[OBC MORNING NEWS]

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"Y'all know what time it is!"

"From OBC student news, this is your student broadcast with Janice Collins and Angelica Amano. Coming to you LIVE from Studio PA in Carnegie Plaza!"

Two news reporters give terribly overenthusiastic grins as they face the camera. One of them, a beauty of Sotoan origin, has a Cheshire Cat of a smile plastered on her face. She did not just make a mistake on air. No, no. She did not just flub her very first line given by the teleprompter on live TV. No no no.

(...shit. They're going to dock her pay for this, aren't they?)

"Let's get to the news and all that junk," started Janice, seemingly moving on just fine to avoid wasting precious screen time. "Well, it's another peaceful day for us in New Bana City. A 60% chance of rain- wait. Why is our producer freaking out over there? Angie, hun, be a dear and read your teleprompter."

Ahh shit, not the accursed prompt machine again! "Eh? Let's see here…"

-WE ARE [expletive] UNDER ATTACK! BREAKING NEWS: THE NBC CRISIS-

The two reporters do an absolutely horrified double take before forcefully contorting their faces into a facsimile of pure pleasant serenity as a faraway explosion rocked the camera lens of the set.

"Haha, well isn't THAT a cheery piece of news!" Janice eked out a chuckle, though it sounded more like something got stuck in her throat. "Ahem! I wouldn't worry about it. The military will probably take care of the enemy."

Angelica cocked her head to the side. "You mean the Osean defense forces are actually competent and take care of business? That's amazing!"

"Yeah," said Janice with a wink. "We take care of things like you wouldn't believe, hun. The Belkan War, the Circum-Pacific War…you weren't here for the Lighthouse War, right?"

Angelica shook her head. "I was four that year. Oh, but everyone knows how that turned out! Osea number one victory royale, as they say."

"That's right! Osea number one victory royale." Janice cheerfully set down her papers. "And that's all we have for this half hour. Boys, make sure you give those assholes some warm Osean hospitality."

"Until our ratings (and this company) go fuck themselves…" Both women stand up from their desks and strike dramatic poses.

"Never say die~!"

"You Gotta Stay Fly!"

[November 15th apparently]

[0753 military time or something]

[Bumfuck Base, ? Osea ? ]

"Greetings, this is Commander Blueford speaking. So apparently the OADF can't handle whatever the fuck is going on up in New Bana City, probably due to the lack of a mute psychopath. I hear they're all the rage in Usea to the point of mass production, but that's beside the point."

"This is an emergency sortie, so here's the mission in a nutshell: we got a few flying terrorists and oh look, a UFO sighting."

Everyone was shown a crusty JPEG of something resembling an enormous dark gray boomerang, or maybe a bootleg model of the Arkbird. The quality was so bad, amateur photoshop would look convincing next to it.

"Apparently the terrorists are aliens. Antares, Rigel Team, let's make the Oseans thank their lucky stars today. Get it? Now GET OUT!"

[ Antares: LAUNCH. ]

"Ah hell naw, is that you, Antares?"

Sulejmanweed tuned out the ensuing laughter coming from his cronies. Really, he should have expected this to happen. But still:

He, Rigel One, was flying a perfectly normal and used F/A18E Super Hornet.

Rigel Two and his harem were in a EA-6B Prowler that really shouldn't be useful, but Martinez Security saw something special in that boomer of a plane. Which was why they insisted on modifying its jamming capabilities to the most cutting of edges and treated that hunk of junk like the favorite child. For…something. Hell if he knew.

Rigel 3 and 4 were irrelevant.

Antares, though?

Antares was cruising in a hot-pink F16 Fighting Falcon. Sulejmanweed wouldn't miss that little red scorpion emblem for nothing, much less the sheer PINK of the aircraft. He didn't even know such a garish shade of pink was possible. Gross. Antares probably got that thing for cheap!

" … … …. "

The sound of incomprehensible static blasted Sulejmanweed's ears. Oh, right. Antares had a broken mic. Sulejmanweed rolled his eyes. Of course he did, fucking weirdo. And he wondered how he'd make an Ace Trapstar out of Antares.

Rigel 2: "Antares, you're dripless! Get some style, you know what I mean? Then you'll rake in all the bitches. Like me."

"Ciao! This is AWACS Cannabis on the scene. As usual, I will be covering for Antares and his blasphemy of a microphone. Oh, and Blueford is here too."

AWACS Blueford: "It's Canopus."

AWACS Cannabis: "That's what I said! Cannabis!"

Hey, as long as he can constantly hear the voice of a whimsical Emmerian angel instead of Antares, Sulejmanweed was a-okay with this situation! And by that he meant it's still shit. The situation is still shit and he really wanted to Ace Combat: Assault Horizon himself right now.

Speaking of the situation, here it was, floating like a stranded whale on radar. The giant gray boomerang floated above the skies of New Bana City menacingly. Ten miles. Nine miles. Eight. Seven. Bandits started to pop up on the radar, but the big bird was the focus of this mission. Besides, none of them could possibly hold a candle to their sick mercenary skills.

Rigel ECMO 1: "Danny boy, pass the aux cord."

Rigel 2: "You better not play trash."

Rigel ECMO 2: "This one goes out to Antares One and his sweet, sweet ride. Ready, everyone?"

Rigel ECMO 3: "Wait, shit, I'm still playing Pocket Aces V2 Version! At least let me save my file first!"

"COME ON BARBIE LET'S GO PARTY"

Fox Two. Fox Two. Fox Two. Fox Two. Down go two bandits in a smoking spiral, but why is Antares already flirting with the big bird? What the hell?

Target. Target. Target. [Target.]

Another one. Sulejmanweed hits an engine on the big bird, but Antares is one step ahead, making loops around the monstrosity like a trapeze artist high on caffeine. How are the other vents already folded and smoking-

Oh. Ohhhh. XMAAs.

Spiridus Commander: "I can't fucking concentrate with that infernal music playing! Fire the main cannon! I want that Prowler OBLITERATED!"

A hot pink F16 immediately pounced onto the boomerang, flying over its target and blowing up the main cannon shaft.

Spiridus Officer: "Sir! The main cannon has been disabled! Engines number 2 and 4 are catching fire!"

Spiridus Seething and Coping Commander: "Recharge the main system then! Give these bastards a good taste of our mega laser pi-"

Unfortunately, the hot pink menace was once again locked on to its target, firing an improbable amount of missiles into the heating vents. In a matter of seconds, Antares stuffed the defenseless holes of the Spiridus full of missiles, harder than an enthusiastic cook prepping the Thanksgiving turkey.

AWACS Cannabis: "…fox two, fox two, fox two, fox two, hostileweaponhasbeendestroyed, fox two, fox two, fox two, fox two….whew. I'm going to be out of breath!"

Spiridus Malding Commander: "Oh for fuck's sake!"

From within his cockpit, Sulejmanweed sighed and tuned in to enemy frequency because he can, and because the idiots running the "Speedy Weedy" didn't know how to make a channel private.

Speedy Weedy Commander: "I don't feel safe, I don't feel comfortable, I'm pulling out. Team Wallachia's blasting off again! Next time, you'll pay for this!"

And then the Speedy Weedy, not quite violated but uncomfortable nonetheless with the hot pink harassment, fled the scene. True to their name, the metal monstrosity took off to skies unknown at top speed, becoming nothing more than a twinkle in the gray overcast sky. New Bana City was saved! Probably.

[ Mission Accomplished? ]

"Well, lads, the big bird got away. Don't worry though, it'll probably come back for more after Antares practically sodomized the thing's external holes. But because our target fled from the scene and didn't die, we're not getting paid for this. Sorry, it looks like frozen meals are on the menu again. Please don't explode the microwaves. There will be consequences."

"Shit," cursed Sulejmanweed as he stormed out of the briefing room. Antares tapped him on the shoulder and held out his hand where an innocent looking paper joint lay.

"Quieres?"

"Sure," huffed the disgruntled man. "Better than nothing at all."

They got high on mid marijuana in their shared room (omg they were roommates) in an effort to stave off the munchies. Unfortunately, smoking weed just made it worse and they both eventually gave in to hunger, sharing the blatantly-unhealthy-despite-claiming-not-to-be "cheddar parm chicken bowl" with the most depressing expressions known to man. Four Zollars went into this. Four. Entire. Zollars.

"Yo, Antares," mumbled Sulejmanweed after another round with the joint, "You ever wonder why your parents named you Antares? And how do you even pronounce "Antares"? Ant-tear-is? Aunt-arr-is?"

Antares shrugged. "Dunno, man. Why'd they name you after weed?"

Sulejmanweed gave a terse chuckle. "You got a point there. Guess our parents just don't give a shit about their kids and how they'll turn out, eh? We're just tools for them to use for their own gain. In the end, the only lives we carve out are ones left from the already-carved marks of those who came before us. We don't have a choice but to go on with what's been left for us to take. We're all pawns in this game of life, and the only way out is to cross that chess field."

Silence.

And then…

"Bet."

"Yeah." The brunette's smile dipped for a moment. "Bet."

(And no one ate Oreos that night.)

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]