Aquila
By: Matt Boorse
Chapter One: Longing
Note to self: Contact Namco, ask for person in charge of the Ace Combat Projects. Ask for company sponsorship for this novel.
The door to the barracks opened with a loud creak as a man wearing a leather flight jacket walked into the room. He stopped in the threshold and turned on a light switch next to the door. A light in the center of the barracks flickered on and off for a few seconds before finally staying on illuminating the man. He looked down the long row of bunk beds and found his "office" as he called it.
The concrete floor echoed his footsteps as he shuffled from the door to his bunk. He sat down and the bed gave a creak under stress. He laid his head down near a pillow, the white hair on his head covered by the pillow. He rested his hands by his side and fell asleep, as was his custom to do after every training session. He lost contact with the real world to enter the safe haven of his mind.
He awoke inside a bustling city. It was his hometown of Farbanti, a large city on the west coast of the country of Noahan. He stared in amazement as he saw the police chasing down criminals. He remembered the yellow taxicabs and the bicycle police swerving between cars as if possessing some sort for psychic ability. A honking horn startled him and he reeled backwards slipping on the concrete sidewalk.
He landed on a wooden chair and did the best he could from making it fall over. He grabbed the table next to the chair with his left hand and grabbed a hold of the chair, as it turned downward toward the cold concrete. He breathed a sigh of relief as he caught the chair and straightened it up. He sat down on it to capture his breath. He shook his head slightly and took a deep breath.
A waiter, dressed in a red and white-stripped vest with black pants, walked up to the man. "Welcome to the Red-eye. How may I serve you today?"
Red-eye? The lone man thought. Hmm, the Red-eye. Haven't eaten here in ages
"Uh, you still serve cheese steaks right?"
"Of course!" He said with a smile.
"Good." He said with a sigh of relief, "I'll have one then. No onions with pickles and ketchup. And, uh, a Coke for a drink."
The waiter quickly scribbled the order down and looked at the man. "Coming right up. It should be ready in about twenty minutes."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure." He turned around and walked inside the building.
The man folded his hands on his lap and twiddled his thumbs in boredom. He whistled a small tune he heard before leaving to join the military, a quiet tune that lasted barely ten seconds. He closed his eyes and pictured a lovely young lady outside of a beautiful house in the countryside.
"Chester!" a small voice cried out. "Chester!"
His eye's shot open and wheeled around. No one. Hmm, he thought. Strange. He turned around and closed his eyes again.
"Chester!" The voice shouted with more intensity. "Chester!"
He wheeled around again this time with more intensity to catch the person who was shouting his name. Son of a bitch! He thought when he saw no one behind him. He growled a little. The chair next to his grinded on the cold concrete sidewalk. He turned around and looked upon a lovely young woman. His heart stopped…then started again. It was she. "Miranda? Miranda? Is that really you!"
She giggled a bit and said "Of course," Her voice was a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day to him. "It's me Chester. Who else would it be?"
"I don't know. I honestly don't know."
"Think it would have been Christine?"
"Miranda, the handkerchief was only a gift of our friendship. Besides, her boyfriend died two-weeks into training."
"Mm-hmm." She muttered doubtfully.
"So, uh, any particular reason why you're here?"
She sat in thought for a moment, her face contorting into a thinking pose. "No, not really. Oh! God said something about an equal. I wasn't paying attention. My nails were being done."
"Go figure." He chuckled. She reached out to slap him. "Ow! I was kidding!"
"Anyway, he doesn't want you to know, so yeah I'm in trouble."
"Always were." He muttered. She reached out to try to slap him. "I guess you still can't take a joke."
"Look I gotta get back to Heaven so He doesn't get suspicious." Her form slowly faded away. He wore a sad expression upon his face, she was leaving again.
Slowly she faded until nothing was remaining of her presence. The world slowly became a shade of gray then became black as he was returning to reality.
The man the dream named Chester slowly awoke from his state of fantasy. He blinked rapidly to see clearly. The sound of chatter was all around him. He groaned as he tried to sit up, the tiredness taking a toll on him.
"Look the President's doing this all wrong!" a deep voice spoke next to him.
"Huh? Wha?" Chester muttered quietly.
"He's not taking the insurgent threat seriously." It became clear to Chester that he was not the target for the man's speech. "He should be focusing on the insurgent threat along with the defeat of ISAF." He was referring to the Independent States Allied Forces, a coalition of three large nation-states on the East coast of Usea; Arlicia, Ungria, and Verani. Chester was fighting for the Free Eursians, four nation states bent on restoring peace to Usea by any means. That hasn't gone very well, since Free Eursia (what the people on the western side of the continent called Usea) sided with all parties at the beginning of the conflict five years earlier after the planet fall of Ulysses 1994XF04 asteroid. It was destroyed by a large super weapon code name: Stonehenge. Stonehenge fired a solid Electro Magnetic Pulse, or EMP, round. The maximum area of effect was somewhere upwards of 1,600 square miles in either direction with a maximum ceiling of 200 miles above sea level.
It successfully destroyed Ulysses, but several fragments; roughly 20 feet in diameter, still struck the Earth. The destruction of Stonehenge caught the attention of the Verani President, who secretly assembled a large army of men, tanks, and artillery. With amazing speed and surprise the Verani government took control of Stonehenge and literally held the fate of all seven countries in his hands. Noahan, one of the western countries, tried to be the negotiator but that failed miserably. Out of frustration, Verstani, sister country to Verani, attacked the Stonehenge emplacement. The battle waged on for days, all attempts to resupply Verstani forces was halted because of Stonehenge's effective theoretical use as an anti-aircraft weapon. The attack prompted Arlicia, ally to Verani, to attack Verstani. This action by Verani started an out of control chain reaction reminiscent to that before WWI. And so the stage was set for a long and deadly conflict centered on the control of Stonehenge.
Using the combined might of all western nations; Free Eursia pushed back the ISAF aggressors. Their first few attempts failed and they were nearly defeated. But a young hotshot pilot stepped into the ring and the tide of defeat turned against ISAF. They pushed them back to the eastern coast to a small island called North Point. There, a GHQ (General Headquarters) was set up and the ISAF have held control of it. They have managed to destroy just about every bomber force sent to destroy them.
During the F.E. push in the mainland, the ISAF forces only managed to destroy one of the ten cannons making up Stonehenge. F.E. realized that the ISAF would try their hardest to destroy Stonehenge at all costs. So they set up a squadron designed to destroy all aerial threats from destroying Stonehenge. It was designated the 458th Defense Force, Aquila. The name that is most synonymous to this squadron is "Yellow Squadron" due to the unmistakable paint scheme of them; a yellow on light brown scheme for a desert Stonehenge's location. Chester was one of the few select pilots to enter the 458th Defense Force, Aquila training regimen. There he met the other four members of his flight.
Christine Huntington, a big city girl from Osea, a country across the ocean. With her long brown hair and all over tan she is a thing of beauty. Her voice is soft, carefree. She chooses when to put herself into an argument and if she doesn't she just watches and listens intently.
Luke Curtis, a farm hand from Verani. He has shaggy brown hair that was lightened by the beating sun. He helped lift heavy objects when he was a small child, thus developing a great muscular build. His voice is calm, never showing any other emotion unless the situation calls for it. He is also is the second oldest of the flight.
Marcus Stone, suburbanite of the country of Patoorin. He grew up in poverty until his father struck gold with an invention that came to him in a dream. It sold like wildfire and they quickly became wealthy. Marcus has a deep voice and is a tall man, bigger than Chester but not by much. Like Luke, he also has a large build and is a valuable asset in a fistfight. His deep voice is instantly recognizable in a large crowd.
John Mathers was a lonely kid from Noahan. His parents died at a young age so he was forced to scrounge for himself. It wasn't too hard with his devilishly good looks and charm, though that charm was deceiving. He was arrested a few times but never convicted due to lack of evidence. His voice is gentle, though that can quickly change.
He and the rest of the squadron where stationed at this makeshift airbase a few miles north of Stonehenge and a few miles south of a town, San Fallujah, that has the largest insurgent per house ratio of any town occupied by F.E in Verani. All that was left to do after a boring day of routine patrols was to go on more patrols, lounge around, go swimming at a lake opposite the runway/tunnel, or visit the town and risk your neck every second. Mostly they chose to stay at base and have political arguments. This was one of them.
"He's not doing everything he can!" The deep-voiced man gesticulated with every sentence. "He should put more resources into fighting the insurgency threat. Maybe then we can finally have more soldiers ready for the invasion of North Point. Hell, level the town if you have to, just makes sure that they don't pop up anytime soon."
"What resources?" Answered a man with the calm voice of a person who has lived out in the rural area of society. "Everything is being put forward to help train the troops and give them upgraded equipment."
"Ok. But introduce a course in B.T. that involves better occupation/counter-insurgency training. All these leathernecks know how to do is just stand around and act gung-ho!"
"Ding, ding, ding. Argument over. Winner: tie." Announce a soft female voice.
"We have winners?" Questioned a gentle voice, "I thought we just debated until one guy was tired of speaking."
"This could have gone on forever." The female spoke.
"Very much true. Both are well informed and make valid points."
"What's going on?" questioned Chester with a yawn.
"Oh, good afternoon. Marcus and Luke were having our daily debate." The female spoke.
"What was it this time Christine?"
The female answered, "The president's ill regard for the insurgency in ISAF aligned states."
"Oh." He responded simply.
The man with the deep voice moved from behind Chester with a groan. He walked over in front of him and sat down with a metallic squeak. "Have a good dream?"
"What are talking about, Marcus?"
"Yous was dreaming. Twitching and everything. What was ya dreaming about?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Marcus continued. "Must have been something, because you were muttering 'Ow'!"
He stalled. "It's not important right now. I'll tell ya later."
"Whatever." Marcus shrugged.
"Hey, guys," Luke started, " Wanna head down to San Fallugah in a few hours. Thought we'd celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" John asked, "Nothing big has happened."
"On the contrary, my fine friend. It has been exactly one year since we've started to guard this pile of valuable steel from ISAF air and ground attacks. Thought we'd head down grab something to eat, get something to drink and head back."
There was a quiet meeting between the other four. All muttering something incomprehensible to Luke. They remained in quiet argument for several minutes, debating what could happen. "Sure." Chester spoke for the group.
"Great. And according to the schedule we don't have patrol duty until tomorrow morning. So…"
"We can get totally trashed?" Marcus asked with enthusiasm.
"No." He responded bluntly. "Well, yeah I guess."
Marcus erupted into cheering, happy that he could finally drink a lot. The members of Yellow Squadron don't normally go out very often because what if the ISAF attacks while they are gone? It would be a disaster if Stonehenge were destroyed.
"Are you an alcoholic?" Christine asked curiously.
"I don't think so." He pondered for a minute, thinking furiously. "No, I'm not. I just haven't had a good beer in a while."
"Sure."
The sun had set in the western sky several hours ago before they took off for San Fallujah. They managed to commandeer a jeep, used for transportation of the Base Commander, Commander Perualt. He had many; ten to be exact and no more than five were in the garage getting inspected at a time. He was a time man; wanted everyone to be on time. He got very impatient if you didn't show up at the time he arranged. He was not a man to reckon with. Most of his friends were higher-ups, three- four star generals stationed in the Pentagon in Farbanti.
The group walked near where the jeeps were parked. A single light from a post directly behind the shack illuminated a tiny shack. Five jeeps were parked side-by-side, just waiting to be used. Perpendicular to the jeeps was the garage, where five more were stationed, being inspected. Sounds of air drills and diagnostic machines filled the air, along with a chilly, late September breeze. The group brought down the sleeves of their woolen flight jackets reminiscent to that of WWII jackets worn by bomber pilots.
They had reached the tiny shack and spoke to the man. "We'd like to borrow one of your jeeps, if you can let us." John spoke to him. The man, reading a magazine, with his right hand covering the right side of his face looked up. "Jesus Christ!" they shouted as they looked at the man's face. It looked battered, a good portion of his right cheek was missing, one eye hung lazily down, still looking at the magazine. "What the hell happened to you!"
"Last war." He wheezed. "Last war I was caught in an artillery bombardment. Shell hit near my position, shrapnel the size of my middle and index finger sliced across me face. The eye? Well, I was born with a lazy eye. Still didn't stop me from joining the Army. Damn good marksman, I was." He gave a wheezy, yet hearty, chuckle. "After that I left, and joined the Air Force in some cushy desk job. Best damn choice I ever did make, I'll tell ya."
"We don't want to hear your life story, ok? We just want to borrow a jeep."
"Let me contact Perualt." He said grouchily. He shifted so that he could reach a telephone behind him. He picked the receiver up and punched in a few numbers. A couple seconds passed before he spoke, "Commander Perault? Yes, this is Smithers. I got some pilots wanting to borrow one of your jeeps." He stopped. "Mm-hmm. Yes, of course, that's what I told 'em."
Chester mouthed the words "ass kiss" to his comrades when Smithers had his back turned. The others chuckled silently in agreement. He put down the receiver on the cradle and turned around. "No go. Those are his jeeps."
"Didn't know he was that rich." Marcus interrupted.
Smithers looked at Marcus fiercely. " I can't let you borrow one." He was a tough egg to crack but he could be cracked. It just took more finesse than what they were doing.
Christine walked up to the shack and nudged John to the side. "Oh, come on. Not even for me?"
"Nope. Rules are rules."
"We all know you want to be a bad-ass. Breaker of the rules. Now's the time to let that 'military strictness' lax a bit. Come on."
He weighed his options for a few moments. He tapped a bony finger on the metal of the shack and made a thoughtful face. He looked at them for a few seconds. He sighed. "Fine. He's an asshole anyway." He cracked. Maybe a little much but still, he cracked.
"Great!" Luke called out. "But you went a little too far with that last statement."
"Thank you." Christine said affectionately, blowing a kiss. Smithers' face turned a bright pink out of embarrassment.
The others grabbed a set of key's hanging around Smithers' bony fingers and ran towards the first jeep, painted in urban gray camouflage. John turned around the drivers' side and jarred open the door, eager to drive. His face lit up with excitement. Chester took shotgun, and Marcus sat behind Chester. Luke and Christine sprinted forward as John revved up the engine. Luke was shoved out of the way and Christine took a spot behind John. Luke crawled in between Marcus and Christine. John pressed down on the accelerator; they were off.
It wasn't a breezy day, but you couldn't tell that from how fast the five- man team heading toward San Fallujah. The wind whipped all around them, making a deafening roar all around them. They had to shout to speak up above the howling tempest caused by them driving down the road to town. For sure John would have lost his grip on the handlebars if he had placed himself there instead of between Marcus and Christine.
"Hey guys! Remember when life was simpler? How all ya had to worry about was what would be your next job?" John shouted over the tempest.
"Roger that, little man." Marcus agreed. "I woulda had a nice comfy job deliverin' meals to old folks' homes."
The others looked at him strangely. "'Old folks' homes'?" Chester repeated.
"Yeah. Got to help the elderly. Well someone has to. I actually caught a couple guys beating up the elderly at a few homes I went to."
"That's horrible." Christine tried her best to shout but her voice was barely audible compared to the booming voice of Marcus. "They convicted yet?"
"I would hope so. It happened a good three years back."
"Oh." She said sheepishly, trying to get her voice louder than the wind surrounding her. "Well good for you."
"Almost got a good reward. But I couldn't take money from someone who needs it more. Wonder how they're doin' now."
"A few are probably dead." Luke said surprisingly.
"Nice way to kill a moment. Good job. Kudos to ya." He added sarcastically.
They were now approaching San Fallujah. A military checkpoint was clearly visible now, shining brightly from a pole behind an earthen building. The vehicle squealed to a stop a few yards away from a sandbag barrier. Several soldiers were stationed back there, weapons on the car incase some thing would happen. A faint click was heard from behind the embankment. Two soldiers approached the jeep. One stopped half way to keep an over watch position.
The other stepped toward the driver's side door. "Show me some I.D." He said coldly.
Everyone dug around the flight jacket's to find any form of identification. Slowly but surely they all pulled out driver's licenses, library cards, and student identification card's from college. The soldier took one, shone a flashlight on it and handed it back to the owner. He looked at all the identification cards and stepped away. He motioned to the second man and he trotted away towards the earthen building. He opened a door perpendicular to the road and vanished inside.
He returned a few seconds later with a dog in tow. Most likely German Shepard, Chester thought, Bomb/drug sniffer also.The handler came towards the jeep and pointed at certain places, which the dog promptly sniffed at. He pointed to one last spot under the engine, looked up at the first man and gave a thumb's up. All clear. "All right, you're clear to go."
John shifted back to drive and slowly pressed the accelerator. A faint click was heard again. Chester looked at the men behind the embankment suspiciously. The thought of him being shot up by friendly fire was flashed in his mind for a split second. Friendly Fire. What an oxymoron. He quickly blotted out the image and focused on the city ahead. San Fallujah. One of Free Eursia's worst places to be.
They drove around for several minutes trying to reacquaint themselves with the town. They drove past, hospitals, bars, schools, all remembering where they were. The located the commercial district quickly from the buildings and pilot know- how. There was one bar in town that stood above the rest for a calm relaxing atmosphere, except to ISAF personnel. Sky Kid's Bar and Restaurant. A beacon in the middle of town, with its bright white lights outside, illuminating the blackest crevice outside.
Several tables were set up outside directly in front of the stone building. There was an opening between cars right in front. More than enough room for a jeep. John pulled the jeep over with plenty of room enough for Chester to open his arms and spin without "touching" either car. They all leaped gracefully out of the sides and advanced slowly to the door. A few civilians were having a quiet meal sitting at some tables. Soldiers filled up the remainder of the tables chatting loudly about their troubles in the Army.
"Yes! Finally! Some grub other than what they serve at camp." One soldier blurted out when a young female waitress delivered a few hamburgers.
"Curb your enthusiasm." Said another. "We don't have that long to be here." He lifted a hamburger up and took a noisy bite. Globs of blood red ketchup and dove white mayonnaise dotted a small napkin. He sighed with happiness and put it down. "This is good." He commented.
The girl blushed and hurried inside. A bell rang as the door closed. Luke pushed open the door again and hurried inside holding the door open for the rest. Chester was the last to go inside and Luke released the door, forcing it to swing in on his shoulder. It slammed into the shoulder and Chester shrugged it off. There were several more tables inside that lined the walls. More civilians than were outside occupied the first few tables. There were two more tables lined along the black wall, underneath some writing and photos.
Chester recognized the writing immediately. That was his kill record. Large sticks with smaller sticks stuck out to symbolize the type of aircraft. Several bombers, four sticks on the wings, stood out among multiple fighters, single sticks with dashes for wings and elevators. He sat down at the table that had a set of dark stairs off to the left. Christine sat with him. John, Luke and Marcus sat together at the last remaining free table. He leaned back and rocked the chair. He stopped when his neck felt the cold wall. He shot forward and stayed there.
A young girl walked up to them with a notepad of paper and a pencil. She stated her name and asked how the group was doing. All responded fine and she asked if they knew what they would have to drink. All ordered some form of alcoholic beverage except Chester. He had never touched the stuff in his life, except some champagne when he was six at his uncles' wedding. He ordered some Coke instead. She smiled and walked off to the bar off to left hidden by the stairs.
He folded his and closed his eyes. The image of Miranda from earlier popped in his head. Not again. He had grown distaste for the random appearances of her. He closed his eyes again and never-ending darkness reigned supreme. He opened them again but not from fear of the dark. He glanced around the corners of the bar. There's a guitar around here somewhere. He looked behind Marcus. Bingo. Target sited."Hey, Marcus. Guitar behind you, low. Can ya grab it for me?"
Marcus reached around behind him and felt around for the guitar Chester had mentioned. He grabbed it by the neck and hauled it over his head, almost scrapping the ceiling. He extended it across the tables and Chester picked it up. He laid it in his lap, neck in his left hand. He strummed a bit and discovered that it hadn't been tampered with since they last came here several months ago.
The girl appeared suddenly from the blocked corner, drinks in tow. She set each bottle in front of each person and walked away again, to the civilians seated up front. She looked back and glowered at Christine enviously. Chester looked up at that moment and caught her. She noticed him but didn't bother to show it. Christine was facing away from the jealous girl and could not see her action.
Christine turned toward Chester. "So. Marcus told me that you were dreaming back at base and you wouldn't tell him. Would you tell me?" She looked at him innocently, begging to know what it was about.
"You're the Devil with that face, you know that?" She giggled. He sighed; he couldn't win. Not with that face. "Fine. I dreamed about Miranda again." She looked away. It seemed like she couldn't stand how all of his dreams featured her, Miranda, instead of her. "Oh, come on. Not my fault she appeared. Cut me some slack."
"Fine. Whatever. Continue."
"Not if your gonna be like that. But whatever. Anyway, she appeared in my dream, again. It wasn't for very long but she said something about an equal. I'm not sure though. It's all kinda fuzzy. She said that she couldn't stand being away from me." He paused, looked at the guitar, then back at her. I still miss her. I still do. And she still loves me. A hole in his heart opened up. He was silent.
"Not again. You always get like this whenever you talk about her."
"Not my fault I still miss her." He strummed some more on the guitar. Christine tried to get him to talk more. Her attempts were met with more intense strumming, now becoming a thorn in most peoples' side. The fight was lost for her.
The strumming became better and less annoying. He closed his eyes and missed Christine turn away to talk to the others. He sat like that, strumming quietly for a few dozen minutes. He missed the waitress cast more jealous looks at Christine. He was lost in the music. Never wanting to leave it. It was the only abstract thing left of her, music. She helped him learn how to play. Her voice was in the notes. Must not stop playing. Must hear her voice. I must, I must!
A sound of creaking steps jerked him violently back away from his memory of Miranda. His eyes shot open. He looked around the corner to the stairs and saw a small child, thirteen years old at the most. He had bushy blond hair, with deep blue eyes. He wore an olive jacket, with brown pants. He looked like that was all he had to wear, like all his possessions were gone, vanished. His lower lip trembled at the site of Chester.
A warm smile played across Chester's face. He retreated back into the corner, an invitation for the boy to come on down. Creaks were heard one at a time down the stairs, slowly, however. He stopped at the last step and looked at Chester. He stepped off the last stair. He looked at him and smiled weakly. Chester returned the smile and started to strum again. The lad looked at him curiously. "Where'd ya learn that song?" he said shyly.
"What song?"
"The one you just played."
"Oh, I'm just strumming. Not really playing anything."
"Yes you are. My dad used to play that song after everyday for as long as I can remember. That is…" He looked away suddenly. His head bobbed slightly and his arm was raised to his face. He brought it near one of his eyes and wiped something away. A dark dot appeared on his jacket sleeve. A tear. He was crying. A cold shock ran down Chester's spine. He lost a love one like me.
"Hey?" The kid turned around, brushing back a few more tears, sniffing. "How about I play, and you can see him again? Works for me. I lost my fiancée. She taught me how to play." He looked down and started strumming again. The kid hastily reached into his pocket and pulled out a harmonica. He raised it to his lips and waited. He played a somber note, one that made another cold shock run down his spine.
Chester understood what the kid was talking about. He knew the song. It was an old song back from the 40's, made by a couple of privates in the army. Mostly for honoring the dead, but largely just something to do when nothing was happening. Now it was meant for the dead. The civilians near the door turned their attention to the duo. They sat in silence until the song ended.
As the song was ending, people were reaching into their pockets to pull out scraps of loose change, unused otherwise. The small bronze, silver, and nickel coins clattered upon the wooden table as the people gave generously. The song stopped. All that was left was the reverberations from the coins clattering, filling the silence. Eventually that stopped as well. The boy looked at Chester. A smile played across his face. Happiness radiated from him. Chester looked up saw the smile, and looked back down again. I made him happy, I guess.
"Thanks, mister."
"No problem kid. Just keep doing that, even without the guitar and you can see him. Hope that helps."
"It does. Thanks."
A smirk shot towards his left cheek. "Sure." He grabbed the guitar by the neck and gently lowered it into place by the corner. He rose up slowly, sighing, stretching. The others' followed his movements and were waiting for him. They advanced across the floor, with the civilians shuffling out of the way quietly.
He forced his hands into the side pockets of his flight jacket and started to walk away. He brushed past the boy, still thankful of what the man told him. But that thankfulness wouldn't last long however. His eye's lit up with intense anger. Chester couldn't see this, unfortunately. Blinded by intense anger, the small boy sprinted headlong into Chester's left leg, now less than six feet away. A numbing pain shot up his leg, into his back. He wheeled around dazed from the pain in his leg. He tried to catch a look at the culprit. It's the kid. What does he want?
"Get off of me." The crowd stopped, oblivious to what had happened. He reached down and plucked the little boy off of his leg. "What now?" he shouted from the pain. His pant leg was wet. The boy was crying again. Oh crap.
"You killed them! You killed my family! Mom, Dad, Mary, and Skip! You killed them!" He started to beat worthlessly against his leg.
"Look, kid, what are you talking about? Who'd I kill? I've killed plenty."
"You admit it! You did kill them!"
"Kid, calm down. Your not making sense. Plus I never said I killed your family." The boy started to calm down. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on." The boy sniffled. He brushed a tear away from his eye.
"I saw you kill my family." He looked down. "I was on my bike heading to school last June, when I looked up and saw an air battle. I saw you and another plane going at it. You won and the loser crashed into my house, on a cape. A few miles east." He looked up again. "As you zoomed right past me, I saw a large yellow "13" on your nose, under the canopy. I saw the "13" on your jacket and remembered that day. That day you took my parent's away from me!"
The rest of the group finally turned around and witnessed this. They stood in silence, waiting for what was to happen next.
"Whaa-wa-waaaa"
"Shut up!"
Chester looked at his group questioningly. No answer was shown on their faces. He sighed, "Look, kid." He stopped. He contemplated for a moment. What should I say? I don't wanna hurt his feelings anymore than I already have. ARGH! What should I do! "I'm sorry I killed your parents." He said finally. "But it wasn't my fault. Yes, I was the catalyst to their death but my plane was not shot down. Technically, I didn't kill them. But," he added dramatically, "blame me if you want."
The kid looked at Chester. Anger gave way and sadness took over again. "I still blame you." He said silently.
"Don't blame ya." Now what should I do? "I'll try to make arrangements for you to stay with us, on base. We'll adopt you. You'll have a new home. Whaddya say?" The boy said nothing. He still looked at Chester. He could tell that the boy wanted to say something, but was so overtaken by emotion that he couldn't. "I'll wait for your response when you calm down. I'll still put in that request, just stop by if you want to." He turned and left. He forced open the door, which gave a little ring as it hit a bell.
The other's propped open the door and walked out. They huddled around Chester, who took an object out of John's hands. He hopped in the front, waited for the others' to sit down, and drove off into the dark, cold, night. I wonder what he's gonna do. I wonder.