

"Some last questions, alright? State your name and rank please," he started.

That one was a bit surprising, "I was booted out of the air force, why does rank matter?"

"Just do it for the record," he responded back with a tinge of annoyance.

"Fine...1st Lieutenant Taylor Richter."

"Age and birth location."

"23 years, Pueblo."

Quickly typing away at his laptop, he looked up and asked the question I was hoping he would not ask, "Alright last thing, your callsign?"

I actually had to give a moment to think about that. I could lie and pluck something out of thin air, but nothing came to mind. I resorted to using the one that had followed me through my previous service, "Reaper."

The employer finished typing whatever it was and with a small smile, stood up and came around the table with a hand extended, "Okay, that's about it. Since we go by callsigns in our squadrons, I suppose I'll get you started on that. Welcome to Arrows, Reaper."

I firmly shook his hand, "My pleasure sir."

"Alright, take the exit out and head right towards the HQ. You'll get affiliated with your new squadron and commander there." I gave the man a quick nod before heading over to HQ with eagerness, albeit with a mountain of doubt.

Born in Pueblo, I was left under the care of my grandfather at age two after the Ulysses disaster had killed both of my parents. My grandfather had been an F-4 pilot in the US Air Force during Vietnam, serving as an escort for the B-52s on their way to targets in North Vietnam. He occasionally recalled stories of his job and how many of his fellow wingmen were shot down due to lack of dogfighting training, as US doctrine believed it to be a thing of the past. My grandfather could not get over the losses he saw in the skies and retired the same year all US forces were withdrawn. He never took up flying again, but he still wanted to be around aircraft in some way, eventually taking up a job as a curator at the Peterson Air Museum. The flying part of him stuck with me, influencing my decision to join the Air Force Academy and following in his footsteps as a fighter pilot.

Although queasy of my choice, my grandfather still supported me wholeheartedly up until his death when I was still in training for the Air Force. Perhaps it was part of the reason why I ended up in a scuffle that eventually had me ousted from the Air Force. About a month after that, a man had somehow gotten into contact with me offering a job opportunity with the Arrows mercenary group. Under normal circumstances, I would have rejected it as mercenaries tend to be stigmatized as glory hunters. But in this case, my desperation for flying won out. It turned out I was one of the youngest mercenaries ever hired by Arrows Air Defense and Security, so the amount of skepticism I was bound to receive was not lost on my part. I was hoping to leave some kind of mark in this mercenary group, but it turned out those fears were for not.

Several months later, "Reaper", now Bone Arrow 1, had become the top ace of all mercenaries participating in the war against USEA. My infamous grim reaper emblem had been tweaked a bit and now included an infinity ribbon to commemorate the status. That little bit of pride was not lost on the rest of my squadron and commander, Goodfellow. Despite the fact the ranking system within the mercenary group was not taken seriously(the exception being the commander himself), my wingmen mostly preferred to call me "Captain" even if it took awhile for me to warm up to that title after the promotion. Speaking of wingmen, I appreciated them just as much as they did for me. "Omega", the scrawny joker he was, became my most trusted wingman even if he could not for the life of himself keep his mouth shut for five minutes, or if he kept retaining his "King Bailout" title for his tendency to get shot down often. Although I did not know them as well, "Bronco" and "Zebu" were also reliable squadmates effectively looking out for me and each other, but I appreciated them more for their quiet mannerisms as a means to balance out Omega the motormouth.

Despite Goodfellow insisting we were "privateers'' as hired by the UN Security Council, many of the UNF squadrons as well as those of the enemy considered us "pirates''. That fact became apparent with the squadron that we had to work with for the past several months: the Ridgebacks. Their former leader, who I only knew as Slash, did not hold back his disdain for us mercenary folk. His wingmen held up that stigma right up until his death in Operation Override, being killed outright by an MQ-90 Quox drone at the hands of Butterfly Master. The Butterfly Master, who had claimed the lives of many good pilots, was still an enigma after the few encounters Bone Arrows and Ridgebacks squadrons had with the master craft QFA-44. Yet I was one of the few, maybe only, pilots that could go toe to toe with the Master and its six drone escorts. The last time we met the Master provided a little more insight, and by that I mean not much at all. There was this girl's voice that made its way into our comms with its creepy humming tune and apparently directly addressing me as "Ribbon". It was only after we once again shot down the Master's aircraft that the intelligence department was able to scrounge up more information. All aircraft maneuvers and functions were controlled by a satellite in low earth orbit, although no one could launch a mission to intercept it since the UN space treaty prevented such an occurrence. Pretty shortsighted, in my opinion. Goodfellow did say people were trying to figure out some way around it, but until then, we would be confined in Earth's atmosphere.

Even though none of us could physically leave the atmosphere, my mind was already in orbit with questions. Who exactly was the Butterfly Master? Some AI with an advanced voice modulator? If it was an actual person, what would they be like? I shared some of the resentment with the rest of my squadron, knowing that the Master was probably anything but some nice, forgiving person. But for the time being, we were all stuck on the ground left to ponder. Edge, the new leader of the Ridgebacks, had left a good question in my head.

Faster and higher. Will you be the one to go there? I still do not have a clue as to what Edge meant by that, but maybe someday I would see for myself.

AN: This is my first fanfiction, so I hope you fellow readers can find some enjoyment out of it. As always, any feedback would be greatly appreciated.