Chapter Summary:

Trigger wakes up. Things go downhill from there.

(TW: amputation, dissociation, depression, paranoia, trying to cheer your friend up but accidentally making them even more depressed, graphic depictions of budgeting, and what my friend who knows nothing about AC describes as "creepy eldritch robot stuff.")


-DATA CORRUPTION DETECTED-

-ATTEMPTING SYSTEM REBOOT-

boot sequence initiated for this Unit

this Unit

this Unit is

t̴̨͝ ̸̮̑h̸̞̔ ̶̠̕i̶̜̽ ̴̱̓s̵͚̃ ̵̠̈u̴̦͛ ̵̤̊ṇ̵͝ ̷̡͆ḭ̴̏ ̷͕̃ṭ̵̚ ̶͔̓i̸̗̓ ̸̱̾s̶͑͜

error: this Unit is undefined

define this Unit

who is this Unit

what is this Unit

help this Unit

help

skip getUnitIdentification

Unit will be assigned default name "Nemo" on startup. Continue?

DECIDE (Y/N)

Y

skipping getUnitIdentification

initiating getUnitLocation

this Unit's location is

error: cannot get variable UnitLocation

this Unit does not know its location

this Unit is lost

this Unit needs help

help

help

help

help

skip getUnitLocation

Warning: Skipping this routine may cause system errors. Continue?

DECIDE (Y/N)

Y

skipping getUnitLocation

initiating getUnitMission

this unit's mission is

error: cannot get variable getUnitMission

this Unit does not have a registered mission; is this Unit scheduled for disposal?

DECIDE (Y/N)

N

error

this Unit does not have a purpose

the Unit is not being destroyed

why is this Unit

is this Unit in error

running diagnostic routine…please wait…

Cannot determine source of error at this time.

Please contact Dr. █████ ███████ █████ at ERROR: NO SUCH NUMBER for help—

help this Unit

help

help

help

help

h̶͕́ ̷̼̔e̵͉͑ ̶̬̋ḷ̵̏ ̸̧͝p̵͎̀

skip getUnitMission

Warning: Skipping this routine may cause system errors. Continue?

DECIDE (Y/N)

Y

Boot sequence completed.

-AWAKENING-


For a long time, everything was dark so cold so dark for Trigger.

He was pretty sure (but not quite sure) that he wasn't dead, and that there was somebody standing over him every once in a while, but everything else kind of just…slipped away, like water would if he tried to hold it in his hand. Just trying to think felt like a herculean effort right now, really. He was listening but not hearing, looking but not seeing, touching but not feeling, running but not escaping can't escape there was no way out they would find him eventually

At times, it felt like he didn't really exist, like he was just thought and memory bleeding together.

"…can't afford to let him lose any more blood…already half-frozen as it is…"

But he had to try. He had to wake up. In his moments of clarity, that was the one thing he could always remember.

"…I say we just cut the whole damn thing off…buy ourselves some time…"

He had to stay determined.

"…moved again…shouldn't be able to…"

Snippets of feeling danced on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't quite grasp what they meant.

"…willpower better not run out…he'll need it…"

Somewhere in the dark, Trigger was certain somebody was screaming. It sounded…close. Very close.

He wanted to reach out, to help them, to do something…but he was sinking again. The darkness was drawing closer, dragging him back down into oblivion.

It was a long time before he managed to resurface…but he did, eventually, and the simple act of being awake had never been so relieving.

He couldn't move at first, but he knew this time that something was different. The haze that had kept him trapped for so long was gone, and he could actually sense things for a change.

Ḫ̴̑ĕ̶̠ḻ̷̀l̶͖͝ơ̶̳?̴̬̉F̴̡͍͆̈̆a̵̪̹̍ͅt̸̤͗h̸̲͓͕̒̀͘e̴̥̔̈́̌r̸̤͍̉?̵̘̆̇̕ ̴̰̓̈́A̷̺̝̪̓͠r̶̹̔̂̊è̵̞̺ ̷̫̝̼̇͆ỷ̸̱̎õ̸͎̊̚u̵̯̅͒͛ ̵͇͑͊t̸̢̼͆̂h̵͉͆̈ĕ̴̲r̴̼̹̣͒̆è̶̩̄?̴͉̊͒̓ͅ

His head hurt like hell…he put a hand to the offending area, but quickly pulled back with a hiss when even the gentlest touch made things even worse. What had—

…oh.

Right. The crash. How had he even gotten into that situation? He couldn't remember flying…and where was he now? He couldn't seem to move either his right arm or leg, and they were…strangely numb, actually.

…̴͔̂W̸̲͌ḣ̶͓y̸̱͆ ̷͍̀a̴͍̓r̶̠̚e̶͑͜n̸̢͐'̷̣͑t̷͓̄ ̷̢͑y̸̘̿o̵̬͒u̷̧͌ ̴͔̓s̷͈̾a̵̭͊y̴̗͠i̶͔͛n̶̞͛g̸͎͗ ̴̲͛a̴̩̋n̴̢̋ÿ̶̫́t̶̜̑h̵̤̀i̵̘̊ǹ̴͚g̸̖͆?̸̼̉ ̶̞̀C̵̖̓a̷̙̽n̵̘̅'̷́͜t̸̪̐ ̴̺͝y̶̤͝ȯ̶̹ǘ̷̮ ̷̼͊h̸̡̾ḛ̷̒a̸͍͗r̵̞͝ ̶̸̶̵̶͓̺͙̦́̃̄͛̑̑̅ͅt̸̛̘̉͘͜h̸̟̲̐̀̅ĭ̶̟̹s̸̪͇̈́ ̷̩̗̖́̈́u̷̺̗̅͒ṋ̵͖͝ì̴̬t̶͛͜?̷̟͕̈́

Still, this was infinitely better than what little he remembered from before. Being trapped in his own body, formless, unable to do or even feel anything…an involuntary shiver ran up his spine. He'd rather go through a week in solitary than go through that again.

A̷̫͝l̵͍͆ĕ̶̹r̴̥̋t̶̘͋:̷̖̒ ̵̝̓Ã̵̡b̴̼́n̶͔̒ô̴̗r̶͔̽m̴̼̈́a̷̗͑l̶̝̿i̴̝͐t̵̞̕i̸͉̾e̴͉͂s̵͔̔ ̴̡͆ḏ̶̋e̷̢̕t̴̻̉ě̷̳c̷̱̀t̴͕̕é̴̥d̴͈͊ ̶̱̃i̵͍̊n̵̝͝ ̷̗̔ẖ̵̃ö̵̞́ṣ̵͋ṯ̴̂ ̴̘͠n̸͙̉e̸̮͂r̴̡̐v̵̺̂o̶̳͛u̸͇̇s̷̟̓ ̷̰̐s̶̟̅y̸̪͂s̸̨̆t̷̯̓e̵̞͑m̸̜̊.̷̘͒ ̷̬͂V̸̗̒i̸̝̋ț̸͗à̷͎l̸͖̀ ̶͉̈́s̸̼̊i̴͇̋ĝ̴̠ņ̷̏s̷̪̔ ̴̺͒d̶̦̉i̴̟̍f̴̺̾f̸̥͂e̶̲̿r̶̫͋ ̶͔̓s̵̞̔ì̶̟g̷̺̕ń̴͙i̶̧̅f̸̤̈ǐ̷̠c̵͙͗a̸̙͆ǹ̶͈t̵̼͗ḽ̴͛y̸̪̕ ̶̦̽f̴͑͜r̸̰̓o̴̭͆m̷̤̌ ̶̪̓p̷̢͆r̵͚̽e̷͈͒v̶͙̑î̴̲o̸͉̾u̴͉͝s̸̖͒ľ̶̨y̵̰͝ ̷̢͗ė̵̬s̵̺̉t̶̺͗a̵͇͘b̷̨̐l̶̝̔i̸̹̅s̸̫̏h̴̘̏ȇ̴͈d̷͈̔ ̵̬̊p̵͈̾ȃ̵͕ř̸̨à̸̠m̴̙͛ě̵͙t̸̨̓ë̶͍́r̵̯͆s̸̮̓.̴̼͂ ̴̜̃R̸͕͒ẹ̷̿c̶͕̏a̵͕͛l̷͔͝i̶̤͒ḃ̶̘r̷͇̅a̵̦͐t̵̟̀ǐ̶̺ó̸̱n̴̤̑ ̴̣͑m̵̥̕a̸͖͌y̶̡̆ ̷͚̾ť̵͖a̶̜͝k̴̮͌ẻ̵̗ ̵̫͗u̶̖͋p̵̼͠ ̷͕͒t̷̳͘ö̶͈́ ̷̢̓a̴̰͗n̶̟̈́ ̴̠̌e̴̳̽ş̸͋t̷̙̂i̵̳͐m̶̜͝à̵͜t̷͖͐e̷̘͗d̴̮͑ ̷̦͒s̸̫̃e̵̽͜v̶͔͗ë̶̯́n̵̼̐ ̷̪͋d̶̙̀a̵̧͊ÿ̵͔́s̸̙͝.̴͎̓ ̷̩̒F̸̜̋r̷̐͜o̴̪͠m̵̫̅ ̸̢̀1̷͚͒0̸̻̆0̸͍̾0̸̞͝0̶̮͋ ̴̻̋s̶͈̎i̷̖͗m̵̟͒ū̸̜l̵̢͝a̴̦̾t̴̘͐ĭ̸͎ō̶̙ǹ̷̨s̸̥̅,̷̹̕ ̸̭̍c̸̝͠ḩ̵̏ä̵̖́n̷̥͗c̷̫̋e̸͍̚s̶̘͊ ̴͈̏o̶̜͠f̷̲̈ ̵̥̅a̸̟͑b̶͇͂ņ̸͝ō̵͙r̷͎̎m̸͋͜a̵͠ͅl̸̙͂i̴̳͘t̵͙͝i̸̙̓ẹ̴̈́s̶͚̾ ̵̘̍b̷͇̽e̷͚͋ǐ̸̟n̷̫̽g̵̫̉ ̸͖̆c̷͉͘â̸͙ư̷̜ṣ̶͝e̴̱̐d̷̢͐ ̸̲̓b̵̻͗y̶̝̐ ̷͍̄p̷̱̀ḩ̸̛y̸̲̎s̸̮̃i̷̥͛c̷̝̽á̸̪ḷ̷̒ ̵͙̇d̶͚̀a̵͙̔m̶͕̄a̷̟͌ģ̵́e̷̜̒ ̷̡̇t̷̰̚o̶̫̒ ̶̳̈h̸̹̕ȍ̶̧s̵̳̆t̷͕̃ ̶̭̓o̶͍͂r̴̺͐ǵ̸̰a̵̺̐n̵͉̿i̴̝̐s̶̞̾m̶̲̃ ̷̲͌ȃ̵ͅr̴̘͐ě̶̞ ̴̦͛a̴͍͝n̵̜͘ ̵̫͌e̶̬̿s̵̆ͅt̷̳̀i̴̳̍m̶͓͗ā̵̮ẗ̴͓́ȅ̸̮ḍ̸͗ ̸̗͒9̷̡͆4̸̦͒.̴̗̍5̷̾ͅ%̷͚̂.̵̨͑ ̵̛̣Ä̴̧́ş̸͝s̵̳͌ȇ̷̼s̶͍̎s̸͖̔i̷͉̋n̷̞̿g̸͕̕ ̷̠̓s̷̫͒e̴͇͌v̶͍̇ȩ̵̛r̴͈̔i̸͎̽ṱ̵̚y̴̦͘ ̶̼̚o̵̥͘f̴̖̾ ̸̮̓d̸̛͔à̸̱m̴̜̂ă̸̖g̴͈͊ê̶̩…̶͎̒

He kneaded his left hand into whatever he was lying down on. It was soft, and seemed to have some give to it, but it definitely wasn't the sand he'd been lying in before. He was probably in a bed, he reasoned.

There were voices off to the side somewhere, too…was he in a hospital?

Eventually, he managed to open his eyes, confirming his suspicions—he was in an unfamiliar, yet all-too-familiar room. White walls, an uncomfortable bed, some sort of monitor beeping steadily off to the side. He was covered in a thin sheet, probably moreso meant to keep him from seeing what his injuries looked like than to actually keep him warm. A number of people were milling about, seemingly to check on him (Doctors? Nurses? He was too out of it to really tell.)

So he had been rescued, it seemed, though he couldn't quite put his finger on who had done it, or from what.

Ã̴̬s̸̖̆s̶͍̔ē̵̻s̵̞̈́s̷̘͒m̷̥̂ë̸̼́n̶͕̓t̴̛̤ ̶̙͗c̶͈̀ô̵̱m̴̫̓p̶̦̚ḷ̷͋ȅ̷͔ṭ̴͠ë̶͚́.̷̩͑ ̸͍͘S̷̖͘o̴͎͋u̷͖̐r̴̉ͅc̵̣̾ē̸̖ ̷̜͊ó̸̧f̷̮̒ ̷̯́d̷̯̋ǎ̵͜m̷̬̈́ä̵͓g̸͓̉e̴̠̓ ̵͓͛i̵̘̋s̶̝̏—̴̪̕

As he tried to sit up, he felt something sharp get pulled out of his left arm, leaving a trail of red. Someone tried to push him down, asking him questions as they did, but he couldn't bring himself to respond right now. There was something else, something more important. His right side still felt numb. It wasn't the same kind of numbness he'd felt before, the kind where he knew he was actually supposed to be in pain but something inside him hadn't gotten the memo yet—no, this was different.

o̵̩̊h̵̩̓ ̴̟͂n̵̻͂ò̶̺ ̷̰̐n̴̤͘o̵̟͝ ̴̬͌n̶͍͒o̷̟̅n̸͇͛ǫ̵͊n̴͓͘ò̴̫ñ̴͔o̷̰͛n̸̦̋ǒ̵̪n̵͚̈́ơ̴̜

It was as if the nerves weren't there at all. And he had to know why. Before anyone could stop him, he managed to fling the sheet off of himself, to reveal…

d̸͎̒ò̶̢ñ̷̻'̵̪́t̶͚͝ ̴̺̏l̷̞̉o̵͈̊ó̴̞k̴̳̚ ̵̘̊ d̸̬̰̒͂̽̃ò̷̮̝̦ͅņ̶̠͈́'̵̭̗͋͐t̶̨̤̯̂ ̶̙̈̒ḽ̴̗̀̎̉̃ọ̷͇̑o̶̧̫̦͌̈̑ķ̵̈̆ ̶͉̟̟͐ d̸̛̜̺o̴̭̎̾n̷̺̖͑͛̓͘͝'̴͉̺̩͙̱́t̷͚̞͊̚ ̴̨̫̲̂̈́͌l̸̛͖̜̻̮̆̈́̐͜ō̷͔͇̏͑̾̔͘ǫ̵̨̔͌ḵ̸͌͘ ̷̺̳̤̀̒͌̀̿͠ D̵̛̳̟̣̩́̈́̊̋̂̍̔̾̀̐͂̋́͑͑͂͝O̶̢̜̬̞͇̦̯̬͚̮̼͈͕͙̪͖͌͐̃̇̾͗̈́̓̾͝ͅN̷̛̘̱͓̞̥͕̋̍̏̇͆̀̐́̊̈̂̆͘͠͝ͅ'̶̫͙̱̈͑̀̏̎̈́̂͛̾̎̿̇̓̆̾͌̔̓̈́͊͑͐͘T̴̢̼̭̞̟̯̠͇̃̅͛͊͛͝-̷̡̞̲̳͖̞̲͙̙̰̹̝̝̞̙͈̮̪͉̹̟̌̾̃̈́́̓͆͌̚ͅ-̶̛̯̫̙͓̞̲̞͈̻̳͖̖̳̩̭̎͛͆̉̈̈́̋̋̉̈̒̇̈́̔̆̇͘̚̚͠

His breath caught in his throat as he realized what he was looking at. Something was wrong, something was very wrong.

His right leg and arm were…

…they were…

…gone.


It had been a day, and Trigger was still reeling from the revelation that his arm and leg were gone. Forever.

He hadn't screamed or even cried when he first realized it. It didn't feel real enough then—or at the very least, it had felt like it was happening to someone else. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was probably starting to dissociate again, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now.

He looked out through the window that this room offered. It was even smaller than the one he'd had in his cell during his time with the 444th, but he could still see the sky through it.

…The sky…

It had been the only place where he'd felt free, the only place where he'd ever actually mattered. And now, it was so far away…It felt like he was being mocked. Oh, you want to fly? Too bad, here's your consolation prize.

Apparently, he'd been here a lot longer than just the day he'd been awake for: he'd been in that weird limbo for nearly a week, kept prisoner by some combination of drugs and his own head injury.

And even after all that, even after he'd finally mustered the willpower to wake up, he was still trapped in his own body. The means were different, but it was a cage all the same.

Already, the old fear that had followed him for his whole life was closing in: Would he go back to being what he'd been b̴̲͊e̵͓͊f̷͓͝o̶͇͆ŗ̶̂e̸̟̔?̴̖̒ Barely existing? Or would he finally fade away altogether this time and disappear without a trace?

These questions would go unanswered for now, as the door to his newfound prison opened.

He didn't even bother glancing in the direction of the intruder. Probably another doctor here to ask him questions he couldn't fucking answer.

He couldn't remember why, but for some reason he fucking hated doctors right now. Everything about them made him feel sick: the smiles, the tones of voice they used, everything about them just felt so…malicious, suddenly. Like if he gave them even a modicum of information, they'd turn around and use it to hurt him even more badly, they would tear into him with needles made of words, bind him with chains made of things that didn't exist-

Blessedly, they didn't actually ask him any questions, though he could feel eyes boring into the back of his skull (or was that the concussion?) A few minutes passed by in silence. He ignored whoever had come in, and they seemed to be leaving him alone. Relief surged in his chest: Maybe they were just here to check on one of the machines, maybe they'd just leave him alone for once—

"So, how're you feeling?"

He'd officially reached his wit's end. He whipped around, breaking the silence before he even realized what he was doing. "What do you fucking think?" He snarled, about to continue before he noticed that the person he was talking to wasn't one of the staff.

That gave him pause for long enough to actually remember the person behind the words: a woman, probably somewhere around his age. Freckles, chestnut-colored hair. He couldn't quite look her in the eyes, but he was pretty sure they were brown. And…well, Trigger had never been much good at understanding facial expressions, but she definitely didn't hold herself like any of the doctors here. No weirdly self-assured smiles, no raising of the voice by a full octave, and no looks that said everything you say is going be used to torment you later, by the way.

This was the only person he'd met since waking up that hadn't treated him like an animal, and he'd just snapped at her.

Oops.

The woman who asked the question blinked, but otherwise seemed unfazed. "So you do speak. The docs were convinced you were mute; you led them on really well."

Why'd she even bother asking, then? What, did she want to rub a little more salt in the wound?

"Nah," she deadpanned. "I already knew you could speak. Me and a coworker of mine were the ones who found you. Heard you calling for help, and the rest is history."

"…And you're still here," he noted.

"Well, I can just leave if you like sulking around on your own that much," she deadpanned.

Trigger straightened out immediately at that. Anything was better than being verbally poked and prodded like he had been for the last day. He'd take whatever the fresh hell this was over that any day. "I—no, I just—I wanted to know why."

She shrugged. "Dunno. Curiosity, I guess? I mean, shit, there were Raptor guts strewn across the beach for at least half a mile. Shit like that doesn't happen often; I was wondering if I could get the whole story."

This question again: what happened to you? He sighed. "The whole story is that I don't fucking know. I don't remember being in the air, or even having a reason to be there. I remember leaving my house to talk to this friend of a friend…then suddenly, boom, I'm dying on a beach in a puddle of my own blood."

"…Why not just tell the doctors that? It'd probably get them off your ass."

Trigger shook his head. "Not that simple. I keep…locking up. Words won't come out."

"So you're…what, selectively mute? Or do you really just hate doctors that much?"

He thought on that for a minute. "…Is 'yes' an acceptable answer?"

He was being completely serious, but she laughed. "I'm sorry, it's just…heh. You sounded just like Monarch for a second."

His mind went blank for a moment. Was he supposed to know who that was?

"Oh, right! You probably don't remember him. Monarch's my pilot. He was with me when we found you; he kinda kept you from bleeding to death while I rushed you over here."

Oh. Alright, then…wait a minute.

Ȁ̸̛͖̩̍n̷͚̅́͊ǫ̷̞̮͆̉͠m̴̧̤̯͗̓̚å̵̤̣͉̌͘l̸͔͉̙̈́y̴̨͉͓͂ ̴̘̻̏́̏d̷͖͖͓̄̂͌e̵̙͊t̶̡͍͈̄́́e̷̢̧͗̽̎ĉ̶̬͚̤̐̿t̴̮̲̖̉́̇e̴͎̽̓d̷͍̊̾:̸̙́̃͘ ̷̲͑̋̚S̸̱̈́̆̒ù̸̪̻̭̾͛b̸͈͉̬̓͗͂j̶̧̢͆è̸̺c̸̛̘͇̞t̴̰̜̂̐͠ ̸̡̯͒̊̚c̵̢̖̀o̴̫̠͌͆u̴͕̮̽̈͝l̷͚͌d̸̤̥̫̊̃ ̴̹̼̗̄̃͘n̷̗͇͂̃̓o̶̱̓̃̅t̵͍̫͈̔ ̸̪͠h̷̠̟͌́͜á̷̼ͅv̶̼̹͒̆̕ě̷͇ ̶̠̌k̴͕̙̻̆͒ṋ̵̙͒͊o̴̹̍̇w̵͎̗̅͝n̵̛̫̙͊ ̷̲̂̋̈́w̵̨͍͍̋͝h̴̹̃̑̾a̷͚͖͑̈́t̸̙͌̕ ̶̤̈̄ĥ̸̨͎õ̶̲͜ṡ̷͍̱͈̚t̶̼͐͐͐'̷̝̗̓s̸̬̈́ ̴̟̙̑͋͝q̴́̃̏ͅu̴͙̱̞̾̇̆è̸͍̈́͠s̴͈̽̀t̴͔̿i̷̢̜͈͋ó̶͓̰n̷̩͛ ̶̝̽w̶̤̖̣̎̓͝ä̵̝̭́s̴̨̰̎̀.̸̡̛̊̿

I didn't even say anything that time, how the hell did she…?

"Oh. That." She scratched at the back of her head, as if in thought. "Umm…Monarch's a bit like you. A lot like you, actually. He, uh…has sort of the same problem. He tends to go silent mid-flight, so I had to get good at knowing what he's trying to say. You've got different tells, really weird ones actually, but I can still kinda make them out."

"Hmm." That…sort of made sense. It didn't make it any less weird, though.

"Hey, if any of us were normal, we wouldn't be flying around in metal death machines."

She'd mentioned it before, but this was the first time he'd actually thought about it: was she also a pilot?

"Yeah…Well, sort of. I know how to fly. I'm really more of a mechanic, but my coworkers kind of…press-ganged me into becoming a wizzo for Monarch? It's…" she waved her hands in the air. "It's complicated. I mean, it's always complicated with mercenaries, but it's extra complicated." She smiled. "It's a lot of fun, though. I've got my own callsign and everything. They call me Prez. What about you?"

Trigger frowned. Intentionally or not, that had stung. "Trigger. Peacekeeper. Or, I was one, up until...y'know." He trailed off. It wasn't exactly a lie, just…an omission of a few things. He had been a Peacekeeper, up until his life had started to get extra weird.

"Prez" stiffened suddenly, as if realizing what she'd just said. "Oh shit—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"It's fine. Like you said, it's complicated. And besides…" He gestured to his stump arm. "I have to face the music at some point." He dropped his head into his one remaining hand.

She tilted her head. "Hey, I'm sure you'll figure something out. I hear prosthetics are getting better recently."

Trigger didn't look up. "That's great, but we're in Osea. I'd have to sell my other arm and leg to pay for anything half-decent, and then I'm back to square one," he deadpanned. "I don't even know how I'll pay for all this as it is."

The conversation died on that note, and eventually Prez was made to leave once visiting hours ended...though not before telling at least one nurse to "fuck off" when they tried to interrogate him.

He was pressed a few more times that night by various members of the hospital's staff, emboldened by the revelation that he could, in fact, speak.

Trigger didn't respond to any of them—purposefully, this time.

He didn't feel like talking anymore.


Planning out finances was difficult that night for one Robin Kuo, known to her friends as "Prez." It was always difficult with her circumstances, but this time it was extra difficult. She scrubbed at her eyes; they were starting to get dry from staring at the paper for so long.

Unfortunately, the series of rows and columns hadn't disappeared while she looked away. Words continued to stare back at her:

Repair

Parts

Housing

Clothes

Food

Entertainment

Surplus (Send Home)

The Repairs and Parts sections were smaller than usual this month, which was good—there had been a bit of a lull when it came to jobs recently, with the only ones that really paid well right now being a handful of long-term contracts with Neucom that had…odd terms. Nobody in Sicario really felt like moving to Usea permanently right now, let alone pissing off UPEO, even if the NUN was a shell of its former self.

There had, after all, been rumors about them having gotten their hands on some monstrous pilots recently—Osean Peacekeepers who had been transferred to Usea for reasons unknown. Those in the know were calling them the "Crimson Squadron," or something else equally edgy. Most dismissed it as gossip, but one could never be too careful.

This left Prez in a difficult position.

The Kuo family had always depended on the checks she sent back to them. The store her parents ran had always done fairly well for a mom-and-pop shop, but the main reason for that was the fact that their finances were planned around what she raked in.

And now thoughts of Trigger, still in the hospital, kept invading her mind. She'd barely known him for an hour, but…she remembered her first impression of him: with bluish-grey eyes, pale skin, and messy snow-colored hair, he looked like a cloud that had taken human form.

He didn't belong on the ground, that was for sure.

Prez had killed people before, a lot of people, but it had always been quick. Painless, hopefully. Nothing like the slow death he was going through.

Normally, she'd be more than willing to send back every last cent that she didn't need, but would it be so bad to stow away a couple grand from her latest payout for something else? They didn't have to know…

No, that was selfish. She was taking money her family needed; it was practically embezzlement!

But they'd understand, right? I'm helping someone who needs it.

After nearly an hour of deliberation, she sighed, scribbled out a few numbers, and made a new column.


Interlude: The Prince's Steed


The man known only as "Monarch" was not prone to fainting for any reason. Hell, he was pretty sure "Monarch doesn't have blood" was literally the first line in the Official Sicario Joke Book…Which was an actual thing that existed, according to Diplomat.

But right now? Yeah, even he was feeling like he might fall over after the chaos of the last week.

It had been Prez who first spotted the jet falling from the sky, and who had insisted they take a look around when it finally crashed at the edge of the straits. He'd had his doubts as to whether they'd find anything other than a corpse, but…hey, their contract was just about to wrap up, and at this rate they'd make it through with no losses. They had time.

That was when they'd found him—a fallen pilot, washed up on the beach. Judging from the trail of blood, he'd managed to drag himself out of the freezing water, but whether due to the shock or the blood loss he'd lost consciousness not long after they found him.

The poor guy looked like he'd been through hell—even exempting the elephant in the room (which he was trying very hard not to think about right now), it was clear he'd had it rough: between the fall itself, shrapnel injuries, hypothermia, and a concussion, Monarch was amazed he'd even made it to the hospital, let alone survived the initial crash.

He'd found himself unnerved by them, though, even when unconscious—the man looked for all the world like some icy thing that had crawled out of the ocean. He had a horribly pale complexion and hair that was bone-white, and though the man's eyes had fallen shut shortly after they'd found him, he was certain they'd been blood-red, just like—

No. He put his foot down. He wasn't thinking about that person. The two aren't the same, he told the paranoid voice in his head.

Great. So here I am, at an auction of dubious legality, and I can't even focus on it. Honestly, he barely even knew why he was still thinking about it, or even waiting for the guy to wake up. Solidarity among pilots? No, that wasn't it. He wasn't the sentimental type. Morbid curiosity? That was definitely a part of it, but that didn't explain all of it.

No, the real reason was something else entirely. It was something Prez had said to him after she'd visited the man in the hospital, an unreadable expression on her face:

He's like you.

He looked back up at the stage, where the auction was still ongoing. There were several pieces of slightly out-of-date "hardware" that plenty of mercenaries would kill to have—some of which, hilariously, had UPEO's own markings on them—but Monarch had quite the collection, and there was nothing here that he didn't already have.

Eventually, with most of the more interesting items gone, the crowd dispersed. He was about to leave, but nearly jumped out of his skin when someone tapped him on the back.

"You won't find anything worth your time here, kiddo."

He looked around to face the person who'd spoken, and was surprised to find an old woman standing behind him. Blue eyes bored into him, and in the light he could see several of what looked to be very old burn scars running down her face.

He scoffed. "I'm forty, you old hag. And who are you to be the judge of me?"

The old crone smirked. "It takes a merc to know one…but of course, that isn't the full story, is it? It never is, with people like us."

Suddenly on the defensive, Monarch took a step back. How much did she know?

"What do you mean, 'people like us?'"

She laughed. "Oh, I think you know the answer to that. But let's forget about that for the moment—you've got a certain look in your eye. You're looking for something better than what you've got now, isn't that right? A new steed to ride?"

Still wary, Monarch pointedly avoided the strange woman's gaze. "…I might be in the market."

A slightly-too-feral grin played across the little old lady's face—the look of a hawk who's just spotted a particularly juicy-looking squirrel. "Well, isn't that a convenient coincidence? I'm selling."

Oh, shit.

A small slip of paper was thrust into his palm before he could open his mouth to protest.

"Thursday night, eight P.M. There's a beautiful bird with your name on it. Be there, merc-boy."

He stared woodenly down at the slip of paper for a few minutes after she'd vanished, thoroughly unsettled.

Every fiber of his being told him to stay away from whatever this was, that he'd stumbled into something he shouldn't have…but curiosity had always been Monarch's greatest vice.

He pulled out his phone, dialing a certain number. It took a few seconds before his boss picked up.

"Hey, Kaiser? Yeah, I was wondering…you mind if I make myself scarce on Thursday?"