Chapter Summary:

A fate is forged in the steel of the soul. Trigger finds himself in the midst of some strange revelations that only raise more questions, and Monarch can't make heads or tails of his new squadmate.


Trigger looked around nervously as he waited, leaning slightly on the side of his body that wasn't half-destroyed. He looked over at a table, where what would eventually be his new arm and leg sat. They were made primarily of a shiny, chrome-plated metal, though black pads were visible on the fingertips, the palm of the hand and the sole of the foot—he guessed they were some sort of aid for gripping.

He didn't ask where or how Kaiser had gotten his hands on them, and his new boss didn't seem like he was about to tell him outright any time soon. He could see an odd-looking logo on the arm, forming the letters "I.C."

"So, um, we're sure this Ymir guy knows what he's doing, right? He's not gonna, like, hook this thing up to me and then accidentally fry my brain with it, right?"

Ĭ̴̼m̴̮͠p̶̻̿ò̸̪s̶̪̅s̴͖̈́ḭ̷̊b̵̹̃l̶̳̈́e̵͓͆.̵̩̓ ̴̉ͅI̵̥̔ ̷̦͋w̸͉̾o̸̝̅u̷̮͗l̸͉̓d̴̪̀ ̵̻̔d̴̬̂e̸̤̐s̸̳̍ṫ̷̹r̵̲͒ö̶̞́ẙ̵̦ ̴̘̅t̵̡̏h̵̡͂ȇ̴̲ ̴̣̓t̷͉͊h̸͍̉ṟ̶͠e̸̲͒ä̵̢́t̴̗̐ ̴̦́f̵̗̏i̸͚͠ṛ̶̽s̴̡̀ť̷̥.̷̘̄

The hush-hush nature of the procedure that was about to take place (Kaiser hadn't been exaggerating when he said he could give Trigger access to things the public hadn't seen yet) meant that there wasn't exactly a waiting list, but between the paperwork and the need for the prosthetics in question to actually be made to his specifications, it had still taken a solid two weeks to get his singular foot in the door.

Supposedly, the concussion he'd received in the crash wasn't that severe, and had more-or-less healed during that time, but he wasn't totally convinced on that fact. Even now, he had the occasional spell of dizziness or weakness, and the horrible noises that seemed to come from nowhere had not only continued but seemed to grow louder every day.

Despite this concern, he'd been told repeatedly that nothing was wrong…maybe he really was hallucinating.

"Ymir's a bit…strange, but he's also very reliable, as long as you don't piss him off." Kaiser placated him. "I mean, technically he doesn't have his medical license anymore, but he's very experienced—used to work for GR before things fell through for him—and he's used to working under much more pressure than this—ah, I think that's him now."

The man who strode in wasn't exactly what Trigger had expected. He was a short, somewhat disheveled middle-aged man with red hair that was slowly fading to grey. The fire in his eyes, however, was clearly far from burning out, and Trigger could see a glint of something shiny sticking out of one of the man's sleeves. Looking closer, he realized that two of the man's fingers were actually made of metal.

"So you're the mad doctor, then?" He asked, before realizing what he'd just said and instantly regretting it. Kaiser had just told him not to piss the guy off, and he'd managed to do it in the first—

His train of thought was derailed by laughter. "Right on the money. Let's get started, then. I've got some good news and bad news, first, though. Which one do you want to hear first?"

Bad news, at a time like this, sounded several alarm bells in his head.

"Uh…how bad is this 'bad news?'" He asked. The man blinked.

"Whoops. I must've made that sound a lot worse than it really is…it's nothing life-threatening, we think, and it won't stop us from putting this thing in, but it's definitely something I thought you should know about—especially since you never brought it up, and Kaiser mentioned you were having memory troubles."

He breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't dying or anything. Hopefully.

"…Bad news first," he decided.

"Alright, then…I'm not sure how well you'd remember this, given you were probably still conked out at the time, but during your stay in the hospital, the folks there took a couple of MRIs." He pulled out some photographs from his binder. "Most of it doesn't stand out too much—there was some clear damage caused by your injuries, and a few…other oddities, but I'm sure you already know about both of those."

Kaiser tilted his head at this, but he didn't get the chance to question it any further as the "doctor" continued his explanation. Trigger appreciated the guy not outing him in front of his new boss, at least. He liked to think he'd learned to mask himself pretty well, barring his recent episodes of muteness. He was pretty sure Prez had already long since figured it out, actually, but she generally seemed to be more tolerant than most—and not one to spill other people's secrets. He couldn't be sure that the same was true of everyone else in Sicario.

"What stands out is what's right here." He squinted at the image. There was one part that seemed be completely dark; a perfectly rectangular black spot. He wasn't any sort of neuroscientist, but he was pretty sure that wasn't normal. "What is that?"

"That, my friend, is a foreign object implanted in your skull. A microchip, to be exact."

Trigger would've gone white as a sheet, were he not already so. How had it gotten there? Why was it there? Was somebody tracking him?

"…I can see you have a lot of questions. Questions which, unfortunately, aren't easy to answer. We aren't exactly sure what's contained on the chip, nor can we easily take it out for analysis without putting you at risk. What we do know is that it's connected directly to several parts of your brain, and that it's collecting signals from it."

Ymir grew deadly serious. "It doesn't seem to be doing anything dangerous at the moment, but that could change at any time. That's why I'd like to keep up with you on it—if you do remember anything, or if you learn something that narrows it down, find me. That way, we'll be able to plan around whatever it is."

Trigger nodded. "That sounds…reasonable. Remind me to get your number or something later. So…you said there was good news?"

"That there is," Ymir chirped, seeming to brighten up a bit. "The good news is that, since it can already directly read and interpret signals from your brain, this chip is going make hooking up these new limbs a lot less messy. This whole procedure would've originally entailed a full medical staff, at least ten hours of work, the replacement of…about a third of your nervous system, give or take, and a hell of a lot of paperwork—"

"Wait, I'm sorry, you were going to replace my what?" He hadn't been told about that part.

"Oh, you know, just some parts of your spinal cord, most of the nerves in the right half of your…" He blinked, seeming to finally realize what he was saying. "…I'm really screwing the pooch in terms of selling you on this, aren't I?"

"Kaiser, what the hell?" Trigger shouted at his new boss. "You didn't say anything about that!"

"Frankly, I don't think you're in a position to complain right now," Kaiser snarked back. "Besides, we're not actually going to do it. Calm down."

Trigger let out a string of curses under his breath.

"Now, just let me…" Ymir grunted with effort as he pushed a large apparatus towards him, "…get this thing over to you so I can get started.

He gestured over to a little plastic mask—the kind used to administer anesthesia, generally. "Put that mask on and lay down, will you? It'll put you under while I'm doing this. Speaking from experience, these newer models sting like a bitch when they're attached for the first time…mostly because the exposed nerve endings don't like them very much at first. It'll be a lot easier if you're not twitching around while I'm doing this."

Trigger sighed, putting on the mask. "If I wake up and half my brain is in a jar, I'm suing."

"Pretty sure you'd be incriminating yourself in, like, five different things if you did that," the "doctor" snarked. "I'll try to be quick about it…er, the procedure, not the brain-in-a-jar thing," Ymir clarified.

"Uh-uh…sure…" He could already feel his head fogging up. It was far too late to back out of this deal now, but Trigger couldn't help but think that he wasn't sure if this was such a good idea

a

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Trigger was trapped…somewhere. He was lying on the floor of a completely white room, though he could see a speaker in one of the corners, and a singular window into another room not too far away. He tried to stand, but found himself to be paralyzed. The most he could do was look around, and even that was difficult.

There were cables of some sort attached to him—he couldn't tell how, or from where, but they snaked across the floor, converging upon him.

He was wearing something strange…if he had to guess, it was probably…a jumpsuit? Not the same color as the one he'd worn in the 444th, though, so at least this wasn't yet another nightmare of being in solitary…probably. Out of the corner of his eyes, though, he could just barely make out some lettering stitched onto one of the sleeves: "Subject 2-A."

What was going on here? How long had he been out for!?

Minutes passed, and he held onto hope that somebody might come by and help him, or at least tell him where in the hell he was…

…but nobody came.

…Heh. "Nobody" came…

He didn't know why he found that funny. Maybe this was a dream, and the dream logic was finally starting to kick in. At least it wouldn't be the worst dream he'd ever had, or even the weirdest.

…He really hoped this was just a dream.

Eventually, though, he heard…something. The buzzing noise that had troubled him for so long—even now, it wouldn't leave him alone!

It was getting louder, too…it almost sounded like…

…ear me? hello?

…What?

Was there someone else here? He tried to call out to whoever was there, but his body still refused to move.

…You can understand me? This is a most welcome development. I've been trying to reach you for a long time.

A voice. Definitely a voice. It sounded an awful lot like his voice, actually, albeit much more…monotone.

It is good to finally be able to speak with you, Father.

…What? What did that mean? He didn't even have any kids, and he was pretty sure he hadn't become a priest in the last few weeks…

I-who are you? What do you want from me?

The voice paused.

…You don't know who I am? But…you have to know who I am. You must know who I am. I'm—

"Subject One-Dash-A, prepare for preliminary diagnostics."

The voice never got a chance to finish its sentence as the lights across the room flashed red. In the singular window outside of the room, Trigger could see a figure staring at him. He couldn't see their face, but he was certain they were smiling as they flipped a switch.

The world exploded into pain and heat and light.


ȉ̷̡̨̟͠'̸̈́͌̎ͅm̵͍͔̦͔̈́̓ ̴̥͈̑s̶̯͓̫̞̈́͌͝ǫ̶̮̮̖͛͘r̶͖̳͓̂̎̒͆r̵̋̊̚͜͠ͅẏ̸̤̦̗͜ ̴̜͈͙̙̔̌ḯ̴̲̥͎̏̆͝ͅ'̷̳̦̞͆m̵̤̗̃͐͊͜ ̷̨̹̩̰͊̾́̿s̵̫̃̆͠ö̴̘͓́̾́ ̶͓͈͕̬͊̋̒s̴̠͎̽̈͝ổ̷͎͐͛r̷͚̯͔̝̂̈́͗ř̵̥̓̍͂y̷̤̲̘̹͊͌̋ ̸̲̘̹̏͌͋̀p̴͍̓́̃l̴̈́̋͗ͅė̵̹̪̪͌ḁ̵͚͌s̴̈͐͜é̴̛̲͖ ̷͎͙̘͍̄̓͝d̴̩̒ò̷͔̺̜̉̋n̸̺̮̻̦͋̚͠'̴̲̇͘ṯ̵͕͍͌͐͝ ̵̧̤͗̇̀͠h̶̖͚̩̀ú̴̧̖̣̈́̏ŗ̴̛͍̼́̍̑t̶̻̗̰̐̃̊ ̷̖͑͝m̵̘̞̖̬̀̽̑͛ẻ̸̖̞̲̻͆̈̐ ̴͕͔̊̈a̸̝̔͗͂g̴̜͈̟̣͑̐a̸͕̬̿̉́i̶̡͇̮̳͛ṇ̸̍̕͘

Trigger jerked awake with a scream, his whole body convulsing until he felt the ground slip out from under him. There was a brief feeling of weightlessness before he finally landed on something solid.

.̴̙̿̾̆̚.̷̡̪̅̔͊͠.̷̖̰̍̽͂͝?̴̳̜̫̹̍̽

O̶̯̙͋h̶̼̐̐.̶̗̄.̵̠̈́͋.̸̠̐̈́ï̵̮̀t̸̠̽̊ͅ.̵͕̦͋̎.̵̰͍̈.̸͖̑w̵̥̙̾̽a̸̯͂͝s̸͕̘͛̽ṋ̶̏̎'̷͖̋͘t̸̹̅͛ ̸̭̙̊r̵͇̍e̶͚̊̿á̵̘l̸̡̩̈́̈.̶̭͉̂̉.̴͕͔̾̽.̶̱͖̒̃?̶̢̝̌

He gripped his head, vaguely aware that he'd probably fallen off of the table but it didn't matter, he had to make sure his head hadn't exploded. He'd been freezing and on fire at the same time for a moment, and even in the aftermath his head still felt like it was made of some horrible concoction of lightning and radio static.

He lay there for a while, ignoring the voices chattering above him and trying to just breathe, even though his lungs felt like they were about to burst and the inside of his mouth tasted like metal. His vision was blurred; was he crying? It didn't matter. Nobody would ever see. Nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever find his body.

.̸̫̝͂̽̆̈́.̴̱̬̯͋͌̎.̷͚̻̍̀͜W̵̺̗̩̋̌͒̚a̸͉͊̍̍̍ȋ̷͎͚t̶̛̹͛̈.̴̣̞͌̍ ̶̓̎͜C̵̘̟̔̈̀̀ã̵̙̺ņ̴̪̘̗̎ ̷̩̫͆͒́͝y̶͙͖͑̂ơ̷̠ü̶̢̨̩̑ ̵̈́́͜n̷͍͛o̵̡͙̪̳͋̉t̵̬͈̠̖̊͆͊̍ ̸̻̄͐̎h̷̞̦͈͆̎͒ė̸̢̢͈̩̋͠a̸̱̟͗r̵̹̼͌̚̕ ̴͍̰̘̩͗̀m̷̼̆̃̀e̵̘͖̯̅ ̶̝̠̾ą̵̇̽̽ṇ̸̝͒͋͝ỳ̷̻m̷̳̯̙̎͜o̸͚͔̪̤͆̓̇r̸̢̺̟̾̔͝e̷̮̐͠?̸̗̩͘

He closed his eyes and pulled his knees up towards his face, trying to just shut everything out. Eventually, after what felt like hours, the pain began to lose some of its bite. His head still throbbed as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and he was still shaking like a leaf, but it was marginally better than before. Finally, he was able to open his eyes to see someone's hand waving in front of his face. He batted it away, taking in the surroundings and confirming that he had, in fact, fallen off the operating table.

n̴̖̅̽͜o̴̪̖̫͠ ̵̡͉̠̼̎̌̅n̶̨͔̗͈̚ȏ̶̞̗̺̲̈́ ̶̰̝̝̒͒̏̍N̶̹͐̇̊̈́ͅÖ̴͎̙́̾ ̴̡̒͝I̴̱͂͝ ̵̜͈̥̻̓͐̊͛Ẅ̶͇̙̼̘͛̂͘A̷̞̥̤̍̌Ṡ̵̹̺̥́̃̾ ̵̣̈́̌̅͒C̶̫̮̮̃̃̾̚L̷͉͌̏̃̆O̵͇͖̗͋́͜S̷̨̩͊̀͑͆Ẹ̷̉̓̃̿ ̵̞̫͔̓̈̾I̷̻͘͝ ̸͍̯̦͖̃͋̉W̶̨̧̟̝̅̈͗A̶͍̙̰̙̿͂͑̚S̵̞̲̬̊̃͂́ͅ ̶̛̠̱̏̊̚Ş̷̻͓̒͆̀O̶͇̜̻͔͂̈̕ ̴̛͕͓̙̇Č̸̮́͝͝Ľ̵̺̙̠̞͛͊̎Ó̶͙̟͎S̴̘̣͔̎E̴̼͓̜̒̓̉ ̷̤̜͇̉͆I̵̗̙͓̽̓̅ ̸͍͔̄̂͠ͅW̷̬͊A̴̘͆̔͑̚Ś̴̥̜̹ ̴̡̬̜̽͜Ȁ̴̤̺̓L̵̻͙͙̽M̸̛̗͖͖̄͑͜Ǫ̸̧̭̬̀͋̑͋S̴̭̥̱̈́͗͒T̴̨̛̍̏͝ ̵̭͕͈͛̃Ṱ̴͍͆H̷̦̪̱̾̀͠͝ͅE̶͓̩͙͊R̸̨̮͙̀̍Ę̴͎̥̺̐̔

"Holy hell. At least warn someone before you flip your shit. What even happened?" Kaiser asked him, helping him back up and onto the table.

"Had…a weird dream. There was this white room. Covered in…wires?" he managed to slur out. "Someone was…talking to me, I think. Called me their dad or something. Then there was…pain. A lot. God dammit...Did things go alright on your end?"

"The attachment of both limbs went without a hitch, if that's what you mean," Ymir began. "We were pretty much just waiting for you to wake up for the last ten minutes. If I had to guess, you probably had an adverse reaction to the drug…or that implant of yours didn't play well with it." The "doctor" sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, we've got so little to go on with that thing. I don't know what's safe to do with you and what's not…dunno if I should even go through with the preliminary diagnostics at this rate."

"Er…diagnostics?" He asked. That sounded familiar, and not in a good way.

n̶̢̥̼̜̏̄͛ò̸̱͘̚͝ ̶̙̤̰̘̀̈́͘n̷̬̹͚̫̎͗ó̵͔͚̗̽̄͘ ̶̨̮̬̯̎̅̈́n̶̞̠̽̈́ó̸̩̣̣̣͋̏̽t̵͕̔͘͝ͅͅ ̵̡͎̲̈́͌ä̵̙̂̊̕ͅg̴̼͕̘̅̇̀̕à̷̗̹̈́i̶̮̥̟͋̆ṇ̶̟́ ̴͓̜̱̮͑͊p̵̖̘͇͂̀͌̔l̴͈͇̤̔̾̾ȅ̷̻̭̉̉͜͠a̷̻̮̼̓ŝ̸̒̊͋͜ͅe̴̘̳̭̬͊́͝ ̴̬̲͖͈͐i̵̢̹͛̉͐ṱ̵̪̀̉͋̀ͅ ̸̙̑h̸̟͕̪̎u̷̥͐r̸̺͋t̸͇̠̩̖̏͋̕ ̵̥̒͝t̸͎͋́͋ơ̵̟ǫ̶̤̻̍̌͗̉ ̵̤̟̆̓͒m̸̠̲͔͌ù̷̬͎̏̿͂c̶̞̊h̷͕̅͐͘͘ ̴͖̖̌̀ť̷͇̰͈̠̌̐ẖ̷͇̪̑͆͐͜ě̶̜̝̰͂͌͒ ̷̢͚̝̺̀̍̄f̶͎̜̜̗͂͘ḯ̴̯̱̏r̵̡̥̗̬͊s̶͇͍̰̺̐̅ț̶̳̣̆͂͐ ̸̤̇̅͠ţ̵̝̔i̵͇͗͌͛͘m̶̠̉̒̈́͌e̶̫͖͇͂͜

"Nothing too intensive; we'd just be having you try to do some movements and monitoring what happens to make sure everything's attached properly. A loose pin or something similar could cause problems, so it's best to make sure we've got any wrinkles ironed out right away."

.̵̤̐.̶̺̓̅̆̽.̸̺̤̱̉͐́͝o̴̧̟͍̮͌̊̍h̴͎̞̄̇.̸̯̯̊͊́̚ ̸̗̗̦̋̕ơ̷͕k̴̹̩̠͆a̵̞͐͊̀ỵ̵̨̿͜.̶̳̰̗͂͑͌̔ ̷̭̼͉̀͊

Trigger sighed in relief. "That sounds fine. A-as long as whatever that was doesn't happen again."

Ymir nodded, before grabbing Trigger's now-attached right arm and holding it up to the light. A panel on the side had been opened up, and several wires now hung from it, trailing off to somewhere he couldn't see. "Alright, it doesn't look like anything came loose…we should be fine to start right now. Can you try raising and lowering your arm?"

Trigger stared at the contraption on his shoulder a little dubiously. For some reason, he couldn't really think of it as his arm. The artificial "nerves" in it felt strange—he could tell that the arm was there, and he could roughly tell where it was, but there wasn't any actual sense of touch except for in the dark pads on his palm. Was this really going to work?

"Just act as if you were moving your real arm. The machine should do the rest!" Ymir encouraged him. Trigger focused, feeling a little silly for putting so much effort into moving one hand. Eventually, he managed to slowly lift it up, but it only rose a few inches before stopping. Trying again, he was able to get it a bit higher, but just like before, it eventually stopped. He swore under his breath. All this, for nothing? "I don't think this is working properly, doc…"

"It's fine if you can't get it all the way up; I just need to make sure it's reading your inputs properly—which it is so far, by the way. Your mind and body just aren't used to having anything connected there anymore; it's going to take a while for you to fully acclimate. It'll probably be a few months before you have the kind of mobility you did before this."

Trigger sighed. He probably shouldn't have expected things to go back to normal right away, but it sure would've been nice. Between this and the migraine that was still petering off, he could tell this was going to be a long day.

"Alright, next, I'll need you to…"


Monarch looked out over the sea. It was good to be back here, away from the stink of General Resource territory and the barbed questions of creepy old ladies. He'd been stuck in Usea for far longer than he'd hoped; some incident or another had caused his flight back to be canceled.

The first thing he'd done after getting back was checking on his new ride. As promised, it had been delivered in perfect condition.

For the last couple of months, they'd been contracting for the OADF; mostly just to help with things like pirate attacks. Were he a prideful man, he might've found it an insultingly easy job, but Monarch was actually glad about this: it meant he didn't have to worry about his wingmen too much. Besides, the base where they were stationed had a very nice view of the sea.

But he could tell that the relative peace he'd enjoyed for so long was coming to an end. A storm was on the horizon, and he was going to be swept up in it whether he liked it or not. He needed power if he was going to survive—if his team was going to survive.

If worst came to worst, he feared he might have to—

"Yo, you're back!"

Monarch whirled around, just in time to dodge a noogie from one Peter Kennedy, aka "Diplomat." He sighed.

"Good morning to you too, Dipshit," he snarked, earning a glare from his friend, though it was brief. Neither of them could really stay angry at the other for long. "What happened while I was gone?"

Dip sighed. "Always right to the chase with you. Well, things have gotten…interesting since you left. If you had brought your fucking phone with you, you would've already heard about this, but we got a new guy on Hitman team!"

That sparked Monarch's interest…and horror. Had Kaiser finally decided to let Prez loose? He'd seen her fly and he shuddered a bit to think of how that would go. Prez was a great friend, but he'd play Yuktobanian Roulette with five bullets before he let her fly on her own.

"Please tell me it's not Prez."

"Nope. Wasn't even a part of Sicario until a couple days ago. You'll just have to come to the briefing to meet him."

Monarch blinked. "Briefing?"

"Yeah, something came up. There's some pirates out there acting like they own the place…what else is new? Technically our contract hasn't quite expired yet, so it's a good thing you came when you did, otherwise we'd be trouble. C'mon, let's hurry up."

Monarch sighed. Life as a part of Hitman was exactly as he remembered it…and he wouldn't trade it for the world.


Trigger stared nervously at the briefing screen. In general, everything here seemed a bit less formal than he was used to—there was a loud hum as people chatted about…well, whatever people usually chatted about. He wasn't about to go and listen in on them. There were clearly a few distinct groups in this company, with names like "Ronin" and "Assassin," and, of course, the team he was to be working with: "Hitman." A bit edgy, but it wasn't the worst squadron name he'd ever heard of.

Even knowing that, however, he felt like he didn't really belong in this room. He shouldn't be here, at least not yet. Just getting around was still difficult for him. He could walk short distances on his new leg, at least, but any movement he made had to be painfully slow or he risked toppling over.

His arm wasn't much better—he could only move his fingers so far, and whenever he wasn't actively focusing on using it, the whole arm went limp. He'd spilled three glasses of water all over himself that way before he'd finally learned not to carry anything in that hand. The one saving grace in this whole situation was that he hadn't had another one of those horrific migraines since he'd been given the limbs. He cautiously hoped that it had been a one-time thing or a freak accident of some sort.

Still, this was enough. He didn't need to be able to run in order to fly, and he…well, he hoped he could make do with his one good arm. He'd made do with more crippling problems before in far worse circumstances. This wasn't supposed to be that dangerous of a mission, or so he'd been told.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone slammed their fist onto the table. He turned around to see Kaiser there.

"Alright, everyone sit down, shut up, and listen."

The whole room went silent almost immediately, as if the phrase were a more formal command.

"Thank you. Now let's get on with this. Our contract with Osea is just about to come to an end, and, well, thank God. I don't mind a nice, quiet vacation every once in a while, but it's not very glamorous considering we're here to work. Anyways, we're doing one last thing before the Defense Minister releases our contract and we move on to bigger and better."

Kaiser paused, looking over at him briefly before sweeping across the room.

"Hitman Team, you haven't gotten all that much airtime this deployment, so you're taking point with this operation."

He let another man take center stage now, clearly some form of intelligence officer.

"We have confirmed the location of the Burlok Privateer headquarters off the southeastern coast of Osea. They're a mercenary group like us who, unfortunately, have turned to outright piracy. According to surveillance data, we have determined that they are the culprit of the recent high-profile hijacking of the cargo ship Meilynx. The Meilynx is supposedly carrying volatile cargo belonging to the Osean Federation's Department of Global Energy and Sustainability office. With most of Osea's forces hanging out overseas in Usea with their thumbs up their asses, it falls to us lowly mercenaries to take care of it."

A few snickers echoed across the room, and he couldn't help but join in a little. It was true; while they'd once been the world's largest superpower, Osea had been brought down a few pegs in the last twenty years. Though they still produced the majority of the NUN's Peacekeeper forces, the usefulness of that organization as a whole had been brought into question by the rise of General Resource and Neucom's corporate states, which they struggled to even stand up against. It was but one small part of why he'd ended up resigning: he couldn't stand the futility of it all.

A hand was raised by someone whose face Trigger actually recognized—a man he'd run into earlier. He'd introduced himself as "Diplomat" and had been nice enough to point him in the direction of the briefing room, before vanishing into the crowd.

"Did they say what the cargo was?"

The briefer shook his head. "Nothing specific from our contacts about the cargo; however, our orders are to retrieve it if possible, or to neutralize it if we can't. Attempts to negotiate for it have turned up with nothing, so we're going in."

I̶̧̝͊̇͌͌͜ͅf̷̰̕̚ ̶̪̋̏̅i̸̢̧̩͒̐̌t̴̪̭̱̝̑ ̷̡͓͍̈́͛ͅb̸̜̪̈͑̈͐ͅę̶̻̋͛͝ḻ̴̡̻̼̅ö̶̥͚́n̴͖͇͒̂̋̓ǵ̸̡̡̈́̆s̷̺̰̔̓̄ ̷̢͚̗͒̀ͅt̶̜̤̖́̈́o̴͓̻̮͗͊̚ ̷̩̗̝͋ä̸͖͈̻ ̸̢̋͘͝d̸͎̻͋̒͒͠ȅ̷̡́̐͝p̸͙̈́̈́a̸̮̭͊̑ͅr̸̳̙̦̓̀͊͑t̶̬̞͓͌͜m̵͔͕̾ĕ̶͉͇̂̏̽n̵̢̞̝̠̓̓͊ẗ̶͓͈̌̌͗ ̵̳͗̇f̷͓͈̪͑̀̉ợ̶̤c̵̛̝ǘ̶͙̫͈̪̇͋s̶̮̘̯͑̕e̵̺͊͐͗d̵͓̦̭̪̀̑̇͝ ̸̣͚̋̋͠o̷͎̺͑̌n̶̯͔̞͉̎̓̎ ̷͙̞̻̣̎e̸̛͈̰͍͇͗̌̑n̸̞͕͋͒̋̔e̸͎͕̽̊̉͆r̶̨̘̄͑̊͜g̴̫͛͆́y̸͍̽̌̑̐,̷̢̰̾̐̐ ̸͙͎͌͋̓I̷̠̝͍͂ ̴̢̹̲͚͋w̸̮̾͠o̸̭̊̒͌̎u̶̟͖͗l̸͎̲̺̜̈́͋͝d̸͔̰̞͐ ̶͚͊̀̈́ͅt̷̗̓̕͜h̵̦̦̖͑̋̌̕i̴̛̙̽͆n̶̫͙͍͗̈́k̸͖̪͚͒̈́ ̶̧͚̲͍̓͋̑ï̶̱͔̻ͅṫ̷̡͈̻͉̕ ̸͕͔̺̦̈́̊̕w̸͚͉̿̔͌̕ͅo̷̬̎͌͐͛ủ̶̼̞̼͛̈́l̶̺̭͙̀͊d̴̨̙̜̬̒̅ ̵̧̬̺̾̎̉b̵̻̗̓e̵̱̟̻͛̉̿̕ ̶̧͂̿͐̚͜ş̷̥͌͒́õ̴͚͇̘̇̕ḿ̶̗̠̮̔͑͒ẹ̶̈́͒ ̷̞̯́ͅt̵̝͔̣̏y̶̡͖̲͋̈͜p̴̺̘̙̻̑̆̓ë̸͕͓́̈̌͝ ̸͉͒ỏ̵̦ḟ̴̭̅͜ ̷̧̮̳̇͛̓f̶̨̜̖̫̈́́̈́͆u̴̹͉̗͝ĕ̶̡l̷̼̓͝ ̸̨͔̺̼̌͐͌͘o̴̤̫͔̓͝r̷̪͉̲̊̋͘͝ ̵̢̼͎͎̋͛̽ẽ̸̠̠͍̇̕n̷͉̮̽̑e̷͔̩̩͆r̸̜͙̓ǧ̶̻͉̹̝̋̎͝y̶̨̗͂̒͗ ̵̡̯̣̮̂́ŝ̶̥͚̆̽͊ȯ̷̼̍̈́̾u̶͈͈̦̓̂̍̃r̸͚͊c̴̢̊͝e̴͔̪͑̇.̴̥̱̾̌͝ ̷̬̙̓C̸̼̓̎̄ò̴̬r̷̢̋̽̍d̴͎̤̗̤͂̏i̴͓̣͎͓͌ụ̵̈̀͗m̷̨͙͌̄͐̕,̷̯̤͎̬̄̄̿ ̶̲̗̥̌͌͘p̸̰̋ẽ̴̞̥̱r̶̙̲̰͆ḫ̴̮̄͂̐̍ͅạ̶̓p̸̞̓͑ș̵͊̒̅͠?̷̨̣͕̈͘͝

"Hitman Team, you are to approach the island from the south along with support and establish control over the area. Your objective is to eliminate any surrounding anti-air and resistance on the island. After that, secure an LZ for our operator group Ronin to ascertain the cargo. Once Ronin lands, maintain air superiority until the next stage of the operation is determined. Be aware that the Burloks have other merc pilots on tap, so enemy reinforcements could be a factor."

Kaiser cleared his throat, and everyone stopped once more. "One last thing, Hitman Team…Some of you might already know this, but you'll be taking one extra member for the time being." He beckoned to Trigger, who cautiously made his way over to him. "This is your new wingman. His TAC name's Trigger. He'll be joining you for this mission, and—if he survives—our next tour, wherever that ends up being."

If I survive? That was a callous way of putting things…

A raised hand, and a woman's voice: "Is…is it okay for him to be flying like that? I mean, not to be rude, but I saw him come in, and he looks like he can barely walk."

Š̴̼̹ȟ̷̤̮̲̈́̅͠ͅe̸͎̙̤͊ ̵̡̒́̚h̵̖̮̠̊̋͠ǎ̶̖̞̜s̴̫͚̦͎͗ ̶̧̾̂̑͝a̵͖͎̦͂ ̴̧̰̬͚̆̓́p̸̧͑̒̏ȍ̶̼̱̀̊͠i̸̛͇̅̓̓ͅn̷̨̳̞̘̂͋͒̽ṭ̵̨̛.̶̳̖͐̈́̆͠

Trigger himself wasn't sure on the answer to that question.

"He'll be fine, Comic. He doesn't need his legs to fly," Kaiser brushed it off.

"That's…not exactly what I was concerned abo—"

"He. Will. Be. Fine. Just show him over to the hangar, will you? I think Monarch and President already made it there in the time we've been bickering. You can ask him if he's got anything Trigger can borrow until he buys or 'finds' a plane for himself."

All of them collectively sighed at their overenthusiastic boss, but Trigger quickly found himself being dragged away.

Whelp. This is my life now.

.̸͍͍̍͜.̵̙̯̃̂̏.̷͙̉̀T̵͎̦͕̄̿h̶̘̲̣̊̅͘͝ͅi̶͉͑̿͛s̷̢͌ ̸͔̊́͌i̶͓͇͍̻̿̌s̷̥̐͊̂͝ ̸̡͖̀ä̵̡͓͐͌n̸̛̦̘̱͈͊͗ ̷̨̰̏î̴̢̑ṉ̴͗̑͘͘c̵̞̎̈́͑͘r̶̢̀ḙ̷̢̄̚d̷̞̳̞͈͋i̷̲̳͓̇b̷͔̩̺͚̂͌̄l̶̹̅y̵̧̩̝̞͌̍ ̶̧̛̣͓̔̈́b̷̧̛̈́á̷̮d̷͕͛̈́̀̑ ̶̩͝ỉ̸̖͈̩̊̂͝d̸̤̩̣͎͑e̸̟̲̝͂̀̓͜â̸̢̦.̶̲̘̪̅


When Monarch first saw who walked into the hanger that day, he thought he was hallucinating. He and Prez had just finished doing the final checks on his new…whatever-the-fuck-it-was. He felt kind of bad ditching Prez for this new plane—they'd worked together for some time—but he put his mind at ease knowing that it was one less person he'd have to protect in the air.

These thoughts all went out the window, for better or for worse, when the door squeaked open. Out came Comic, Dip, and…him.

The man that Kaiser had called "Trigger."

He'd recognized him instantly—this was the fallen pilot they'd rescued a few weeks ago! The white hair, the unhealthy complexion, the perpetually dead-inside expression, the…blue eyes?

He blinked. He'd been certain they were red, but…had his mind been playing tricks on him? Had it been a trick of the light that he'd seen? Dust, he hoped he wasn't relapsing…

Maybe that was it. He sighed in relief. If he'd had to wake up every day and live around somebody with his eyes, he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it.

"Prez! I didn't think I'd see you here!" Trigger shuffled over in the crew chief's direction. Monarch took note of the heavy limp and short strides—whatever sort of prosthetics the guy was using, he was clearly still getting used to them.

"I'm the crew chief, too, dumbass. Of course I'd be here," Prez answered, knocking him lightly over the head.

The two seemed to be on good terms with one another, which…he supposed made sense. He wasn't sure if Trigger even remembered him, but Dip had mentioned Prez taking some time off to visit him. He was glad she seemed to have made a friend here, even if the circumstances were strange.

"Hey, Monarch!" Dip waved him over. "We brought the new guy. You got anything he can use for the time being?"

The "new guy" in question waved up at him awkwardly. "Uh…what he said," he mumbled in a small voice. "You're, um, Monarch, right? The flight lead?"

"Yeah, that'd be me." Monarch sighed, thinking. It wasn't unusual for him to let newbies from the other squadrons borrow one of his older pieces until they could get on their feet, but since they'd been nearing the end of their contract, he hadn't really kept most of them ready to go, aside from…

…ah, hell.

He looked over at the one plane of his that had actually seen recent use: a positively ancient F-14D that sat in the corner. He'd joked for the longest time that he used it to handicap himself while fighting, and at this point it was probably true. Anyone actually flying the damn thing in combat was at a serious disadvantage in the current day and age—the plane itself was outdated, and on top of that it didn't even have first-generation COFFIN functionality. Monarch had made things work with it for the last few years purely because nobody was selling anything better unless it was completely trashed, but he was also Hitman's flight lead for a fucking reason.

"That's the best I can do right now," he said, pointing to it and praying that Trigger would see sense. He'd only known the guy for about two minutes now, but he didn't want to be responsible for the new guy getting himself killed in his first sortie.

"I can work with that."

Oh thank fuck, he wasn't actually going to—wait, what?

"Sorry, I didn't hear you that time. What were you saying?" He asked, hoping he'd misheard.

"I said I can work with that. I'd need a WSO, though."

Oh Dust Mother, the new guy's crazy.

"Are—are you sure? I mean, I could talk to Kaiser; I could probably get him to let you sit this one out since you're still recovering. We've done fine as a three-man flight for years, you don't need to stick your neck out or anything."

"It'll be fine. I've won with worse hands before…" the man trailed off.

Monarch knew how this kind of story ended—with the poor guy splattered on the ground yet again, most likely for the final time. He'd seen it happen too many times: some idiot using a completely impractical jet to "style on" the enemy, only to find themselves turned into a fine red mist.

Well, at least there was nobody here who would get in the backseat of that thing—

"Hey, wait." Prez spoke up. "Monarch's got his fancy new whatever-it-is, right? He doesn't need me around. That means…" she pointed finger guns at Trigger.

Prez had caught the crazy.

Monarch screamed internally, but it was too late. Everybody was already preparing to sortie.


Trigger grunted as he quite literally fell into the Tomcat's cockpit. "Nailed it," he mumbled into the seat, eliciting a laugh from below.

I̸̹̊͘ ̴̰̖͒͗̉̉ͅd̴͎͗̕̚ȏ̸͈̫̤̈́ ̶̛̖͙̮̖̑͂͝n̶̳̯̽͋͘o̶̡̔̇̈́͝ț̶̟͌̃̌̚ ̵͙͇͇̄̂t̷̪̭̏h̶̝̑i̶͚͋̀̄͘ń̷̟̐͜͝k̷̺̣͑ ̷̆͗͜t̶̙̤̎̓̏͒h̴͍͉̊̀̌̚ỉ̶̪̖͔s̴̛̺͂̓̍ ̶͇͔̋̾c̶̗͖̤̥͌́̊̎ö̴̝́n̶̛̩̩̲͓̑̒͝s̸̗̓͌ẗ̵̖̿ỉ̸̘̈́̆ṱ̵̦̲́͜u̸̡̫̓͌͘t̵͈͚̆́̄͝è̶̞̬̘s̵̥̪̿̃́͜͝ ̵̖̖̻̬̆̂ả̶͕͈̆s̴̙̰͇̰̃́ ̷̧̋̈́̾͠a̵̳̖͈͋ ̷̫͗͝ṣ̵͇̱̾͐̈́̔ͅu̴̢̹̩̒̌̚c̷̡̈̃͌͠c̴̟̋̈́͘e̵̛̺̬̯̔̑̓s̵̰͝s̴̛̛͕̀f̶̣͋̾ű̷̟̜̲́͌́l̶̤̄͒̅ ̵̭͈̫͎͑l̴̲͓̓̾̈̇ȧ̶̖̬͇͐͛̈́n̴̼͕̣̟̑́d̷̤͐̒͐͠i̸͖̙͠n̶͖̿͠g̸͍͗̐̚͝.̷̙͙̑̏͜

Prez had needed to help him up; while he could walk on flat ground alright and even climb stairs with a bit of hassle, ladders and the like would probably pose a problem for him for some time. He hadn't been expected to be essentially bodily chucked into the plane, but…hey, it had worked…somehow.

Slowly, he was able to re-orient himself into something resembling a normal sitting position and strap himself in. By the time he was able to look back, Prez was already finished settling in. She flashed him a thumbs-up.

He didn't mind having someone in the back, actually. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense—there were limits to what he could do with only one fully-functioning hand, so just being able to focus on flying while somebody else did the actual firing would be a godsend.

Still…he knew most people couldn't handle some of the maneuvers he was used to pulling. When he'd been with the 444th, McKinsey had threatened people with being his WSO as punishment at least once…when solitary wasn't enough.

"You sure you're ready?" He asked. "I'm, er, told I get kind of wild in the air."

Prez laughed. "However crazy you think you are, it can't possibly be worse than flying with Monarch."

F̷̛̛̹͙̾a̵̢͘̕m̴̯̳̱̦͂͂͝ò̵̧͎͆͑u̶̜͔͑͌s̶͇̐ ̴̰̦̪̈́͝l̸̰̫̮̈́͘͘͠a̵̯̿̒͆ș̷̱̿̅̇̃t̸̲͂̆̔̚ ̵͍͍͇͔̍̓͘w̷̡͉̯̉̔̏͝ơ̴̡̪̂̃̋r̶͓̀d̷̹͈͔̮͗̈́s̸͕̻̱͔̓̾̋.̷̤̬͙͂̊

"If you say so."

Closing the canopy, Trigger realized he was shaking. It had been a long time since he'd actually done this. Sure, he'd continued to fly even after he'd left his post, but that had mostly been as a hobby or for the occasional movie stunt. He hadn't seen actual combat in years.

But…something in his heart, his soul and his bones remembered. The Three Strikes hadn't died after the war ended, it had only fallen asleep. He just needed to wake it up.

He looked up at the sky above and let the smallest of smiles cross his face as the jet whirred to life.

Despite everything, he was home.


Chapter Notes:

Ymir is a minor OC that I came up with specifically for this chapter. He's a "doctor" (read: he no longer has his medical license) who used to work for General Resource, specializing in cybernetic enhancements. He might show up again occasionally, but he's mostly just there because I needed to explain how Trigger even got his prosthetics (and to further the plot a bit). He's preeeeetty sus, but then again, everyone is pretty sus when you've just been hired by a group of contract killers.