Return on Investment

by BlueRibbon118

Although the Lighthouse War is over, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise's problems are only just beginning. Together with her companions, she must forge a new path in a shattered Usea, gripped by strife and disorder. But they are not alone. Sensing opportunity, new powers have emerged from the shadows - each with their own plans for the ailing continent...

7. Foreclosure

Return on Investment

---

Chapter FIVE - Foreclosure

"All I ever wanted was to create a world where we Belkans would not be persecuted simply for existing. For that to happen, all you ignorant little cattle had to do was to fight and die when we told you to! Was that so much to ask?!"
— Solare Ostberg, President and CEO of North Osea Gründer Industries, testifying in his own defense against charges of treason against the Osean Federation and illegal arms trafficking

"Too many assume that they will be the ones in power if they could just overthrow the current system."
— Colonel Maximilian Foulke, chairman of the Belkan Overseas Friendship Association, active during the Shilagian Revolution and subsequent Erusean takeover

---

GRDF Aircraft Carrier 'Lone Shark'
Off the coast of Artiglio, Southern Usea
6 June 2020

Turbulent waves and a sweeping westerly battered against the prow of the General Resource corporation's second, newly-constructed Izumo-class Multipurpose Destroyer; the "Lone Shark". Buoyed by the wind and the surf, droplets of seaspray were being flung high enough to spatter onto the freshly treated flight deck.

The squall had come suddenly and without warning, bringing with it dark clouds that quickly blotted out the light of the early dawn. Helicopter blades and aircraft wingtips, folded like nesting seabirds, rattled in the wind, their anchors and wheel brakes put to the test. Sailors and aircrew on the flight deck, clad in thick jackets, were still working, pushing the limits of human endurance to ready their planes for takeoff, as they scurried around like ants, releasing chocks and fuel hoses, and wheeling tractor tugs out of the way.

'You still haven't told me where to put all this fuel.' one deck worker reported.

'Whatever!' came the measured response from a pot-bellied crew chief. 'Just move the fuel, fuel mover!'

'Okay... jackass.'

At the far end of the flight deck, Abyssal Dision was strapped in to the cockpit of his jet-black, custom-modified F-22, with an arrestor hook, strengthened landing gear, and redesigned flaps optimized for carrier ops and low-speed maneuvers. Beside him was Clown, the ex-Osean deserter personally headhunted by Dision himself, sitting at the controls of his F/A-32 Erne in two-tone woodland camouflage.

Both aircraft were short-takeoff capable, and equipped for a pure air superiority mission - loaded up with missiles of both the infrared and radar-guided variety, nestled in internal stores and external pylons that bustled like rosebush thorns.

Their instructions from the General Resource head office in Port Edwards had come through less than two hours ago, centered on a single, straightforward objective: secure air superiority over the Space Elevator.

«Get over there now, Dision!» Gilbert Park, Dision's boss and deputy CEO of General Resource, had practically screamed over the video link. «That Elevator is ours, and no amount of Belkan space magic is going to take it away from us! I'm sending support squadrons to back you up, but you have to launch! Now!»

'Ayup.' Dision had replied.

Two lines of cycling deck lights had activated, bracketing the length of the flight deck and shining piercingly-bright, even amidst the raging storm.

Engines powered and flaps lowered for takeoff, Dision headchecked his control surfaces for the last time.

'This is Dision. Ready for takeoff.'

«Alright, let's get this baby underway.» came the reply from the control tower. «Knock 'em dead, tiger!»

'Oh yeah.' Dision said, throttling up slowly. A whine rose up from the aircraft's twin F119 turbofan engines, a rising crescendo that soon became a bone-shaking roar. 'You with me, Clown?'

«Right behind you.» Clown replied, looking back from the cockpit. His face was hidden behind his flight visor, but it was clear that he was treating the mission with all of the deadly earnest it deserved. «I've got a score to settle with that overgrown sandcastle.»

'We'll make things right.' Dision concurred, similarly motivated. 'Let's go.'

He pushed the throttle to maximum. Chocks pulled and wheelbrakes disengaged, the two planes lurched forward. There was a split-second delay, before both aircraft fired their engines, belching thrust at full blast, and rocketing down the length of the flight deck in a single, violent flash. The end of the deck abruptly gave way to the yawning, abyssal blackness of the raging sea below.

But, come hell or high water, Dision was completely focused. Fingers tightening around the control stick, his thoughts were only for a single, precious name...

I'm coming, Yoko... he willed inwardly. ... So to speak.

The two planes pulled up, afterburners still visible in the howling wind and lashing rain, before vanishing into the storm.

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwest Usea
6 June 2020

«There is no war at the Space Elevator. Here we are safe. Here, we are free. I have been invited to a nice vacation at the beautiful emerald waters of Gunther Bay...»

...

Groaning weakly, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea opened her eyes to the bleary, sterile white light. First, she tried opening and closing her mouth, even twisting her head, probing the air with her nose. No resistance. Good - that meant she was not in a coffin. Then, slowly, she moved her arms... and found that she couldn't - they were bound, tied up with a thick rope behind her back.

Her heart sank as she realized the nightmare was still going.

How long had it been? Between the dull, monotonous vibrations from ventilation and power systems and the walls, and most of all, having been incarcerated and denied even simple daylight, that most humble of earthly pleasures, it was hard to tell when one day ended and another began. Even the difference between her nightmares and reality had lost all meaning.

She looked to her side - beside her was Avril Meade, the Osean mechanic and Rosa's closest friend and associate, a bond forged during the war's most desperate hours. She too had been bound, sitting quietly in place, staring at the floor. Like Rosa, her hair and clothes were ragged and disheveled, and she still had an ugly crater of a bruise on her cheek, inflicted on the first day of this madness. Still... she seemed oddly relaxed - but perhaps that was only because, Rosa suspected, she was no stranger to unjust confinement.

On her other side were Ionela and Alma Shilage, Rosa's two childhood friends and granddaughters of the great Mihaly A. Shilage. The events and trauma of the war had tested their relationship, but they both had been enthusiastic supporters of Rosa's refugee administration in its aftermath. Now, here they lay, in a deep sleep. Both of their soft, unblemished cheeks had been marked by the trails left by what could only have been tears.

Together, the four of them were prisoners, made to watch as all of their work, all that they had built and struggled for, was crushed before their eyes. In that, there was a quiet solidarity of shared grief and suffering. Perhaps that was the only bright spot in this whole mess.

But there was also a fifth figure in the conference room with them; a huge, thuggish man-shaped war machine, draped in heavy body armor. It carried a matte-black MG3 machine gun, cradled in two huge arms as though it were a rifle. Its armored head was completely covered, but it was clear that behind the faceless semi-opaque visor lay a pair of cold, pitiless eyes that scrutinized everything in sight like targeting systems. To be stared at was to be in its crosshairs.

A Belkan mercenary, one of many that had so suddenly and violently occupied the Space Elevator, and imprisoned Rosa, her companions, and all of the innocent war refugees sheltering from the strife and disorder in continental Usea. They had thoroughly and quite invasively snuffed out everyone even remotely connected to the General Resource corporation - the primary benefactor of Rosa's refugee project after Osea and the IUN closed their coffers - and executed them.

Now, they ran the place. Everyone was at their mercy. They were vicious, they were ruthless, and they were everywhere. Specters of Belkan militarism, haunting the Elevator's once peaceful halls like vengeful ghosts of a time long past. They were the ones with the guns now, and therefore the ones in power.

And the one who'd brought them here was...

'Cossette.'

Doctor Schroeder. A stern man, standing in the doorway. Rosa hadn't even noticed him enter, or if he'd been standing there for the whole twenty seconds that she'd been awake. He was a stern man, with a rough white labcoat, and sharp, cold eyes - colder even than the blank visages of his mercenary cohorts.

Rosa was not pleased to see him. At the beginning of the occupation, she could do nothing but weep from grief and powerlessness. But now, that initial fear had given way to anger and frustration; she had thought him reformed after his insane wartime machinations came within minutes of the apocalypse itself. She had taken it upon herself to forgive his crimes and grant him a second chance when no one else would. And for a time, he really had been a loyal and competent advisor, and had even been one of Rosa's most staunch supporters when General Resource had first showed themselves, when things were at their most uncertain.

But in the end, he betrayed them all. He made no secret of his paranoia and distrust for General Resource, but that was surely no reason to murder them all in cold blood! To amass an army and put thousands of innocent civilian lives at risk! No matter how much she thought about it, tried to empathize and put herself in his shoes and see things from his point of view, she could find no justification for his insanity.

'You will come with me.' Schroeder commanded.

'Why should I do that?' Rosa challenged, a flicker of her pent-up frustration spilling out in her voice.

Schroeder was unfazed. 'There is something you need to see. But only you.'

Avril shot him a heavy-lidded stare.

'And what about us?' she growled, her voice coarse and raspy from dehydration. 'Are we dead yet, asshole?'

Hearing this, the armored guard smacked the back of Avril's head with the butt end of its weapon. There was a loud, bony crack. Avril bent double forward, and spasmed as an armored boot came up into her gut. With its huge, crab-like fists, the guard whaled on her again, and again, as she gurgled blood and curled like a fetus. Rosa's eyes went wide, while Schroeder watched on without so much as batting an eyelid.

The commotion had woken Ionela and Alma. Little Alma, fearful and unaccustomed to blood and violence, began to cry.

The faceless guard pile-drove the blunt end of his machine gun into Avril's gut one more time, before turning around to administer the same treatment to the Shilage sisters.

'Stop it!' Rosa cried out, having to yell above Alma's screaming. 'Just stop it, please! I'll come quietly if you leave them alone.'

Schroeder gave the guard a curt nod, and it stood down. It cut the ropes binding Rosa's arms, then roughly pulled her up and shoved her towards the door, before resuming its guard position.

'This way.' Schroeder said blandly, turning to leave.

Flexing her fingers and fighting off the sudden pins and needles in her arms, Rosa spared one last look at her companions; Avril was still on the ground, bleeding and writhing. Io and Alma were leaning on each other - Alma was still crying, and Io was whispering softly, trying to comfort her. It was obvious she wanted to cry too, but had been forced her emotions in check in order to reassure her younger sister.

Quietly raging against not only the injustice of her situation, but most of all her own weakness, Rosa left them behind.

---

Another morning had risen above the Space Elevator, above the new nation that Doctor Schroeder had built - and was still building - for the people who had once sought refuge beneath its glittering, towering majesty.

His new army, ranks filled with armored guardians carrying the best equipment and combat stims that Schroeder's extensive connections could procure, had turned the Elevator into an impenetrable fortress. The bridge and undersea tunnels had all been blocked off. Above them, in the skies, cordons of radical concept planes that no one in the world had ever seen or heard of were circling above, asserting their dominance over the nearby city of Selatapura, whose inhabitants could only shiver and cower before the forces that had so suddenly appeared on their doorsteps.

Inside the Elevator, Schroeder's new army was continuing their work of cleansing all traces of General Resource's corrupting influence. The refugees - including Princess Cossette - were held in detention, and would remain so until such time as Schroeder determined that all threats to his new order had been eliminated.

With Rosa suitably pacified and in tow, Schroeder entered what was once the control room of the ISEV port authority. The lights had been smashed and the windows shattered, raw daylight and seabreeze spilling in from where armored troopers had burst through only days before. Bloodied workstations and computer consoles, once manned by civilian technicians, were now being crewed by some of Schroeder's old Gründer associates. They were interfacing with the Elevator's systems through various mechanical augments to their own bodies, the full extent of which were covered by hooded, iron red robes that draped along the floor.

'Have we found Martha yet?' Schroeder asked.

One of the operators turned around, but continued working her station with a pair of wiry mechadentrites extending from a module embedded into the small of her back.

«There's still no sign of her in the maintenance tunnels, sir.» she answered, with a flanging, modulated voice coming through an augmetic grille that covered where her mouth should have been. «It is possible that-»

'Then she is not dead. Double your search!'

«... Understood. I will instruct our search teams to sweep the tunnels again, at once.»

'Anything to else to report?'

«Yes, My Lord.» added another operator in a deep bass monotone, looking more machine than man, a cluster of green lights faintly glowering from beneath his hood that had once been his eyes. He glided across the floor seemingly without moving his legs, as if on wheels.

«Our agents report that General Resource is mobilizing a counterattack to retake this Space Elevator.»

He was holding out a data tablet with a pale, bony hand.

Schroeder took it and reviewed its contents. 'A counterattack?'

«GRDF aircraft are being launched from their stations in Shilage Castle, as well as the light carriers Exactor and Lone Shark. We calculate that these fighter groups will converge on this Space Elevator in approximately 83.617 minutes.»

'Hmph. Then it seems General Resource is coming to claim on their investment.' Schroeder remarked, handing back the tablet. 'Just as I knew they would.'

'You think you've won, haven't you?' Rosa cut in. The half-machine operators paused briefly at this statistically improbable display of defiance, but soon resumed their work. 'You can take over this place with your guns, and your warplanes... But you'll never take our hearts and minds!'

'My work will not be done until all threats to our new order are destroyed.' Schroeder responded. 'Until then, do not try to goad me.'

In truth, the Princess' words had made little impression on him. She was still a child - too young and naive to understand how the world really worked. Oh certainly, she had an inkling - she had personally witnessed some of the worst atrocities of the last war; the Osean bombings of Farbanti, the carnage on Tyler Island, and the last, climactic battle right here in this very Space Elevator.

... But in those times, she always had people she could rely on; firstly her royal bodyguards and soldiers, and then genuine friends and companions. There had always been someone there to help her in times of need.

That was all good and well, but what if those same people suddenly went away one day? What if, back on Tyler Island, no one had come to find her? She could have either sat there and waited for death, cursing the world and her circumstances and shitty upbringing until her last breath... or she could have done something about her situation. She could have chosen to save herself; to pick up a weapon, fight back, and defend herself against all comers. Alone against the world, she would only ever have been able to rely on herself and her own means.

And that was exactly how things should be! For such had been Schroeder's experience as a Belkan national, born and raised. The Belkan experience was one to be surrounded every day by hostility and suspicion, even from earliest childhood. His own survival was the only one that mattered, because no one had ever come to help him in his hour of need...

...

... No one, that is, except the Princess herself.

One day, Schroeder had reasoned, the Princess would understand what he was trying to do for her. She and all of her companions would eventually open their eyes to the truth of the world and join his struggle for survival willingly, and with enthusiasm. Together, they would stand against this cold, uncaring world. Better than anyone else could.

And if they refused to see, well, then he would make them see - one way, or another.

Until then...

«Your orders?» asked the first operator.

'Alert our fighter patrols.' Schroeder said, glancing over at Rosa, who was staring right back at him with deep resentment. For a brief moment, that look made him feel something resembling sadness, but it was only for a moment. 'Have them ready to meet the General Resource forces head on.'

«By your command.»

---

She was cowering in the air vent. It was dark, even with the strobing chemical lights that lined the narrow hallways. Ducts and air vents - just like the one she was in - ran all across the walls like overgrown mangroves, casting huge shadows that added to the claustrophobic feel of the place.

Yoko Martha Inoue had been trapped in these maintenance tunnels for over four days. She was cold, tired, and very hungry. She had not slept once in all of that time, and had so far used eighteen different hiding places, some of them more than once.

Compared to the madness that had overtaken the lower levels, the maintenance tunnels were relatively safe. But they were also very unsafe. Monsters - huge, armored Belkan soldiers - were stalking the halls like daemons in the night, their heavy boots thumping and clanging on the caged metal floor panels. Occasionally, there would be a barked, garbled command, vocalized in distorted and unsettling tones that stood the hairs on the back her neck,

«Ich wurde in Düsseldorf geboren, und deshalb nennen sie mich Rolf!»

«Komm hier, kleiner Mädchen! Ich habe kostenlose Süßigkeiten!»

She understood enough Belkan to know what they were saying; they were hunting for her. They were thorough, suspicious, relentless, and seemingly everywhere.

Yoko had evaded them so far. For four days, she had crept up stairways, clambered ladders, and crawled through air vents too narrow to turn around in, never knowing when she'd run into a dead end, or worse, a running fan. Even tiptoed her way across more than one narrow ledge looking down into the huge, vast main Elevator shaft - a twelve kilometer drop. And her Belkan pursuers had been on her trail the whole time - every time she heard them approach, she would carefully change her hiding place.

But it was surely only a matter of time before they found her, and Yoko couldn't shake the feeling that she was being boxed into a tighter and tighter space. Soon there would be nowhere left to hide. All it would take then is one slip, one wrong turn, one whisper or hushed gasp... and her life would be forfeit.

She thought about her friends. Avril, Ionela, Alma, and Rosa... they were the ones that told her to hide in the tunnels while Doctor Schroeder - her old boss - and his Belkan goons tore up everything that they had all worked so hard to build.

Yoko had done better than simply hide. She'd gone all the way to the top of the Elevator and issued a distress call to the rest of the world, one that she dearly hoped would be answered soon. Her plan at the time had been to wait it out... but now she was running for her very life. Even if the IUN turned up today, she would still be trapped in these tunnels with the Belkans. So far as she could see, there was no logical way she would get out of this situation alive.

But there was one thing, one person on her mind, that kept her going...

Dision... I know Dision will come for me... she willed. ... So to speak.

A sudden chill made her catch her breath. Then the sound of more footsteps, more Belkan fuss and barking.

«Gesundheit!»

«Hans. Hol den Flammenwerfer.»

Yoko swallowed. It was time to change hiding places again.

---

Chopinburg Rainforest, Southern Usea
6 June 2020

Below them lay the muggy thickness of Chopinburg, green and impenetrable.

Strider One 'Trigger' gazed down from the smooth, gold-tinted canopy of his F-22A Raptor, silently surveying the reaches of the deep jungle far below, the view occasionally broken up by sparse, wisping clouds. A tributary of the great Nozama River basin forked through the undergrowth, sucked dry at the banks by choking, long-legged mangroves into a muddy, sedimentary ooze, absorbing the late-morning sunlight like clay.

Huddles of prefab buildings and rudimentary inland ports were clustered at the more gentle sections of the river, their boundaries marked by levees and stretches of reclaimed marshland. These outposts of civilization offered a much-needed stopping point to not only the scientific expeditions that frequently ventured into these largely-untamed wildlands, but also to service the continual flow of commercial barges that traversed the Nozama River basin, carrying goods from their humble upriver sources to hungry end-markets in the wider world beyond the river mouth.

But there was a stink in the air, and not just from the fetid jungle.

Trigger could not explain why, but the events of the past few days had brought many unwelcome memories back to the front of his mind.

First had been news of yet another attack on the Space Elevator. That had been bad enough, until then came the subsequent order to mount a rescue mission - not unlike the one that had killed former President Vincent Harling, exactly one year ago to the day.

For Trigger, the events that followed Harling's death were harrowing and bordered on the traumatic; between the madness of the Spare Squadron and, after a brief respite in his first days with the LRSSG, there had been the tension of the Alicorn crisis. Then followed swiftly by the appalling trials of the global communications breakdown, and the narrow aversion of a killer UAV apocalypse. Thanks to Trigger's own efforts, things had worked out in the end...

... But what about now?

Now, he was on his way to another hostage rescue mission at the Space Elevator, with the hostage in question being none other than Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise herself. Putting aside the sheer dramatic irony of the situation, the pressure being exerted on the whole LRSSG was immense, and they all felt it. One slip up, and the mission would fail - and this time, failure would result in more than a simple gameover screen. The Princess was a global celebrity, beloved by literal billions. If anything were to happen to her...

What's more, the LRSSG had no idea what was waiting for them. Between hastily-prepared, typo-ridden intel briefs and the ramblings of eyewitness reports, all they could be sure of was that the enemy - whose identities and motives were still unknown - were packing highly advanced technology that no one had ever seen, bleeding-edge hardware that even the spookiest of intel spooks had never heard of.

Not only was it going to be a tough battle, but it also shaping up to be the LRSSG's most delicate and sensitive mission yet.

But what none of them - except possibly Count - had any inkling of, was how much additional pressure Trigger had subconsciously placed on himself.

To Trigger, this rescue mission was going to be the ultimate test of his growth over the past year. A second chance to settle an old score - the only score that mattered; the score of his own past. Like a daemon, it had been scratching and gnawing at the back of his mind for every second of every day of the last 365 days, since the death of Vincent Harling. Even after learning the fault was not his own, the failure still weighed heavily on his soul.

Now, he was going to face the old daemon head on. To set right what once went badly, hideously wrong. Such chances didn't come to all men, but one had come to Trigger, and he would not - could not - shirk from it. All the people he'd met since that time, the friends and companions he'd met, and the trials he'd been through... everything seemed to be coming to a head, on this fateful day of days. He would face the darkness of his past with the light of his present, and maybe - just maybe - banish it, once and for all.

And as an added layer of coincidence, the LRSSG's flight path had taken them through the humid expanse of tropical Chopinburg - another place that Trigger would be glad to be done with, for it was here that he first experienced the pain of loss.

Trigger had lost many friends and allies over the course of his short, meteoric career; High Roller, Full Band, Wiseman, Tabloid, and many, many others... But the first of them had been the one called 'Brownie'.

Brownie had been a fellow pilot, the number two of her squadron - just like Trigger. Each held a keen respect for the other's abilities, one that held much potential to grow into a friendly, professional rivalry.

But it was here in Chopinburg that the world decided it had other plans; Brownie's plane had been damaged in battle and ordered to retreat, only to have the tragic misfortune of crossing paths with the legendary Mihaly A. Shilage. Alone and isolated from her team, her end was long and agonizing, drawn out by Mihaly's hideous, deliberate tactics. Trigger had been utterly powerless to do anything except listen to her slowly break down over the radio, until she was practically screaming for help - Trigger's help, no less - before a final shot ended her suffering.

Trigger had not known her for long, but the combined shock and unusual cruelty of her death had left a powerful impression on him, one that was only exacerbated by the disastrous rescue mission of Vincent Harling that would occur only days later.

«Trigger.»

It was from that point on that Trigger decided that he would do everything in his power not to lose anyone important to him again. If the world was so determined to take and destroy, then Trigger was going to be the one who would strive tirelessly to keep and to save.

«... Trigger?»

Even if they were ungrateful base commanders or sullen army ground pounders, Trigger would to save them all. No matter who they were, or what he would be made to go up against-

«Trigger!»

Pulled back from his reflections, Trigger blinked and looked round. Strider Two 'Count' was hovering to his right, waving at him with both hands like an idiot from the cockpit of his F-15EX Eagle II.

«Hey! Don't ignore me, buddy, I'm right here!»

«Is the boss spacing out?» asked Cyclops One 'Fencer', holding position off Trigger's port side.

«That's somethin'.» Strider Four 'Huxian' snorted.

«Don't see that everyday.» concurred Cyclops Two 'Skald'.

«Come on, Strider One, this isn't the time to be freezing up on us.» said the voice of AWACS Long Caster, tracking the LRSSG's movements and relaying tactical updates from about thirty-five miles away and another twenty thousand feet higher. «Switch on, we still got a job to do. Wouldn't want you of all people to miss the buffet, will we?»

«You're the star of the show.» chipped in Cyclops Four 'Lanza', before taking a gulp of cola from a jury-rigged straw taped to the side of his flight helmet. «Without you, we ain't goin' nowhere.»

Hearing the gentle reprimands from the rest of his team, Trigger was quietly happy. The LRSSG had been the closest, tightest-knit group of friends he had ever met. Handpicked by the late Wiseman himself from the best pilots in the entire, huge Osean Air Defense Force, they had stood together throughout the worst trials of the war, through good times and bad... and worse. Their bond was unbreakable, and each trusted the others with their own lives.

That was what had kept Trigger going. Even when all else had seemed lost, the feeling of having companions, true companions that trusted and depended on one another, almost made everything else worth it.

Both LRSSG teams - Strider and Cyclops - were deploying for this mission, now equipped with the newly-developed F-15EX Eagle II. The EX was a welcome upgrade from the venerable C models, shipped in directly from Osea to stay competitive in the face of new and rising threats, both real and imagined. All except Trigger, who had stubbornly hung on to his trusty Raptor.

And they were going to face this mission together.

«You've got the lead on this, Trigger, so we're relying on your directions.» said Strider Three 'Jaeger'. «I know the stakes are high, but we've been through worse. I'm sure we'll be in and out of there like lightning.»

«That's what she said.» Count interjected slyly.

«... Look sharp.» Jaeger said, ignoring Count's remark. «We're coming up on the tanker.»

The next cloud bank had wafted away, pushed aside by an errant wind current. Ahead of it was the aft quarter of an Osean-marked KC-10A Extender, its wings and control surfaces flexing gently in the jetstream, onboard flight computers making minute corrections that kept it in stable, level flight.

As part of the mission, the LRSSG was to rendezvous with the tanker and refuel at the last possible moment, so as to maximize their available flight time over the target area.

The tanker had been waiting; already, the refueling boom had been lowered in anticipation of their next customers.

«Hello, boys.» the boom operator radioed; a low, sultry female voice delivered with just the right tone and pitch to make Trigger feel an oddly-pleasant tingle that crawled down the back of his neck. «This is your tanker, Jugs. Come on over here and suckle on these big, juicy... fuel tanks.»

There was a long silence.

«... What.» Fencer said finally, speaking for the rest of the LRSSG at their collective loss for words.

«Cyclops One, you're up first.» Jugs continued, getting straight into it. «It's okay, don't be shy... Mommy's got plenty for everyone, if you know what I mean... Ufufufu~.»

«Great.» Fencer groaned, rolling his eyes so hard that his flight helmet rolled with them. «It's another one of "those" tankers.»

Nevertheless, he complied, bringing his F-15 forward towards Jugs and the waiting refueling probe, which wobbled invitingly in the wake of the tanker's jet wash.

«Suppose it's a lonely job if all you do is pump and dump fuel.» said Jaeger.

«That's what she said!» Count added again, this time with a chuckle.

«Thanks Count.» Jaeger deadpanned back. «I couldn't have put it any less clear myself.»

«No one kicks ass without tanker gas.»

Slowly, gradually, Fencer's F-15EX inched towards the tanker. Balance and body control, enabled by focus and concentration, was paramount. He was close, making only minute adjustments to his aircraft's position as he moved to align the refueling port. The boom dangled ominously beside the cockpit, like a certain something else that also hung low and filled with fluids, an uncomfortable comparison that was not at all helped by the operator Jugs, who was clearly enjoying her job way too much.

Finally, the boom made contact, slipping into Fencer's refueling port with a dull bump, like a...

«Oh yes, Cyclops One, you are hooked on the nipple.» Jugs cooed lecherously, hinting at desires that were most certainly not safe-for-work. «Mmmm, commencing... refueling. Ohhh yesss...»

«Stop. Talking.» Fencer growled.

«You know you love it, baby. Don't forget to wipe your mouth when you finish...»

As the refueling commenced, Fencer crossed his arms and sat there quietly, ignoring the various suggestive, sometimes orgasmic sounds that Jugs was making over the radio.

«Okay, big boy, you're all finished. Gonna kiss you goodbye...» said Jugs, before making an obscene smooching sound. «Mwah! Disconnecting. Play nice out there, okay?»

Fencer said nothing, instead just pulling back as he closed the refueling port. The second he was clear of the boom, he banked away and rejoined the rest of the LRSSG formation, his wings wobbling for a few moments as he leveled off.

«Wow, she sure made a man out of you.» said Lanza only half-sarcastically, pausing to take another swig of cola. «Was that your first time?»

«No need to tease him.» Huxian said teasingly. «We all know he actually liked it.»

«Yeah, well, it'll be your turns soon.» Fencer replied sardonically. «Hope you all like sloppy seconds.»

«Not the kind of "eating out" that I'd go for.» Long Caster remarked dryly.

«That's what she said, again.» Count said for the third time.

There was a gaggle of laughter. Trigger listened on in silence. Many officers would have wailed and gnashed their teeth and hurled disciplinary charges at such remarks - and Trigger could even name one that would have tossed them all in solitary confinement. But he personally didn't mind them. After all, it was simply their way of letting of steam before a battle, particularly one as serious and consequential as this one was shaping up to be.

Even Jugs' playfully-annoying flirts was probably done for the same reason, perhaps as her way of making sure that the pilots she serviced (so to speak) could smile and have fun one last time before departing for what could very well be their final mission.

Even if said flirts really did push the boundaries of acceptable conduct...

«Alright, next up is Strider One.» purred Jugs. «Come on, big boy... Come here and give mommy a biiiiiiig kissy...»

«... That boom operator needs to get laid even more than you do, Huxian.» Count said cheekily. «I can see her thirst from all the way back here.»

«Whereas I barely see you at all, Tiny.» Huxian nudged back. «Or should I call you Speedy?»

«Ha! Touche.»

Well, no matter. With a faint smile, Trigger moved towards the waiting tanker, quietly thankful for his good fortune. For there was no guarantee that these times would last forever, or that he would ever again find another group of tight-knit, closely-bonded companions quite like these - whether in this life, or the next.

In that moment, despite being fully aware and remembering everything he'd been through, Trigger felt like he was the luckiest man in the universe.

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Clown gunned his F/A-32 Erne forward, racing ahead of the formation. Like a shoal of charging salmon, the combined air wings of the GRDF carriers Exactor and Lone Shark's burned along the southern coast of Selatapura at just below two thousand feet, punching through swelling clumps of brown, polluted rainclouds that obscured the view of the coastline. Twenty-four combat-loaded warplanes roared in above the warm, choppy waters of the Gunther Peninsula.

Through breaks in the cloud cover, the towering spire of the Space Elevator's main tower seemed to duck in and out of view, rising high and mighty as it always had, a symbol of all that was right - and for some, wrong - with the world.

In addition to beaches of bright white sands, punctuated by the occasional stretch of cobblestone seawall and glittering, glass-fronted holiday homes, the eastern approach to Selatapura was an area pocked with radar blind spots. In theory, so the plan went, the GRDF air strike force would be able to exploit this curious phenomenon and hopefully catch the enemy at the Space Elevator - whoever they were - off-guard.

Clown led the way. He knew the route best, after all. Dision's custom F-22 was right behind him.

Trigger...

He grimaced. One year... one damned, miserable year had passed since he had seen that hateful tower; whose existence had brought about the terrible day that Trigger was taken away from him. Many things had come and gone in that time, but Clown remembered that harrowing trial like it was yesterday. He'd been replaying the atrocious events of that day in his mind more times than he could count; through every hour of every minute of the entire past year, through his nightmares and all his waking hours. He could recall everything in vivid, hauntingly-clear detail - every contour and landmark feature, even clusters of trees and groups of houses - and it was for this reason that he'd taken charge of navigating the route.

And now, with the corporate strength of General Resource behind him, he was finally going to face down this terrible wound in his soul for real.

'We're coming up on the Space Elevator,' he radioed, breaking silence. 'We need to rendezvous with...'

He trailed off as he glanced down at his radar screen.

It was blank.

His confusion was two-fold. They'd been expecting to link up with reinforcements from the GRDF fighter base in Shilage, but now they were conspicuously absent for some reason. Could they have been destroyed by the enemy? Possible, but the radar showed no signs of hostiles either. It was as though no one else was around, and they were flying in free flight mode.

'No contacts.' he muttered. 'That's odd. Unless...'

Then the radar warning receiver began to scream. They'd all been locked.

'Break now!'

«Oh sure! "No contacts!" You had to open your mouth!» bemoaned one of the other GRDF pilots.

'Shut the fuck up, Porkins!' Clown snapped back calmly.

Fire and missile contrails were spearing out of the clouds, sudden like a spring trap. Clown jinked hard and punched on his electronic warfare suite, narrow avoiding a pair of missiles circling in behind him. Dision hurled his F-22 into a post-stall maneuver, pirouetting out of the way of another.

Others in the formation were not so lucky...

«She's gonna blow! So to speak-...!»

«Emergency! Permission to shit my pants?!»

Four GRDF F/A-18F Block IIIs vanished into fireballs, killed before they could even dump their drop tanks. Dark, knife-like shapes were flitting around their flaming, crumbling wreckages like furies, spitting death and gunfire, claiming another two F-15S/MTD Eagle+ as they went. They were not like the UAVs Clown had seen during the war. They were bigger... and faster. And they had already wiped out a quarter of the attack force.

«Bastards!» Dision grunted, midway through another evasive maneuver. «They were just waiting for us to show up.»

'Shit!' Clown spat, bringing his Erne back around. He was operating on pure instinct now. 'Mage One, engaging!'

---

Lorenz Riedl willed his YR-101 Delphinus down, guiding it only the power of his mind. The aircraft responded to his every thought and reflex, as though it were an extension of his own body. He could feel the wind rushing past the airframe, the visions and voices of his allies, even the punching recoil of the weapons systems. In that moment, he was euphoric from the enlightenment of his own intelligence.

His fellow pilots were working in circling packs of comparably-advanced XR-45 Cariburns and YR-99 Forneus. Radio communications between them were not needed - their very thoughts were relayed between each other, from simple radar checks to the ambush they had so carefully planned and sprung on the unsuspecting laggards of General Resource. Information and sensor data was being shared between each aircraft in much the same way, giving them a complete and unified picture of the battlefield; their minds were working as one - multiple bodies directed by a single, collective gestalt.

Well, perhaps that was to be expected of Doctor Schroeder's new R-series, based upon an unholy combination of Gründer Industries' advanced technology and the radical aerospace designs of the EASA. Against that, these General Resource lackeys were surely no match.

Lorenz locked up a jittering F-16AFTI Gyrfalcon, and deftly fired a missile.

«Hirose, look out behind you! You've got a missile swiggity swooty-ing towards your ass to make sweet, sweet love to your plane's cute little bumhole, if you know what I mean!»

«What? Where? Where is it?! Answer me now!»

The Gyrfalcon blew apart like a flower, its fate sealed with only the power of a thought.

«But I just! Got! Laaaaaaiiiiiiiid-...!»

He smiled. The experience was intoxicating, almost ecstatic, and not just from the fact that he was back in combat for the first time in years. The YR-101 somehow, simultaneously engaged all five of his human senses on a level unlike anything he had ever felt before. Not even during his prime had he felt such a precise and sensory degree of control over his machine.

There was another feeling too, lurking behind the satisfaction of control.

It was the feeling of power.

---

Clown ground his teeth. Tunnel vision was creeping in.

«This is such bullshit!»

«Wait, time out! I'm lagging!»

«Wow! Either we need an exorcist, or those enemy pilots are really flexible!»

Ignoring the panicked cries of his colleagues, Clown's complete focus was on the strange, V-shaped aircraft fluttering ahead of him, later known as an XR-45 Cariburn. It was darting and bouncing around, like a rabbit on speed, almost too quickly even for his thrust-vectoring Erne to keep up with. He groaned and braced as he followed it into a vicious split-S that pushed him to the very brink of unconsciousness. There was a persistent throbbing in his head, even after he leveled off.

Focusing his senses, he just managed to line up the XR-45 and track it with the digital sights built into his flight visor. A coarse rasping burrowed into his ears, at that moment seeming like the sweetest sound in the world, and he fired.

A side panel on the Erne's fuselage flipped open, and a pair of servo arms jutted out to release an AIM-9X Sidewinder missile. The Sidewinder's solid-fuel rocket motor ignited, spearing away through the air. The IR seeker kept the lock, following the XR-45 through a cloud, and proximity-detonated just as it tried to flitter away, a fraction too late. Shards of shrapnel perforated the XR-45's wing. It wavered for a few seconds, flight computers scrambling to reassert control, before the whole wing stress-fractured and gave out in a shower of sparks and flame.

Clown would never get a chance to confirm the kill. Another knife-winged craft - later to be identified as a YR-99 Forneus - had latched onto his tail.

Throttling up than abruptly cutting it, he pulled another post-stall maneuver - a knife-edge slide - hoping to get an angle and nail it quickly. He felt his guts hurl with the airframe, hanging on to the last possible moment.

But the Forneus wouldn't let him go. It followed him through, staying between his tailplanes. It was instantly duplicating each of his every move, seemingly reacting at the speed of a thought.

Gunfire began to slash and punch past his canopy. Clown jinked, feeling the airframe jolt and groan as a cannon round tore a chunk out of his fuselage. A warning light on the instrument panel came on, indicating a fuel leak.

Hell! he thought. There's too many of them! If I could just get behind this guy, I could really get wet and wild and do dirty, dirty things to him!... so to speak!

The Forneus suddenly burst open. It suddenly dove straight down, spinning and spewing smoke and orange flames from its engines.

Clown had just enough of an opening to regain his bearings. He saw Dision's Raptor swoop past, the man himself no doubt already seeking his next target.

He smiled. It had been a long time since he'd had someone watching his back. Not since his days with Trigger. He'd forgotten what that had felt like, and the reminder gave him a welcome morale boost.

Slowly, he began to believe that he could do this.

---

Dision bagged another kill. The heavyset YR-302 Fregata broke apart, its hulking fuselage gutted like a fish by a burst of 20mm cannon fire. Dision watched it go down, disgorging fuel and unspent ordnance in a blazing, fiery trail.

The missile warning tone screamed at him. Swearing, he dumped countermeasures and jinked, flipping his Raptor up and over at the last possible moment. The missile hostile missile went wild, trailing off harmlessly into the void.

He whipped his head, left and right. Missile contrails and gunfire chattered and slashed all around him, shrapnel and explosions flaring like fireflies. And - most irritatingly of all - the frantic, often panicked cries of his GRDF colleagues were continuously baying into his ears, as vexing and distracting like nails on a chalkboard,

«Screams internally!»

«How could this happen to me~? I've made my mistakes~, got nowhere to run~!»

«Get it together, assholes!»

«Don't die on me, Porkins! You owe me five bucks!»

They were dropping like flies. Dision saw a friendly F-16XL Sakerfalcon break apart, its bulky fuselage messily scissored by two EML slugs fired from two different YR-99 Forneus.

«Porkins is down! There goes five bucks I won't be seeing again...»

«He died as he lived: Fat and useless!»

On his other side, an F-15S/MTD Eagle+ tumbled past, its left wing messily torn off, spewing unburned fuel as it spiralled down towards the roiling, polluted sea below.

«Oh no! I'm gonna puke-auueuugeblarglueughghghh...!»

Dision swore. This whole operation was his idea - and while he'd gotten support from his boss, for what little good that did, Dision had still been the one to charge in without a plan, without intelligence or forward-planning of any sort. He hadn't realized it at the time, but he knew now that his knee-jerk decision had been the result of allowing his personal feelings to take control of his professional judgment. And now they were all going to pay the price.

If only... If only I'd stopped to think, Yoko... Yoko would have...

But there was no time to think, nor ruminate on what went wrong or what should have been. He was here now. His colleagues were falling and dying all around him, and the enemy was killing them. It was far too late to turn back now.

All he could do now was to make the best of things. Not for his job, or even his own life - both things he viewed as expendable.

No... he had to keep going. For Yoko's sake.

Forgive me, Yoko... I wasn't able to save you... But if I'm going to die here, then I'm going to take as many of these bastards with me as I can!

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Through the glasteel windows of the Space Elevator's control room, Doctor Schroeder watched the battle unfold. Flickering, twinkling flashes of flame and tracers, his new fleet of fighters were locked in fierce combat with the polished, corporate-funded designs of the General Resource Defense Force.

His forces were winning. They had both the numerical, technical, and qualitative advantage - the new R-series were built upon the very bleeding edge of aerodynamics, with a cadre of trained pilots to match, neurally linked into a single, terrible will.

Against that, the movements of their General Resource opponents seemed clumsy and awkward by comparison. They had no discipline - Schroeder watched as a YR-99 scythed through a formation of GRDF F-14E Tomcat 21s like flying shurikens, taking out their leader and scattering the others like wild animals, leaving them easy prey for a loose, yet coherent group of XR-45 interceptors that rapidly surrounded and picked them off.

With a faint, mirthless smirk, he turned around.

'You see, Cossette?' he said. 'Even the corporate slaves of General Resource falter and struggle before our might. All they have is their money - take that away from them, and they have nothing. They cannot protect you. Only through me will you know true peace.'

Cossette returned only a defiant glare.

'It is not too late for you to end this misguided struggle.' Schroeder pressed. 'Come, it is easy. All you have to do is make a single telephone call to Gilbert Park. Tell him that you have no more need for his services, and that you have chosen me as your new guarantor. I will handle the rest. Co-operate, and you and all of your friends will live in peace forever. Surely that is not too much to ask?'

'I'll never join you.' Cossette hissed. 'Your idea of "peace" is to have us locked up in cages for the rest of our lives.'

'If that's what it takes to keep you safe.'

'I don't want to be safe anymore! I want to be free!'

Schroeder stamped his foot purposefully. 'Illogical! Even you have seen how dangerous the world is. It is a cold and uncaring existence that punishes even the slightest weakness! A moment of laxity, and half your country vanishes before your eyes! I've seen it happen before. And so have you. I won't let it happen to us again - I will preserve us, my new adopted homeland at all costs!'

Cossette made no reaction.

'But you... you do not seem to appreciate my kindness.' Schroeder went on, pacing around in quite dramatic fashion. 'My teachings, my protection... Everything I have done has been for your sake. Yet, even after all of that, you still scorn me. You wound me!... And for what? Your childish fairy-tale notions of "Freedom", and "Independence"?'

'If freedom and independence are childish to you, Schroeder, then I have nothing more to say.' Cossette said. 'You are lost.'

'I offer you peace!'

'In exchange for what? Blind obedience?'

Schroeder sighed. 'Cossette... You are the one bright spot in this fallen, broken world. But you confuse me. You have experienced with your own five senses how the world fell into disorder. You, of all people, must have recognized that it was broken far beyond any hope of recovery. So why...' he clenched his fists. 'Why do you still cling to it? Why do you still reject my peace?! The world you knew will never come back!'

'No, it won't!' Cossette snapped, raising her voice. 'I... gave up on that hope a long time ago. All we can ever hope to do... is to make the best of our situation. You taught me that.'

'Then we agree-'

'No. You talk about "peace" and "safety"... but what you really want is "power". You want control - control over people that don't want to be controlled. And you'll stop at nothing to get your way.'

'I don't see why that should be considered a bad thing.'

Cossette narrowed her eyes. 'Then you're no better than Gilbert Park.'

This generated a brief reaction from the Belkan scientist, before he recomposed himself.

'My intentions are noble, Cossette.' he said, taking off his glasses. 'I am not driven by profit, like Gilbert Park and his corporate minions are. I just want something to build something better... something that my Belkan people could never have - a safe, peaceful society. If we must choose between freedom and peace, then I choose peace!'

'You might mean well.' Cossette said, still undeterred. 'But that doesn't change the fact that your actions are making my people suffer. You can justify and moralize it however you like, but the outcome is the same; you're no better than General Resource. My whole life, I've relied on other people to fight my battles. Even during the war. And for that weakness, I paid the price. I've been through a lot, and have learned many things since then. And I will not sit by and let my people suffer any longer! To my last breath, I will resist you! Yes, we might get hurt, and yes, we might lose things dear to us. But that is the price of freedom! The freedom to make our own decisions, and to be responsible for the consequences of those decisions. That is what makes us human. And that will always be worth fighting for!'

Schroeder took a moment to ponder her words, simultaneously impressed, proud, and frustrated at the same time. It was clear that Cossette had matured significantly since the last time they spoke; she was confident and outspoken, with a firm set of values that she was standing by even under threat of force - a far cry from her former self; a timid, passive little whelp, lacking self-confidence and reeling from the trauma of the last war.

She would make a good Queen one day, Schroeder caught himself observing, and quietly wondered what kind of journey, what trials and tribulations she'd been through in the past several months, to have made her change so drastically in so short a time. Was it her companions that helped her? Or did she change all on her own? Or perhaps it was the necessity of her changing circumstances? As with many things in life, Schroeder suspected the truth probably lay somewhere in between.

A part of him wanted to agree with her; to let the Princess run free and lead her people to build the radiant future that they so richly deserved. And were this an ideal world, he might even have given up everything and gone with her, right then and there.

But he knew better than that. This was not an ideal world, and he knew better than anyone that the real world was not that forgiving. If there was any lesson to be learned from Belkan history, it was that survival mattered more than freedom. No matter how sweet the promises of liberty and independence, those would count for nothing at all if no one would be around to enjoy them.

Still, it was clear that the Princess knew that too. Better than anyone else could.

And yet... and yet...

'So then...' Schroeder surmised. 'You are claiming the right to be responsible for your own suffering.'

Cossette's lip tightened. 'Yes.' she breathed. 'I am claiming the right to be responsible for myself, and my people.'

Before Schroeder could respond, one of his half-machined operators craned up from its console station, mechadendrites flexing beneath its ochre robes.

«My Lord,» it said. «We are detecting additional aerial contacts entering the airspace.»

'Are they General Resource reinforcements?' Schroeder asked.

«No, My Lord. Their identification signatures are different...»

Schroeder raised an eyebrow. After a last glance at the Princess, he strode over to investigate his operator's findings.

'What do you mean?' he demanded, craning to look at the screen.

«Querying... There are several: Osean, FCU, North Point, Amberan, Bulgurdarestian...» The augmetic lights on the operator's face flashed and beeped, and the whirring of an internal cooling fan as it processed several thousand simultaneous data queries. Then it suddenly recoiled back, as though struck by a startling realization,

«My Lord... It is the IUN!» the operator's voice trilled, breaking its monotone. «Everyone is here! They are coming for us!»

Doctor Schroeder took a step back, his mouth hanging agape. For the first time in a long while, he was at a loss for words.

A mumbled 'Impossible...' was all he could manage.

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Strider One 'Trigger' never thought he'd see the day, again, for a third time. Once was happenstance, twice was coincidence. But three times was surely the work of some all-powerful cosmic force with a twisted, deeply ironic sense of humor.

He looked to his left, then to his right. The F-15EXs of the Strider and Cyclops Squadrons, freshly fueled and backed by an entire fighter wing of Typhoon F.2s and MiG-29M Fulcrums bearing freshly-repainted IUN markings, were bearing down on the Space Elevator. In wide, V-shaped formations, they raced over the disquieted streets of urban Selatapura, their mere presence serving a welcome reprieve to the anxious citizenry.

The sight that greeted them all was grim. For the third time in exactly one year, the skies above the International Space Elevator had been torn open. War had already broken out; tracer fire licked and slashed through the air. Missiles streaked and criss-crossed in ribbons, wisping contrails weaving a deadly tapestry of smoke and steel. There were explosions, blistering the clouds with flak and falling debris.

Silhouettes of fighters swirled and danced through the chaos. Some of them Trigger could recognize as vaguely familiar, but there were many others that he had never seen before - barbed, radical designs that bordered on the alien. They were all just dots, reflecting the sun's glare against the backdrop of the Space Elevator, but already Trigger's IFF systems were hooting and warbling, as though confused by so much data it could not recognize.

Trigger took a deep breath. It had been a while since he'd done a mission like this.

But this time, he would be ready.

And he wasn't alone.

«Attention, unidentified aircraft.» a familiar voice declared. «This is the AWACS Long Caster of the International Union Peacekeeping Force. Under the provisions of IUN Emergency Resolution One-Niner-Seven-Three, the area within an eighty-mile radius of the International Space Elevator has been declared a legal no-fly zone. All non-IUN Peacekeeping Force aircraft must depart this airspace immediately. You have thirty seconds to comply. Otherwise, we are authorized to use deadly force.»

There was a delay.

«... No response, Long Caster.» said Jaeger.

«Bogeys have us spiked.» a Usean Typhoon pilot reported, the RWR tone audible in the background over the radio. «Assumed hostile!»

Long Caster's response was swift and immediate. «All aircraft, this is the AWACS Long Caster. Secure air superiority above the Space Elevator and clear a path for the rescue team. Destroy the unidentified aircraft within the no-fly zone. You are all cleared to engage.»

«Righto, Strider Two engaging.» said Count.

«Strider Four engaging.» said Huxian.

«Cyclops One, engaging.» said Fencer.

«Strider Three, engaging.» said Jaeger.

Trigger took a deep breath. This was it. Clutching the throttle, he gunned it all the way forward, feeling the rumble as the afterburners on the Raptor's twin F119 turbofans roared into life. Then he flipped on the master arm switch.

The Strider Team and Cyclops teams followed him in, while their Usean allies broke formation and dispersed, spreading wide like fingers.

«Viper Two, engage.»

«Omega Eleven, engage.»

As one, the IUN forces began their attack.

---

Lorenz Riedl saw the newcomers, even before his YR-101 informed him with a neural prod and a holographic projection of their collective directions and heading. He knew why they had come, and what needed to be done about it.

But it was their IFF squawks that really caught his attention; for the ones leading the charge were Osean fighters.

Oseans... The ones that had brought his Belkan homeland to ruin. The ones that had hunted down his friends and colleagues, and pillaged and defiled the work of his late mentor; the great Doctor Anton Kupchenko. The ones most responsible for everything that was wrong with this world.

Slowly, purposefully, the old Belkan engineer licked his lips, and instinctively willed his YR-101 towards them.

---

For the battered, brutalized remnants of the General Resource strike force, the pain train had very briefly relented. The arrival of the IUN had taken away most of their enemy's attention, giving the GRDF pilots a precious few seconds to professionally reassess their situation.

«Holy crap, it's the IUN!»

«So, uh... do we stick around? They said they'll shoot us down if we do...»

«No thanks, I choose life! Laters!»

One by one, the GRDF fighters began to peel off and jet for anywhere that was as far away from the Space Elevator as possible.

Clown's F/A-32, however, held fast as though fixated on something. Dision's F-22 flickered up beside him.

«Clown.» Dision radioed. «We should retreat too, at least for now. The IUN will keep the enemy busy. Meanwhile, we can reorganize, recalibrate, and re-arm. And we'll try again. Come on!»

But Clown heard none of this, for all he saw were the ones he held responsible for Trigger's betrayal. The ones that had taken him away, condemned him, and ripped away his honor, his pride... his life!

And the voices in his head were back... and they wouldn't stop.

It was Osean! A friendly missile hit him!...

Friendly fire! I saw it!

Mage Two fired that!

Mage One... was it Trigger?

'Trigger was the closest...' Clown mumbled, finishing the unwelcome trip down memory lane. 'Trigger was the closest... Trigger was... was... No!'

Something stirred within him. It manifested as a jolt of unbridled hate and anger, taking complete control of his mental state. Frothing, with a solitary tear running down his cheek, Clown turned in to engage.

---

Dision watched in stupefied horror as Clown's F/A-32 powered back towards the shifting battle. He swore loudly.

'Clown? Clown!' he voxed. 'Where are you going? Get back here! Clown!... Damn you!'

Unprepared to let his own handpicked wingman face the enemy alone, Dision jetted his F-22 in after him.

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

The IUN fighter planes had plunged into battle with renewed speed and ferocity, like hounds off the leash. The great majority of the GRDF forces had already fled or died to the superior technology of Doctor Schroeder's forces, but even they had been caught off-guard by the sudden, unexpected arrival of the IUN armada.

The outcome of the battle was no longer assured. Now, it was in play.

Still gazing up at in baffled wonder and incredulous shock, Schroeder backed away, uncharacteristically unsettled.

'But how...?' he muttered. 'The IUN are a toothless rabble of spineless weaklings. How could they have mobilized their forces? And so quickly? I do not understand...'

'You underestimated the world.'

Rosa had stepped up, appearing suddenly beside him.

Schroeder turned to face her. 'You!' he snarled with a pointed, accusing finger. 'You did this! You called them here! You brought them here to kill me!'

Rosa returned his stare. Perhaps emboldened by the IUN's presence, like a past gamble paying off, there was a newfound fire in her eyes.

'Even if that were true, what does it change?' she asked, only semi-rhetorically. 'You should have prepared for this eventuality too. Or could it be, that were you so confident in your grand plans and cynical worldview that you didn't actually think the nations of the world would catch on and rise up against you?'

Schroeder said nothing.

'You allowed your arrogance and your hubris to affect your decision-making, and now you are about to pay the price!' Rosa said, walking up to the window and spreading her arms quite theatrically. 'The skies belong to everyone! And the world will not stand by and let you take it away from us!'

Schroeder looked back out towards the still-raging air battle.

He saw roving wolf packs of sleek, knife-winged YR-99 Forneus tangling with formations of proven and battle-hardened Typhoons and MiG-29s. Elsewhere, a solitary F-22 Raptor in Osean markings - and a curious triple-scratched marking on its tails - gun down a YR-302 Fregata, before somersaulting and spearing a YR-99 Forneus with a missile while it was still setting up its approach. Casualties on both sides were already mounting.

There was no question that Schroeder's forces had the qualitative advantage, but the IUN - in stark contrast to General Resource's inept and inexperienced rabble - had not only outnumbered them three-to-one, but their forces had consisted of experienced and recent war veterans.

All of a sudden, the advantage of having overwhelming force - the whole principle underlying Schroeder's entire worldview and plans for the future - seemed to have swung firmly into the hands of the IUN.

'... So, the whole world stands against me.' Schroeder said tightly, putting his glasses back on. 'Very well then. It would not be fair otherwise.'

'It's over, Schroeder.' Rosa said. 'We have the high ground! You have lost.'

'Not yet... I have not lost yet...' Schroeder growled, before suddenly whirling around and yelling, 'Seize her!'

Two armored mercs surged in before anyone else could react. They seized Cossette by the shoulders in two painful vicegrips, lifting her up slightly, but enough that her feet were dangling uselessly off the ground.

'What are you doing?' she shouted. 'Let me go! Let go of me, you... psychos!'

Schroeder gave a mirthless, wry grin. Even in this situation, the Princess could not bring herself to openly swear.

He led the guards to the cage doors of a nearby maintenance elevator, swiping an access card to summon the cab. The guards manhandled the Princess in along with them.

'Where are we going?' Rosa asked.

'To the top of the windbreak.' Schroeder answered.

'What... are you going to do to me?'

'You'll see.'

The doors closed, and the maintenance cage punched skyward.

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Another curtain of AMRAAM and Meteor missiles came sweeping out from a fresh wave of IUN fighters, swatting many of Schroeder's advanced R-series prototypes through sheer volume of fire alone, even claiming a few more from mid-air collisions as they moved to evade. The two opposing forces merged, entangling and whirling around one another in a vicious maelstrom, boiling the sky with incandescent flares and tracer fire, on top of yet more contrails from missiles fired at near-point-blank range.

Trigger gunned in under the raking gunfire of an oncoming YR-99 Forneus, maneuvering under its belly and - performing a snap Cobra maneuver to get the angle - gutting its alien body with a burst of 20mm cannon fire, deftly gliding through the resulting explosion and shower of black oil and twisted metal.

He glanced round, assessing the situation in an instant. He saw Count's F-15EX shred an XR-45 Cariburn that had latched onto Huxian's tail. Down below, he saw Lanza kite a YR-302 Fregata into following him under one of the arched legs holding up the base of the Space Elevator, leading it to crash into an abandoned cargo crane in a huge, messy fireball. Elsewhere, two allied MiG-29Ms took on another Forneus together, trapping it in a crossfire of 20mm shells that damaged it enough to be finished off with an R-74M missile.

«Alright team,» said Long Caster. «It's an all you can eat buffet! Seems like we missed the appetizers, so don't go holding back now.»

«If our IUN friends pick up the tab.» said Count, loosing a missile. «I could eat a horse.»

«All of it?» Huxian asked slyly, whirling back around and locking up a stray GRDF Gyrfalcon that had failed to retreat in time.

«Everything except the sausage, Huxian. Figured that would already be right up your alley. So to speak.»

«Damn, guess I walked right into that one. Touche. Guess we're even... for now.»

«Heh.»

Trigger knew the drill. Once the battle started, ranks and formations went straight out the window. It was chaos and confusion, just like a real war. Even wingman support couldn't be counted on all the time in a furball this tight, where everything was happening everywhere at once, which only made it all the more valuable when it was available.

All of the pilots in the IUN strike force were combat veterans; the Osean LRSSG's track record spoke for themselves, while many of their Usean allies had once flown for the ISAF during the Continental War. They knew all the tricks, Belkan witchcraft be damned. Even their most junior members had seen plenty of action themselves, mostly against the Free Erusea terrorist movement.

The LRRSG in particular had been on the bench and itching for action for so long that they were almost glad to have someone shooting at them again.

«Tailor, stay with me!» Cyclops One 'Fencer' radioed. «Maintain element! Don't go wandering off!»

«Ah, why spoil the fun?» replied Cyclops Two 'Tailor'. «We haven't been shot at in ages!»

The enemy too, however, were highly skilled pilots all in their own right. Trigger saw an IUN Typhoon go down, ripped through the core with an EML shot. Another blew apart like an overripe melon, struck by two missiles fired from two opposite sides. Neither case resulted in a parachute. The enemy - whoever they were - were as lethally efficient as they were silent, a notion that struck him as uncomfortably familiar.

Trigger then spotted Cyclops Two 'Tailor' far to his right, his F-15EX twisting and turning like a startled hare. Another unidentified aircraft was on his tail - this one was unlike any of the others around it, with only the letters "YR-101" stenciled on the fuselage. It vaguely resembled the Forneus that Trigger had faced earlier, albeit with a flatter and sharper body, and a more pronounced duckbill nose. Gunfire was thumping out from a heavy internal cannon, the rounds stabbing through the air.

Tailor was trailing smoke. Another few hits, and he'd go down.

«Got a bandit on me!» Tailor's voice squealed over the link. «Engaged defensive, need help!»

«Hold on, Tailor.» radioed Fencer. «I'm on him.»

«Too late! Shit! Bailing out!»

Tailor was a good pilot, but his relative inexperience was showing. He'd strayed too far from Fencer, and had paid for his mistake. Aircraft in flames, he ejected, narrowly missing the explosion as the YR-101's gunfire touched off his unspent fuel stores.

«Tailor is down!» Fencer reported. «But it looks like he made it out.»

«Damn. Roger, I've got his position.» Long Caster said. «Relaying to CSAR teams. Fencer, stick with Lanza and Skald for now.»

«Copy that. Repositioning.»

Trigger breathed a sigh of relief. At least Tailor had survived, and he made a mental note to check on the CSAR team's progress later.

As for the bastard who shot him down... Gloved fingers tightening around the control stick, Trigger turned in and-

There was a jolt. Another bandit he hadn't even seen, small and nimble, with sharp arrow-shaped wings and shoulder-cannon flashing, swept over him. A damage alert rang out from his instrument panel, and Trigger punched it out. He glanced up, getting a track on his attacker.

The assailant - a hostile F/A-32 Erne bearing the stylized "G" of General Resource - was turning out of its dive, and already coming around for another pass.

---

Clown had zeroed in on the fastest, most competent pilot he could find in the IUN ranks. None of the others mattered. If he could just bag this one, then perhaps - just perhaps - he would somehow be able to justify the new, darker path he had taken.

It was an F-22A Raptor, bearing the loathsome roundel of the equally loathsome Osean Air Defense Force, and three scratch lines on its tail. There was also an emblem depicting a grimacing wolf, clutching a revolver in its jaws.

There was something familiar about that emblem that Clown couldn't put his finger on, but that didn't matter. This guy was clearly the IUN's best pilot. A victory here would surely deal a terrible blow to that coven of whimpering, scheming incompetents. Surely a worthy vengeance in retaliation for how they had destroyed his most prized pupil!

Both planes were head on, distance rapidly closing. His lock-tone sounded, a rising, growling rasp that by this point was music to his ears.

Roaring, Clown ripple-fired two AIM-9X Sidewinders, before dumpling flares and jinking.

The battle was on.

---

PSM'ing in a spiral, Trigger evaded both of the incoming missiles launched. If they hadn't already been so close when they were fired, those two missiles would've proximity detonated and that would've been the end of him. To make that kind of shot... his opponent - whoever he was - seemed to be flying with a death wish, with no regard for his own personal safety.

Just like Mihaly?... No, not like Mihaly. Mihaly's style, while bold and risky, was also precise and controlled. Like a midnight assassin, wasting neither energy or ammunition.

This pilot, meanwhile, was flying like a berserker. Like a beast, savage and instinctual - whatever he might have lacked in technique and skill, he seemed to more than make for with dare and energy. And he had the plane to match it, too.

There was something oddly familiar about its style... but Trigger couldn't figure it out.

No matter.

He flipped his Raptor up and over, thrust-vectoring nozzles flexing as he took off after the hostile Erne. It jinked back and forth, like a bat out of hell, swaying left and right on the HUD as Trigger followed its movements. He tried to line up a shot, but couldn't get a good bead - he only had two AIM-9Xs, and he had to make them count. This guy was good.

The Erne swung upwards, plowing into the belly of a looming cloud bank, narrowly avoiding a mid-air collision with Jaeger's F-15EX on the way up.

«Damn! That was too close! Another story to tell my son...»

Trigger went in after him. The opponent, the battle, and the scenery vanished, smothered by an all-encompassing mist. The radar too was on the fritz for some reason. Water droplets spat and swam on the canopy glass like dew. Apart from the streams of cloud vapor rushing past the cockpit, Trigger could see nothing else - occasionally, a stray tracer, explosion flash, and wayward missile would flicker at the edges of his peripheral vision. But at least here, in the embrace of the cloud, he felt a measure of safety. Instinct and instruments took over; he was losing speed.

Leveling off, Trigger burst out of the cloud. Sunlight and blue sky rushed back into vision. He headchecked again, and his heart almost stopped.

The Erne was right there behind him. In that moment, Trigger realized exactly what had happened; that Erne was equipped with an EW pod, and had deliberately waited until it had lured Trigger into the clouds - where he would be forced to rely on his instruments - before deploying it, and using the cover to get in behind him for a killshot.

In a word, Trigger had been outplayed. His own hotheaded flying style had been turned against him by someone who possessed many of those same qualities.

There was no comeback. No defense was possible. At this range, caught in the open, Trigger was as good as dead.

Then, suddenly, the Erne fell away. A missile came stabbing out of the cloud bank behind him, with the familiar shape of an F-15EX sweeping out behind it.

It was Count.

«Don't tell me you forgot about me.» he said dryly. «Well, you can thank me later. Go on ahead and finish him off.»

Grateful, both at the assist and at the welcome reminder that he still had a squadron of loyal wingmen watching his back, Trigger complied.

Jerking the stick and flaring the throttle, he kicked up his F-22 into a tight half-Kulbit, exiting the maneuver halfway to pivot right back the other way. Plunging down, Trigger hit the throttle and locked up the retreating Erne.

Hearing the lock tone sound solidly in his ears, he fired.

---

Thrown off balance and momentarily disoriented, Clown noticed the incoming missile a second too late.

The explosion was deafening. The whole airframe shook and hurled so hard that Clown bit through his tongue and lips, spattering blood across the instrument panel.

'Damn you!' he snarled. 'You want some of this?! Come and get it!'

Swinging his damaged Erne around, he gunned back into the fight with the IUN champion, burning away the last droplets of his fuel reserves. It was all or nothing.

'Die!'

Without even waiting for a lock, Clown launched all of his remaining ordnance at the oncoming Raptor. A dismal toll indicated Winchester, and he quickly switched to guns, magdumping the entire remaining belt of M61 Vulcan ammunition.

None of the shots scored. He'd hit nothing but air.

But he still had a tiny bit of fuel left. And he was going to use it to take his enemy with him.

'Trigger... I'll see you soon.' Clown muttered to himself, already speaking truer than he knew, as he opened the throttle to full for the last time.

---

The stricken Erne was still coming on. It had fired all of its remaining ammunition in what seemed to have been an emotionally-driven statement of defiance, as though issuing one last challenge before it went down.

Trigger knew what its pilot was planning; a last ditch ramming attack. And all he had to do to avoid it was to jink.

But that would be too easy.

---

Coming from head on, the IUN Raptor was drawing close. Clown held his course. Nothing mattered to him anymore - not money, not his employer, not even victory; only that he achieve a glorious mutual destruction here and now. It was overly dramatic, foolish most certainly... but that would be a fitting end for him. Clown had already come to terms and accepted that long ago. His honor and pride had long since left him, just like Trigger. Only a burning desire for vengeance remained in his heart.

Osea and the IUN had taken those away from him. So too, then, would he do the same. Even if it cost his own worthless life, even if he would come up short, he had already resolved to not go down without giving it everything he had.

Perhaps then, and only then... would it erase the guilt in his heart. The guilt of failing to save his boy Trigger from the faceless masses...

Trigger was the closest...

... No, the guilt of accidentally implicating him in the first place.

'Witness me!' he yelled.

The oncoming Raptor was getting closer, close enough now for Clown to pick out its features.

And then, in that singular, fleeting moment, Clown recognized the Raptor's emblem.

'... Trigger?'

It could have been no other.

---

Trigger locked on to the incoming Erne.

Waiting until the last possible moment, he fired, before finally banking away.

---

'Trigger! Trigger, it's you!' Clown cried, suddenly feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from him, so much that it was making him dizzy. Tears were welling up in his eyes. 'I'm so happy!'

He couldn't believe it. After all this time, he had found what he was looking for. He had found his boy. And he had not only survived, but thrived, becoming the ace pilot he was always destined to be. For Clown, the great struggle of the whole past year had been won.

The sorrows of life, to not be able to live like yourself... he reflected, suddenly feeling the need to be overly melodramatic as he felt his doom approaching. And the joys of life, to be able to die like yourself... Do I... really deserve to feel so happy?

By way of an answer, Trigger's missile struck him square on. It punched through the canopy and pulverized his face, all within a single, violent instant. Microshards of stealth-coated glass came flying in behind in, shredding and scything his body in a single, bloody split second.

Then the warhead detonated.

---

Trigger circled around to confirm the kill. The hostile Erne had vanished in a blossom of fire and shrapnel, and what was left of its flaming, smoking wreckage had already broken apart, tumbling down towards the oily waters of Selatapura Bay.

He wasn't a bad pilot. But Trigger was better. That familiar feeling was back in his chest, feeling now as though he had killed someone he had once known. It was a quiet, eerie melancholy.

Count formed up beside him.

«Nice work, Trigger.» he said, giving a friendly thumbs up. «Let's get-»

Something flew out at them, seemingly from nowhere. An invisible stream of gunfire ripped through Count's left wing, throwing him off balance, wavering even as he jinked reflexively, trailing smoke and unspent fuel from the impact point.

«The hell?! I'm hit!» Count broke off, but Trigger knew he'd be alright. The Eagle was a tough bird.

He kicked right in the opposite direction. A plane just like his - another Raptor, albeit colored black as night - whipped past the two ex-convicts and zipped around. By the time Trigger headchecked, the new hostile was already behind him.

He glanced down. Just one Sidewinder left.

He tried to turn, even tried drifting out with a half-cobra just to get an angle, so he could loose his last missile.

But the hostile Raptor wouldn't let him.

---

With a cold, furious determination, Abyssal Dision chased the IUN ace - the one who bore three scratches on his tail, and the one who Clown had so idiotically taken on by himself, running off and getting himself killed before Dision could intervene to save him.

I suppose that's what I get for recruiting someone so hell-bent on revenge that it clouded his own judgment. he reflected quietly, once again speaking far truer than he knew. I will surely not make that mistake again.

Still... Clown had been his wingman. Foolish as he had been, there was no way Dision would allow his pride and self-respect to be tarnished by letting his killer off free when he saw him.

Three Strikes... he thought. Finally... a worthy opponent! Our battle will be legendary!

Of course, he had heard the rumors, and the tales of those who had witnessed - and survived - him first hand.

Three Strikes was the real deal. This was the match that Abyssal Dision had been waiting for. Another Raptor, just like his own, against which he could test his mettle as the posterboy of the General Resource Defense Force.

In terms of skill and experience, he already knew he couldn't hold a candle to the war hero that had saved Usea- no, the entire world.

But Dision had gotten the jump on him. His eyes were keen, and his reflexes sharp as a razor's edge - ready for whatever fancy tricks that the biggest Osean bigshot of them all might pull. He was in the control zone. And so long as he could keep his opponent in his sights, he would be in control of the battle. And victory would be his!

Gradually, riding a fresh surge of adrenaline, Dision tightened his grip on the controls.

Wait for me, Yoko... he willed. Just a little bit longer... My mind is clear now, and my eyes have been opened. Nothing, not even the great Three Strikes, will stop me from saving you!

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

They arrived at the top of the Space Elevator's windbreak, atop one of the three maintenance platforms that straddled the highest peak of the tallest tower in the world; with the yawning maw of the main Elevator shaft on one side, and - less than a bus' length away - the sheer drop down the side of the windbreak's reinforced exterior. Waist-high handrails were all that guarded the twelve-kilometer drops on both sides, slightly further if one counted the undersea chamber beneath the shaft itself. They were so high up that the cloud layer was visible some ways below them, covering the land like a great white carpet. The Elevator's mighty cables extended upwards, connected to the geosynchronous orbital station far above, seemingly as endless as the skies themselves.

The wind was immense. It was lashing and whipping especially hard at Rosa's unprotected skin. The sun too was blinding. Rosa was already beginning to feel lightheaded and slightly nauseous - altitude sickness was setting in, doubly acute as she was wearing exactly zero items of protective equipment. Doctor Schroeder too had turned up his nose in apparent discomfort, but otherwise neither he or his two armored guards made any reaction whatsoever.

And all around them - above and below - the battle was seething and raging. Warplanes were darting around like small insects, occasionally swooping in close with deafening, bone-rattling roars. Ordnance explosions rippled and cracked like thunder, heralded by crawling missile trails and embers of tracer fire.

«Augen gradeaus, schlampe. Mach schnell!»

Rosa nearly tripped as Schroeder's armored mercs pushed her out of the maintenance cage and onto the platform.

'What sick game are you playing now, Schroeder?' Rosa demanded, during a break in the wind. 'What are we even here for?'

'We are here, because I am going to give you what you once gave me.' Schroeder answered, standing out with the backdrop of the battle behind him. 'A chance.'

'A chance?'

'To do the right thing.'

'And what would that be?'

Schroeder looked at her expectantly. 'It is simple. Contact your IUN friends. Tell them to withdraw their forces and leave our Space Elevator alone.'

Rosa shook her head in disbelief. 'And if I refuse?'

Schroeder's expression flared for a moment. He recomposed it quickly, but his growing frustration - and apparent insanity - was clear, 'Then I shall have you thrown off this tower!'

'You're insane!'

'I'm doing what I have to do. Are you?!'

'Killing me will not change a thing, Schroeder.' Rosa said, forcefully. 'Your plan has already failed - the whole world knows about your madness now, and they see you for the threat you are. You have lost.'

Schroeder scoffed.

'But...' Rosa said, softening her tone slightly. 'It is not too late for you to stop, either. Not even after everything that you have done. We have had this conversation before, a long time ago. So I implore you; please tell your associates to lay down their weapons and surrender, and I will ensure that this conflict ends peacefully - even if that means I have to beg the world for forgiveness on your behalf!'

Schroeder scoffed again. 'You see? Even in your best-case scenario, you still end up on your knees, begging this cold, uncaring world for a mercy that will never come. You are weak. And leaders must be strong.'

'And you are beyond help.'

'Yes! I am! Now, make your choice!'

Rosa shut her eyes and took a breath. She had already made her decision, the almost certain probability of her death notwithstanding - all she really wanted was for the nightmare to be over.

'... I do not think you need me to tell you what that is.'

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Trigger swept down across the blazing sky, twisting and turning like a fury. Fighter planes of both friendly and hostile stripes were exploding all around, falling like shooting stars in flaming, twisted heaps of shrapnel and black oil. It was flickering hell here, under the quiet auspices of the great Space Elevator - as so often seemed to be the case.

Dision was right behind him, trailing his every move. A little bit like a dollar store Mihaly - with less skill and experience, but the same degree of lightning reflexes.

Trigger smoked around, narrowly avoiding a hostile XR-45 swooping down on him, spraying gunfire. Dision, following through a split-second later, killed it with a missile without even a moment's hesitation.

The chase was back on, and Trigger jinked hard again. His wingmen, apparently noticing his predicament, were shouting in his headset.

«Strider One, you got a hostile Raptor on your ass! Turn hard!»

«I think he knows that, Huxian.»

«Just who is that guy?»

Trigger inverted and pulled the tightest split-S he'd ever done since the war. Centripetal force smashed his body into the seat with the force of nine-point-eight Gs, pushing his endurance to its absolute limit, on the brink of tunnel vision. He could feel his F-22's frame buckling under the strain. His ribcage compressed, strangling his lungs and organs. Blood rushed out of his head and ran to his feet.

He leveled off, giving his body a momentary reprieve. Headchecking and bracing against the seat, he snapped right and jinked hard.

Dision was still on him.

Breaking out of the turn, Trigger saw the rising spire of the Space Elevator's windbreak looming ahead of him.

Slightly reducing the throttle, he began to climb. He'd already come up with a plan.

---

Dision's eyes were locked onto Three Strikes' F-22, and so were his IR seekers. The IUN ace had suddenly quit jinking, and was now climbing lazily above the Space Elevator and rapidly losing speed - making himself a perfect target. It was most unusual.

Had the great Three Strikes finally given up? Admitted defeat and performed the flying equivalent of rolling over onto his belly?

Dision scoffed at the very thought. If Three Strikes was anything like him, he wasn't the kind of man to go down quietly. He'd fight to the bitter end. He had to be planning something.

Then Dision checked his fuel state, and pursed his lip; he only had a few minutes, even though his fight was far from over. The Space Elevator was still crawling with Doctor Schroeder's goons, and the IUN had simply compounded the problem. It seemed the entire universe was actively trying to bring him down - and he was running out of time to do the same to it first.

He had to end this quickly. Three Strikes was right in front of him, and he had a good lock. They were directly over the Space Elevator now. Surely the moment for a decisive finish had come?

Dision made his choice. He fired.

---

Trigger smirked as he heard the missile alert trilling and shrieking like the damned, drowning out the merely-annoying RWR warble. While normally a cause for some concern, this was precisely what he was waiting for.

Slamming the airbrake and whirling the control stick like a choking chicken, Trigger braced as he felt the universe turn upside down once again. Sunlight vanished. The F-22's thrust-vectoring nozzles kicked out, and the whole aircraft heaved up, then over, straight down, sweeping through the air in a short, graceful slice. A knife-edge slice, masterfully executed, swung Trigger's Raptor away from Dision's missile at what had been the last possible moment.

The world rushed up to meet him, filling his vision with the Space Elevator, spread out below him like a flower in bloom.

And right in the middle was the narrow elevator shaft that ran down the length of the mighty windbreak.

Gunning the throttle to full, Trigger went for it.

---

Dision swore loud and long. He'd blown his last missile on a single, fleeting impulse decision.

But he still had some 20mm rounds left. That damned Three Strikes was going straight down the Elevator shaft, and as far as Dision could see, that would be a one way trip.

Licking his lips, Dision inverted and plunged straight down after him.

This was it. He'd finish this fight with Three Strikes here and now, and perhaps both of their deaths would take the whole damned Space Elevator down with them.

And then maybe... just maybe... Yoko would survive. She would escape, and be free. In Dision's mind, operating on pure instinct now, that mere possibility - however remote to a sober mind - was good enough.

The windbreak came rushing up to meet him. He did not hesitate.

---

«Shit! Trigger's disappeared off from radar!»

«Calm down, Huxian.»

«Where is he? Did we lose him?»

«That's impossible. Long Caster, what was Trigger's last known position?»

«Directly above the Space Elevator, Count.»

«... Heh. That crazy dumbass.»

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Heavy, armored hands slammed Rosa against the platform handrail. All she could see now was the yawning depths of the Elevator shaft, the reinforced glass panels and safety lights lining the way oddly captivating, like a giant, twelve-kilometer kaleidoscope. One little push from her captors, and down she would go.

Weakened and debilitated by altitude sickness, she was unable to even muster a token struggle.

In the background was a dull roar, like distant thunder...

'Do you have any last words, Cossette?' Schroeder asked.

'... I'm sorry I couldn't save you.' Rosa replied grimly.

Schroeder shook his head, a faintest hint of regret.

'You already have, Cossette.' he said solemnly. 'It is unfortunate that you would not let me do the same for you. So, this is where we must part ways. Farewell-'

His words were drowned out as an Osean fighter plane - bearing a familiar emblem of three slashes on its angled tailplanes - came crashing down from the heavens in full afterburner. The roar was deafening, making Rosa scream inaudibly as her eardrums almost blew out. The fighter plunged straight past them, perfectly aligned between the skyward cable array, and disappeared into the depths of the mighty Elevator shaft.

The immense jetwash followed after it, a tremendous gust of hot air and pressure that rattled the whole platform. The blast was so hard and unexpected (so to speak) that Rosa was pulled down with it, tumbling off the edge of the handrailing.

'Aaagh!'

Still trying to hold her down, her two armored captors were also dragged along with her, pitching straight over the railing in a comical flinging motion.

«Nein, nein nein nein nein nein nein!»

«Sag deiner Mutter, dass ich sie liebeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...!»

Reaching out desperately, Rosa managed to catch the bottom of the handrail - having been at just the right angle to manage it - leaving her dangling most precariously at the very edge of the closest thing to a bottomless pit on the planet Earth. The armored Belkans were less fortunate - they disappeared into the depths below, futile flailing and augmetic shrieking marking their rapid and very kinetic return journey to the surface.

Then another jet - identical to the first in every aspect save for its gunmetal paintjob and GRDF markings - swept through, and the brief but brutal maelstrom of fire and jetwash repeated. This time, with a whole split-second of advance warning, Rosa hung on, wrapping her arms around the railing support for dear life, at the comparatively minor cost of her clothes getting lightly singed.

Once it passed, she tried to pull herself up, pulling and straining with all her might... but she couldn't. The lack of oxygen and other symptoms of high altitude exposure had robbed her strength, and she was already beginning to have to fight to stay conscious. She briefly entertained the idea of asking Doctor Schroeder to help her up, but - even before she saw him knocked out and incapacitated on the platform - she knew there would be no help coming from him now.

Tightening her lip, she tried to drag her battered body up again. Of all the ways she could give her life for the cause, this was not what she had in mind. Execution by Schroeder and his goons would have at least proven a point, but instead she was going to succumb to hypoxia and then fall down - a terrible and pointless fate.

Her strength was failing her. She tried, again and again, even as her muscles screamed to her in pain, she knew she had to keep going. So she kept trying...

... But to no avail.

---

Yoko Martha Inoue heard the planes. A faint, dull vibration in the walls that echoed through the air vents and pipework. She knew the sounds they made, the harmonics, from her time spent with the EASA.

All of that meant there was an attack. And an attack, here and now, could only mean one thing; someone was coming to save her.

Dision.

Feeling a burst of hope, the first she had felt in a very long time, she staggered out of her hiding place and began to run for the most visible place she could think of; she ran for the main Elevator shaft.

---

With the strangest sense of deja vu, Trigger was once again flying through the Space Elevator's main shaft. He'd done the same at the end of the last war, coming out from the undersea chambers in the climactic last battle against the Ravens. Now, he was going back in from the top down. It was almost poetic.

The walls were just as narrow and claustrophobic as he remembered. The fluctuating pressure made his body scream, and so did the wind howls whooping and wailing from the rapidly displaced air, tugging and nudging at his aircraft. Maneuvering with only minimal movements, dodging climber cabs and counterweights by mere inches, Trigger went straight down. The slightest error, and that would be the end of him.

He didn't need to look back to know that Dision was right there, hot on his tail. Here in the shaft, there was nowhere to run but down.

Or so it seemed. He just had to make sure he timed his next move just as perfectly as his first.

---

Fighting through the creeping vertigo, Dision zeroed in on Three Strikes. There was no room to maneuver. He had him dead to rights.

Flipping on the gunsight, Dision lined up what was going to be the killing blow.

Three Strikes... he reflected briefly. You have given me a worthy fight. I see now that your reputation is well-earned. But this is where it ends!

Taking aim, Dision's finger curled around the trigger...

Then something caught his eye. A woman, standing on a small platform looking out into the main shaft.

Their eyes met, and Dision's went wide with astonishment.

Yoko...?

It was Yoko. She was standing there, and they had recognized one another. She was waving at him, tears in her eyes.

Dision briefly entertained the thought of returning the gesture, before reflexively pushing the thought out from his mind.

But that fleeting distraction was going to cost him dearly...

---

Trigger saw his moment. His opponent had hesitated for some reason - just for a split-second, but enough to cost him the initiative.

Deploying flaps and airbrake, Trigger yanked back on the stick and braced for what could have been the last time.

The F-22's whole frame swiveled up, whirling with the ease and grace of a gymnast pivoting around an invisible bar, pulling Gs so intense that they nearly dislocated his shoulder. Bleeding off what little speed he had left, there was another brief, brutal assault of negative-then-positive Gs that battered his bones yet again, this time hearing a faint snap that he was sure he'd feel the next morning.

As he swung, he saw what looked like the bodies of two armored soldiers fall past the canopy, flailing as they went, but paid them no heed.

Now pointing straight up - straight in the face of Dision's incoming Raptor - Trigger let fly with the M61 Vulcan. Then he hit the throttle.

---

Dision spat and swore again as the 20mm rounds chewed into his aircraft's front. He felt both of his engines sputter and squeal, and he felt the whole airframe shake as rounds ripped through the rest of the plane like a swig of cheap whiskey. A chunk of spalling metal - a piece of the AN/APG-77 AESA array- burst through the instrument panel and tore a huge, ugly gash through his G-suit and into his left thigh.

He screamed in pain, feeling his bird writhe and scream in its death throes. Blood and oil speckled on the broken canopy glass, and sparks flew from exposed wiring and ruined instruments.

Yoko...

Cursing his own sentimentality as much as marveling at Three Strikes' sheer, unadulterated audacity, Abyssal Dision reached for the ejection handle.

The canopy exploded.

---

The whole, mighty Space Elevator seemed to shudder as the explosion ripped through the main shaft. Fire and released gases, bracketed within the structure of the windbreak, roasted the air and sent huge, violent pressure waves along its reach. Even the massive cable array wavered and rippled, the effects traveling along upward that would momentarily rock the positioning of the orbital station, thousands of kilometers above.

Still dangling precariously, Rosa clung to the railing for dear life again as the pressure waves reached her. Whistling, flaming scraps of flying debris raced past - one of them smacked the lip of the platform with such force that it shook the whole structure, making it groan and tremor like a giant tuning fork.

The vibration was deafening, and more than violent enough to dislodge Rosa's already faltering grip.

Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea dropped wordlessly like a stone, falling straight down the vast Elevator shaft.

From below, the fireball came racing up to claim her.

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

«Explosion confirmed inside the Space Elevator windbreak.» Long Caster reported. «No signs of damage to the superstructure, but watch for falling debris.»

The fireball had roared through the Space Elevator's primary shaft, its reinforced walls withstanding the violent shockwaves of superheated gas and bone-crushing pressure, channeling the blast down through carefully-engineered safety vents, and upwards through the top of the windbreak. It flared hot and bright, spewing orange flame and shards of broken debris like a volcano.

And out of the flames came Trigger - only lightly singed - bursting out like a champagne cork, faintly visible - a momentary flash, like Count's first night with Huxian. He rode out of the fire and wriggled out from between the skyward cables. Fluttering chunks of twisted, flaming metal scattered wide and rained down into the sea below.

«Look! One of ours, coming out of the main shaft!» noted an IUN pilot.

«There he is!» Long Caster exclaimed jubilantly. «We've got Strider One on radar!»

A collective cheer rippled across the IUN radio net.

«Hell yeah! This is Count, confirming visual ID on Trigger!»

«That's our guy!»

«Osea, fuck yeah~! Comin' again to save the motherfuckin' day yeah~!»

«Another great story to tell my son!»

Feeling his adrenaline briefly recede after completing yet another tunnel run, Trigger climbed back into the raging air brawl, leveling off as he regained his bearings. His missiles were completely expended - only about a hundred gun rounds were left. But he still felt like he could take on the world.

«I would say I thought we'd lost you.» Count radioed, briefly forming up beside him. «But I know better. Something like that could never happen.»

The sky was still full of aircraft and fire, a hell of dense black smoke columns and spiraling fireballs, the humid air bristling hot and fierce with missiles and tracer fire. With Count turning high to his right, Trigger banked, diving straight back into the pandemonium.

The bastard who took down Tailor was still out there, for one.

There was a scratching garble, and Long Caster's voice once again patched into the comms.

«The enemy threat level has been reduced.» he said. «Basilisk team, you are cleared to move in. Time to serve up the second course.»

«Copy that, Long Caster. Pizza delivery is on its way.»

---

Like a gaggle of spinsters sensing that their hours had come (so to speak), six CH-47F Chinook heavy-lift helicopters gingerly crept out and broke cover from the safety of their staging points amidst the Selatapura metropolis. Creeping along at low altitude - low enough to not be easily spotted on radar, but not so low as to leave highly conspicuous fountains of disturbed seawater in their wake - they set off in a loose, dispersed course towards the Space Elevator.

Their cabins were filled with the rich, wood-smoked aroma of freshly baked pizzas; pepperoni, olives, mushroom, and cheese - oh, so much cheese - and of crisp, quality crust. It was a strange custom, initially devised as a means of placating prisoners of war during the Lighthouse War, but quickly became a steadfast unit tradition as its success with friend and foe alike was proven, again and again. Even the lead Chinook's crew chief - who probably hadn't eaten or slept in the four days that this mission had been planned and prepared - couldn't resist staring at the stack of pizzas with lustful, envious eyes.

Basilisk One-Six, aboard the lead helo, craned in his seat to look out of the armored porthole window. Apart from the inky glare of the afternoon sun, glittering off the looming white mass of the Space Elevator, he could make out very little. The air battle was already in its closing stages; faint specks of distant fighter silhouettes would occasionally flicker in and out of view, but it was clear that the IUN forces held the upper hand against... whoever the enemy was supposed to be.

Still... the Basilisk team were a helicopter assault unit - against even the most rudimentary enemy air power, they were completely helpless.

And the mission... Well, at first glance it seemed simple enough: save Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise from the giant space tower.

... In theory, anyway.

In practice, as so often, even the simplest objectives had a thousand intermediate steps, every one of them representing a potential point of failure.

Basilisk One-Six - a Major in the Osean Marine Corps - was fully aware of what happened to the last Osean rescue effort at the Space Elevator; where the elite Sea Goblin unit attempted to fish former President Vincent Harling from his Erusean captors. They had failed, and in the process, they had all died.

Now, exactly one year from that fateful day, the Marines of the Basilisk team were going to follow in their footsteps.

But this time was going to be different. For starters, Basilisk had come with not one, but six assault teams; each one assigned to land on one each of the six arms making up the Earthport base of the Space Elevator, and had been briefed accordingly. Lines of communication had been hardened following the war, and chains of command had been streamlined. Full air superiority had not yet been achieved, but the AWACS Long Caster - a trusted ally as far as Basilisk One was concerned - had given them the all clear to begin their operation. And, as was also unit tradition, the men had already written their wills, primed and ready to send to their next-of-kins the second any of their deaths should be reported. They were as ready as they were going to be.

The cabin rattled and vibrated in sporadic intervals, gently swaying from a growing sea breeze. Garbled voices were murmuring over the radio, set against the ambient drumming of rotor engines and passing airflow.

«Basilisk One is underway.» The pilot radioed. «Approaching designated dropzone as briefed, ETA eight minutes.»

Basilisk One-Six took a deep breath, steadying himself as he quietly tightened his grip on the M4A1 carbine resting in his hands. For some reason, all he could think about in that moment was whether the pizzas would still be warm by the time the mission was over.

That much, he suspected, depended very much on him.

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

Groggily, slowly, Abyssal Dision opened his eyes to a world of pain. Draped in what was left of his parachute and flight harness, he'd somehow landed on the smooth, slightly curved surface of one of the Elevator's climber cars.

It had not been a soft landing. He'd landed on his side, breaking his throwing arm and most of his ribs. He could taste blood in his mouth, and smell it in his nostrils too.

Staggering upright, scowling and swearing at his broken arm, he pulled a utility knife out of his survival pack and began to cut himself free from his harness.

After cutting the first strap, however, something tugged on his parachute, jerking him over suddenly. He was moving; sliding along the curved surface. Realizing that something was dragging him towards the edge of the climber car - and the abyssal drop beyond it - he swore and scrabbled frantically with all three of his remaining good limbs to try and find purchase.

Shit, shit shit shitshitshitshit!

Of all the ways to die, being yanked over the edge of an elevator car by his own parachute would surely rank up there as one of the most unfitting for a man of Dision's stature.

Then he jerked to a halt. Catching his breathing, Dision realized that another part of his flight harness - specifically, one of the straps around his buttocks - had snagged on a small, damaged panel that had been fortuitously peeling away in that very spot.

He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when his parachute tugged on him again. Between his gluteus maximus anchored to the snagged panel and his upper body being pulled away by the yanking parachute, the pain was immense, stretching his broken ribs and flattening his spine. If this kept up, he was at serious risk of being pulled apart into two, messy halves.

Groaning and swearing some more, Dision wrapped his legs around the broken panel, anchoring himself further. The sharp, metal edges ripped through what was left of his G-suit and dug into his flesh.

Then, performing what could only be described the world's hardest sit-up, calling upon every ounce of energy in his core and toned abs, he forcibly swung his upper body upright against the parachute's tugging, grunting as he battled gravity itself in a high-stakes tug-of-war, where the prize would be the humble but woefully underappreciated ability to walk away with his body and bones in mostly one piece.

His parachute tugged on him again, and even began to swing slightly, as though bearing a weight of about one hundred pounds over the edge.

Fighting through it, Dision was able to complete the motion. He was sitting up now, bearing the whole weight of the parachute and whatever was attached to it with nothing but his core strength, and was now in a position to twist around and use his arms - well, his one good arm anyway - to pull it up the rest of the way.

So he did just that. Pushing every last muscle in his good arm, exercising every iota of his grip strength and pulling prowess, he would pull the weighted parachute up a few inches, secure what he'd got with his broken arm, and then repeat the motion. Again and again, inch by painful inch...

...

... Somehow, Dision had done it. Both of his arms were burning, and he had twisted several muscles in his core, and his legs were stiff and numb from pins and needles, but he had done it. He had pulled up the whole stretch of parachute back onto the top of the climber car, along with the extra weight it had picked up.

After laying flat for a solid minute, exhausted and hurting, Dision slowly sat back up. Something was attached- no, clinging to his parachute, obscured by its folds. Crawling over, Dision pulled them back, and paused in dull surprise.

A disheveled, blonde-haired woman in a tattered white dress, well-worn and frayed at its embroidered edges, was clutching at the parachute fabric. Her nails, grown out past the point where they had been manicured and colored, had dug into it like claws. Her soft, small hands were red and covered with blisters, and a trail of scratch marks ran along the parachute's length.

The woman's eyes were open, but her expression was blank and vacant, as though drained of life.

From which, Dision concluded with a degree of awestruck disbelief, that she had fallen from some ways further up the shaft, and had caught on Dision's parachute on the way down by sheer luck.

'... I-is it over?' the woman asked. Her voice was soft, quiet as a mouse, and shaky. 'Am I... dead?'

Dision wondered about it for a moment, before simply saying, 'Probably not. You had a fall, and... survived.'

'You... you're a pilot.'

'That's right.' Dision nodded. 'I'm Abyssal Dision, of the General Resource Defense Force.'

'General Resource?' the woman asked, sitting up suddenly. 'But I thought... The attack... Doctor Schroeder's forces... Never mind. Are you here to rescue me?'

Dision thought about that one too, before replying, '... Yes'.

'Oh thank goodness!' The woman smiled. Despite her haggard state, it still came off as a pure, hearty expression, filled with genuine warmth, enough to make Dision blink as though shone with a bright light.

She hugged him in sheer relief, her weakened, fragile body feeling almost weightless.

'You must've arrived together with the IUN!' she said. 'I'm so glad! All of my hard work really did pay off!'

Dision grimaced, unwelcomely reminded of just how much the IUN had, in fact, ruined his day. They were the only reason he was in this shitty situation to begin with. Not only had his handpicked wingman Clown - an incompetent ex-IUN goon - gotten himself killed, but the one called Three Strikes had thoroughly beaten him in battle - an unforgivable humiliation.

It was clear that this strange, incomprehensible woman - whoever she was - had misconstrued Dision's presence and the IUN as some kind of joint rescue operation... but he bit back the urge to correct her. She was clearly grateful, and in that, the conniving, scheming part of Dision's mind saw something that he could lean on later. She was also clearly in need of a shower. Badly.

'... Yep. Sure did.' he said not entirely untruthfully, as he gently dislodged her.

Holy crap, I sure hope Yoko's not here to see this... he thought. ... Wait... Yoko!

'Yoko!' Dision said suddenly, straightening up looking around furtively.

'Yoko?' the woman asked with a quizzical look. 'Do you mean Yoko? Yoko Martha Inoue?'

'Huh? Ah, yeah.' Dision said. 'I'm here to rescue her too. She's alive... I saw her!'

'Oh, that's wonderful... I hadn't seen her since the attack began. I thought she was...'

Dision shushed her. 'First things first.' he said, finally cutting himself free of his parachute and tangled flight harness. 'Let's get off this shaft.'

'Yes.' breathed Rosa Cossette D'Elise, nodding affirmatively.

---

Doubling back through the maintenance tunnels, Yoko was running as fast as her legs could carry her. Boosted by adrenaline and a high mix of intense emotions, she bolted down stairwells and dashed through dark, narrow tunnels. She even scrabbled her way through a few air vent passageways - whose routes she now knew almost instinctively - with surprising speed.

Part of her newfound motivation was from joy; the sheer happiness she felt seeing Dision again, flying his combat plane to her rescue. The feeling was indescribable, but Yoko really did feel like she was the luckiest, most happiest woman in the world.

The other part was from self-preservation. In her haste, she had alerted her Belkan pursuers. They were hot on her tail, proving surprisingly fast despite their size and bulk, and now they were closing in for the kill like the jackals they were,

«Halt! Hammerzeit!» a loud voice garbled.

«Ich bin direkte hinter!... Sozusagen!» clipped another. Others were behind them, chortling in their distorted, augmetic tones.

They were being deliberately conspicuous, a calculated strategy to pressure Yoko into making a mistake. No doubt there were more of them following her, unseen in the shadows.

She vaulted over a small railing, down a two-meter drop, wincing slightly as her legs took the impact with a bone-rattling jolt. Her pursuers jumped after her, leaping over the railing like stallions in heat.

Yoko flew down, then up, another set of stairs, before whipping round and diving into the first door she found; a server room, dark and cool, with aisles of equipment supporting the systems that calculated and monitored regional power distribution, laid out and spaced apart like vinerows. There was little lighting save for the equipment power lights, and the blowing rush of the inbuilt air conditioning units.

Slamming the door behind her and ducking into one of the hot aisles, Yoko found a vacant compartment and ducked inside. She was tired and panting. She took one final deep breath, huddled low, then forced herself quiet.

Nothing happened for the next half minute. But to Yoko, alone in the gloom, it felt like an agonizing eternity - laced with the anxious expectation of armored, faceless giants crashing through the door.

Then, the door pushed open with a ginger, slow creak. Even though Yoko had been expecting it, the noise still made her jolt in place.

Footsteps. Two people, from the sounds of it. Compartment doors opened and closed. They were looking for something - and Yoko feared she knew exactly what that was.

She began to shiver. Her hands went numb, even as she clammed up and shuffled into the corner, moving only ever so slightly.

Dision...

The footsteps arrived at her compartment. Yoko's lips tightened, fighting desperately to stifle a scream - a fight that she would almost certainly lose the second it was opened.

This was it. She had already been found. And if she was lucky, she was going to die, too.

'Ah... Ahh...' she whimpered softly.

The compartment door wrenched open, and Yoko screamed. Immediately, a powerful hand covered her mouth, while another wrapped around her petite, tired body. There was a reassuringly familiar scent that Yoko took as a sign that she was in the afterlife...

'Yoko!'

Yoko opened her eyes. It was Dision. He was bleeding, and one of his arms looked badly hurt, but it was still very much Abyssal Dision.

'... Yep,' she said blandly. 'I'm dead.'

'Not if I have anything to say about it.' said Dision. 'You okay?'

'Yeah... I'm fine.' Yoko lied.

Then she broke down, and flung herself at him and cried her eyes out into his chest, mumbling incoherently as she unloaded her fears and joys and tears at the same time.

Dision hugged her back with his good arm, stroking her hair reassuringly. 'Calm down.' he said. 'You're safe now.'

Recomposing herself slightly, Yoko looked up at him. 'H-how did you find me?'

Dision smiled wanly. 'We were hiding and saw you run past.'

'We?'

'Hello, Yoko.' said Rosa Cossette D'Elise, ragged but recognizable, suddenly appearing as though she hadn't been standing beside Dision the whole time. For some reason, she seemed to be holding back laughter.

'Rosa!' Yoko gasped. 'How did you...?'

'Long story.' Rosa said. 'But we've been trying to find a way down to the surface. The IUN is here, and if there's going to be any rescue operation, that's where they'll start.'

'S-so my distress signal...?'

'We heard it, Yoko.' Dision said, smiling. 'We all did. I came as soon as I could, so to speak.'

'And so did the rest of the world.' Rosa affirmed, smiling with him.

Yoko sighed with palpable relief, emotionally buoyed by the knowledge that her actions and decisions had actually amounted to something. Had she really been singularly responsible for saving everyone at the Space Elevator? It would be some time before she could ever come to terms with such a possibility.

Her thoughts were cut off as more harsh Belkan shouting echoed from down the hallway...

«Donner und blitzen!»

«Gebe dich nie auf~, Enttäusche dich nie~!»

'... We should go.' Dision said. 'Looks like we've got some people after us.'

'What do we do?' Rosa asked.

Dision unholstered a pistol he'd retrieved from somewhere. Probably his flight survival kit.

'Get behind me.' he suggested humbly.

Rosa and Yoko looked at each other. After everything they'd seen and been through with Doctor Schroeder's monstrous minions, neither of them were inclined to disagree.

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

This can't be happening... Lorenz Riedl thought.

But it was. Despite their efforts, all of their superior technology and Belkan design pedigrees, his compatriots were being shot down in huge numbers by the IUN rabble. Lorenz saw a pack of Osean F-15EXs pounce on an innocent YR-302 Fregata, mercilessly gunning it down into the murky waters of Selatapura Bay. Up above, a similarly blameless XR-45 Cariburn, having expended all of its ordnance and basically unarmed, blew apart after being hit by a missile launched from a passing IUN MiG-29M.

His friends, his colleagues, his fellow non-Oseans... they were being rounded up like animals, and they were being slaughtered like animals.

Lorenz roared with rage. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Unlike the proud and honorable Belkan people, the Oseans and their IUN slaves were weak and decadent. They were prey, and prey were not supposed to fight back. How could they possibly have gained the upper hand so quickly?

'I hate you, Oseans!' he said to no one in particular, suddenly feeling the urge to soapbox in the middle of battle for some reason. 'Do you think we chose this life? Do you know how much we Belkans suffer because of you scheming, murderous Oseans?!'

He brought his YR-101 Delphinus in wide, blasting apart an unsuspecting IUN Typhoon who pilot was probably too busy plotting Belka's destruction to see him coming. He then acquired a target lock on an IUN Su-37, and killed it with a missile.

'We just want to survive!' Lorenz blubbered on, without a shred of self-awareness or personal agency. 'Is there something wrong about that? We were all given life, and raised... But if you have to become a criminal to survive, then that's what you do, is it not? How can we live correctly in these conditions? How?!' he crooned, desperate for validation rather than an actual answer. 'You've never once tried to understand our feelings! And for that, we have to kill you!'

Banking left, he spotted a formation of Osean CH-47F Chinook helicopters headed towards the Space Elevator. No doubt they were on a mission to claim the Elevator in the name of Osean imperialism, to abuse its power to feed the Osean military-industrial complex. That mere hypothetical possibility was enough to boil his honest Belkan blood.

'You Osean bastards... I hate you! I hate you, I hate you all!' Lorenz monologued some more. 'You all sit there behind your big TV screens, eat your filthy hamburgers, fail your dumb geography classes, and play your shitty video games... But could you do any of that if you were born Belkan like me?! You piss me off! Go die! Die, die, die, die, all you shit-headed Oseans should just die already! Don't you see?! I have to kill you all!'

Snarling, he lined up for a run, sweeping in low at near-wavetop level. He lined himself up so as to gun run the entire helo formation in a line, ready to eliminate them all in a single swoop.

'You damn shitty Oseans...' he bleated on, laying on the clumsy melodrama with a trowel, now with tears in his eyes. 'Even we Belkans... Even I just want to live like you do!'

So fixated on his self-important rambling was he, that he failed to notice an Osean F-22 Raptor - bearing three slash marks on its tailplanes - slither up behind him like a cobra in the grass. It aligned its fuselage, and then lashed out a burst of 20mm cannon fire.

The incoming rounds found their mark. The YR-101 shuddered and screamed, and so did Lorenz. There was a sharp, sudden pain in his head and lower back as the plane's damage alert fed directly back into Lorenz's nervous system via the COFFIN system. Then there were flames, and Lorenz felt as though he really had been set on fire. The hexagonal displays went red and trilled with damage alerts.

'Death to Osea!' Lorenz screamed theatrically, as sparks began to fly all around him.

With the last of his focus, he willed his aircraft into a climb, hoping to gain some altitude and bail out before his plane disintegrated. Then he reached for the ejection handle.

It was then, with a grim clarity that he'd never enjoyed previously, that Lorenz Riedl finally understood why the COFFIN system had been so named.

---

Trigger watched the hostile YR-101 go down, shattering apart as it cartwheeled and plunged beneath the roiling waves. He'd spotted it going after the Basilisk team's Chinooks, and had reacted instinctively to protect his allies.

There was only one rule in war: Survive. And the way to survive was to kill your enemy - quickly and efficiently, without fanfare and big speeches. It was that simple.

Trigger pulled back up and moved on. Only later did he realize that that was the same one that had shot down Tailor earlier that day.

---

That was way too close.

Basilisk One-Six had seen the hostile fighter come in for a pass, only for it to be schwacked by none other than the legendary Three Strikes just in the nick of time. He made a mental note that he owed him - and by extension the rest of the LRSSG - yet again for saving his life.

«Basilisk, disperse. Proceed to designated landing zones.»

The six Chinooks spread out, each one bound for one of the Space Elevator's six approaches. There was of course an undersea tunnel that made up the seventh, but leading a full frontal assault through a giant, one-way tunnel didn't strike Basilisk One-Six as something particularly intelligent, either.

Besides, attacking via the surface wasn't all bad. With Basilisk attacking from six sides, the defending forces - whoever they were - would have to disperse their forces to cover each one. What's more, assuming they also had teams covering the undersea tunnel, and another subdivision of troops in reserve to act as a QRF in the event of a breakthrough, that meant that each entry point would have - at the very most - a twelfth of the enemy's total strength.

A gross simplification, certainly, but it helped him narrow down the list of things to worry about to a single, golden rule; don't screw up.

«Approaching drop point one.» his pilot reported. «Sixty seconds.»

'Lock and load!' Basilisk One-Six ordered.

A chorus of loaded mags and pulled charging handles rattled back at him. The men of Basilisk One primed themselves for battle, alert in their seats, and all eyes gradually turned toward the far side of the cabin.

«Thirty seconds.»

There was a brief shudder as the loading ramp released from its catch and began to lower down. Blinding sunlight from the outside rushed in, reflecting sharply off the oily sea below, along with an oddly-pleasant gust of warm, salty ocean air. The Chinook's rear gunner took position behind an M240 machine gun on a folding pintle-mount, ready to lay down a screen of covering fire for the Marines to disembark.

Basilisk One-Six stood up and took his place at the ramp, battledress tugging gently in the slipstream. He readied his weapon, shouldering it and flipping the safety off.

The rest of the men got to their feet and formed up behind him. At his side was Second Lieutenant William Bishop, fresh out of OCS and leading Basilisk One's recon element. There was also Private Jose Gutierrez, better known as "Guts", charged with the all-important task of carrying the pizzas. He carried the fragrant stack in one hand, and had a sidearm in the other. Immediately behind them was Corporal Janice Rehl, with an AT4 disposable anti-tank launcher strapped to her back.

«Ten seconds.»

The polluted, oily waters of Gunther Bay gave way to the sundered port and dock infrastructure of the Space Elevator. Dust and debris - and more than a few desiccated bodies - were being blown away in radiating circle lines from the downrush of the Chinook's approach. There was a faint sense of vertigo as it descended and cut speed, the concrete surface rising up to meet them.

'Stand to, Marines!' One-Six bellowed.

Two dozen voices bellowed their assent, 'Oorah!'

The rear door gunner stowed his weapon, and waved the men out.

'Go! Go! Go!'

It was a ten foot drop. One-Six was the first man out, leaping down from the back of the still-moving Chinook, legs doubled up, rolling clear as he hit the ground as he'd practiced a thousand times before, spreading the impact from his legs, to his shoulders, and then to his back, keeping it away from his hands.

He was groundside. His fellow Marines thumped on the concrete all around him, leaping and bouncing out the back of the Chinook like frogs out of a bucket.

'Basilisk One is on the ground,' One-Six reported into his commbead. 'No resistance so far. We're moving in to the objective.'

He could feel the powerful downwash of the Chinook crawling along as the last men bounded out, before its engines powered up and heaved the huge machine up back into the sky. Around him, there would occasionally there would be an explosion from the still-raging air battle, the roar of jets echoing and thundering like a summer storm.

He was running. No one was shooting at them yet, but all the same, the important thing now was to get off the landing zone.

Around him, the other five Basilisk Team Chinooks were making their landings, disgorging their assault teams in their designated drop zones, consolidating and organizing themselves before also moving in towards the tower in a combined, converging advance.

M4 across his chest, One-Six kept going. Before him was a wide promenade, flanked on either side by multi-storeyed worker dorms and glittering architecture. The promenade itself was quite dismal; littered with hastily discarded shipping containers, smashed crates, and scraps of trash that blew in the wind like tumbleweed.

Perhaps eager to prove himself, Lieutenant Bishop took the lead, keeping low and fast as he navigated the promenade and its obstacles, making curt, direct gestures as he went. One-Six followed behind, pausing occasionally to survey his surroundings, paying a particularly suspicious eye to the buildings on either side of the promenade. If he was to plan an ambush, that would be where he'd set up positions.

Still, they had to keep going. They moved past another cluster of shipping containers, and skirted around a large crater that had crumpled the concrete around it, in the middle of which was the still-smoldering wreckage of a downed airplane.

One-Six's boot clipped a body, and, compelled by professional curiosity, stopped briefly to inspect it. It had once been a young man in a high-vis vest and a white safety helmet - denoting him as a civil engineer of some variety. He had a nametag that identified his employer;

General Resource... One-Six read.

There was another body nearby, this one clutching a submachine gun with an empty mag, but had also a General Resource patch on the shoulder sleeve.

In fact, further inspection found that all of the corpses were connected to General Resource in some way.

... They must have only targeted General Resource people. One-Six surmised. But... why?

Never mind. This was a problem for the intel guys at debriefing. Right now, the important thing was for Basilisk to move in, extract the Princess, and get out.

Catching up with Lieutenant Bishop, One-Six reached the end of the promenade and entered what they'd been told were the refugee shanties; a sea of rough canvas tents, masses of parked motor vehicles in various states of repair - some of them upturned or shot full of holes - and enough port-a-potties to outnumber the populations of several large towns.

The shanties had formed spontaneously with the influx of refugees, clustering and ringing around the base of the Space Elevator like a huge, stinking wreath of plastic and putrid shit.

No, really. The shanty was deserted, but it was still an absolute mess - a clear sign that its refugee occupants had simply dropped what they were doing and left in a hurry.

Even so, their appalling living conditions were apparent; junk, trash, and human waste covered the once-polished pathways and tendered gardens, forming narrow tracks that wound between the tattered tents and makeshift facilities. It was hard to see more than a few meters in any direction, and a warm, fetid haze hung over the place, smothering the very air with a colorful palette of thick, pungent aromas - none of which were pleasant. And the flies...

One-Six grimaced. He'd seen more than his share of the brutal inhumanity of war during his service, but still found himself struck by the eerie emptiness of the place, as well as idle speculations of just how the enemy - whoever they were - could have evicted so many refugees so quickly. Still, he kept his weapon shouldered.

'Basilisk One, entering refugee shanties. Heads on a swivel, Marines - could be an ambush.'

He inspected a tent with its flaps closed. Nothing in there, except a blanket, a fallen hexistove, and more cardboard boxes than anyone could ever need.

Behind him, Private Guts - still holding the pizzas - visibly blanched. Like most Marine enlisted, he'd grown up in a rough neighborhood, and so was no stranger to scenes of filth and decay, but it was still confronting enough to leave its mark.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Bishop - the fresh 2LT - was still on point, trying to suppress his gag reflex.

He failed, and that momentary distraction was going to cost him.

Bishop suddenly jumped back, as though startled by something. Then he did it again, and slumped down in a crumpled heap.

Shot dead. One-Six didn't even have to look.

'Contact!' he barked into his commbead.

Reacting immediately, the Marines scattered into cover. Most of them made it - but not all. Some flopped over silently, others went down screaming.

Enemy fire was stitching in, seemingly from all sides. Grenades were going off around them.

The bastards had been waiting.

Heart racing again, One-Six hunkered in behind an abandoned pickup truck, flinching slightly as a couple of rounds stabbed through the doors and roof. He saw one of his Marines knocked over by a grenade explosion that mangled both of his legs into bloody stumps. He fell hard into a pile of trash, and started crawling before he was shot again, dead. Another Marine swan-dived behind a tent - then spasmed as a round punched through the canvas skin and dug right into his head.

Private Guts was crouched behind an overturned port-a-potty, still holding up his pizzas while snap-firing ineffectually into the haze.

The other Marines too were returning fire, but it was clear they were already on the backfoot.

One-Six saw them; the enemy, flickering shadows through the dust and distant muzzle flashes.

His M4 barked. There had been precious little intel on them to begin with beyond that they were armed, armored, and very dangerous. He could certainly see that now - they wore bulky carapace armored-harnesses, carrying bulbous back-canisters that pumped strange, probably illegal combat stims into their bloodstreams by way of pipes hooked into the napes of their necks. Their heads and faces were fully covered, with sneering, speaker-grilled blast-visors. Many carried XM8 rifles and MG3 machine guns, wielding them with deadly accuracy, leering as they barked out orders and chanted terrible slogans,

«Welcher Hurensohn schießt auf mich?!» one of them garbled, gesturing down at the approaching Oseans. «Oscheaner schweinehunden!»

«Los, los, friss meine geschmolzene Scheiße!» rasped another.

Holy mother of shit! One-Six observed. They're Belkans!

He'd heard the legends of ex-Belkan military personnel taking their skills and expertise to the private sector en masse in the years following the Belkan War. But he had no inkling that he would be facing them here and now today. It was enough to know that these were no crazed zealots or greasy airsoft kiddies. They were professionals - disciplined and organized. They'd clearly been expecting Basilisk's attack, and had planned their defenses accordingly.

For now, all the Basilisk Team could do was play along in their twisted game, and hope like hell they were the better players.

'Basilisk One-Six to all Basilisks! Hostiles are Belkan nationals, repeat, Belkan nationals! Engage with extreme caution!'

Another Marine went down, a fist-sized crater where his throat used to be.

Clouds of dust were suddenly kicked up, and the ground began to tremor slightly; it was the Chinook, rumbling in low overhead, heaving as it swung around and exposed its open deployment hatch - where the rear door gunner was waiting with the M240 pintle-mount.

'Get some! Get some!' he was yelling jovially, clearly having the time of his life. 'Ooooo-rah!'

The M240 chattered down like hail upon the Belkan positions. A couple of them went down, while their small-arms return fire spicked and spanked off the Chinook's armored metal hull.

One-Six managed a weak smile. Perhaps they could do this after all-

A rain of heavy caliber shells ripped open the Chinook's bulbous underside, spilling sparks and fragments of twisted metal - including the rear gunner, who had disappeared into a cloud of messy salsa.

The Chinook faltered for a moment, stalling and losing altitude. Then it just fell straight down, pitching sideways as it lost all power, slamming into the ground and scything up ten unsuspecting Marines into a chunky pink shower as it folded into a dismal, crumpled wreck.

One-Six winced. No one of non-Belkan heritage deserved a fate like that.

He looked round. The Chinook had been brought down by a hostile FlaK 38 20mm anti-aircraft gun, nested at the edge of a recreational park, covered and concealed with thorny rose bushes and strips of loose canvas. It was still firing - a deadly, ear-rattling staccato, and it was now swinging down to bear on the Marines as a support weapon. Against that firepower, they didn't stand a chance.

Swearing, Basilisk One-Six ran forward, ducking and snap-firing his M4 as he went. Private Guts and Corporal Rehl followed behind, collectively blundering through the incoming fire as it ripped up chunks of plasteel tiling around their feet.

He got into cover, butted against the corner of a huge bust of Vincent Harling, an artful, slightly exaggerated sculpture that had been recently defaced with bullet holes and smeared shit.

One-Six ducked. Hostile gunfire slammed and battered at the bust's other side, flicking chunks of marble at him from above.

Private Guts - still balancing the pizzas with one hand - fell in beside him.

'What's the plan?' he yelled. 'What have we got, sir?'

'Gotta take out that AA gun!' One-Six barked back, indicating the emplaced FlaK 38 with a gloved hand, before a volley of 20mm fire forced him back into cover. 'Where's that AT4?'

'That's me, sir!' shouted Corporal Rehl, running across to meet them - the welcome AT4 launcher slung across her back. 'I've got it! I've got-'

She suddenly went down in a tangled heap, scythed by another punching burst of 20mm fire and killed instantly. Her AT4 clattered on the ground uselessly before her mutilated body fell on top of it.

'Uhh... shit.' Guts mumbled, his jaw flapping like a landed fish.

Cursing again, One-Six slung his rifle, and bolted into the open towards the fallen Marine. More tracer fire jabbed and whipped at the ground around his feet.

Heaving Rehl's body aside, he snatched up the AT4 and immediately doubled back. There had been a momentary split-second where he'd considered retrieving her dog tags, but there was no time.

The hostile fire had not relented - in fact, it had intensified, with more weapons training on him seemingly by the second. A rifle round grazed his right shin, and he almost stumbled. Feeling only the kick of the impact, the adrenaline was pumping so hard and so fast that it blotted out the pain. Then he lost balance and tumbled, falling just short enough to scrabble the rest of the way into cover.

'Sir! Sir, your leg!' Guts shouted, going wide-eyed. 'We need a medic over here!'

'Calm your ass down, Guts!' One-Six snapped. 'I'm not dead yet!'

'But sir, your leg-'

'I'll worry about my leg, you worry about those pizzas! If it gets cold, it's free!'

The young private tightened his lip and nodded slowly, clearly questioning his commander's priorities.

He'll get used to it eventually, One-Six thought, staggering himself up - limping slightly - and priming the AT4.

Meanwhile, the hostile 20mm gunfire first faltered, then stopped abruptly.

«Scheiße! Keine ammo mehr! Deckung geben, ich muss nachladen!»

With the benefit of hindsight, and considering the volume of fire its Belkan gunners had been laying down, it had been only a matter of time before the FlaK 38 had to pause to reload and cool its barrel.

Waving Guts and the pizzas down, One-Six poked around the corner and took aim with the launcher.

'Back blast area clear!' he shouted, headchecked, and then fired.

The 20mm FlaK 38 vanished in a plume of high explosive and shredded foliage, marking an ugly crater where it had stood in the despoiled park.

Seizing the moment, One-Six dragged Guts to his feet and hurtled towards the park, firing his weapon from the hip as he went. The air filled with dust and flying debris. Enemy fire was still raking in, but One-Six kept running. He sprang over the ruined FlaK emplacement, over the AA gun's charred wreckage, and came across a wounded Belkan, moaning and writhing like a grub as it tried to crawl away in its heavy armor, leaving a trail of red on the ground like a paintbrush.

«Oof, ich bin getroffen!» it burbled, its voice contorted by some kind of augmetic speaker grille. «Und du verletzt auch meine Gefühle!»

One-Six jammed his rifle into the unarmored small of its back and fired, twice.

Another huge Belkan lunged at him from the side, brandishing a machete, only to be intercepted mid-air by Guts charging in with his shoulder. Both of them knocked down in a tangle of limbs and pizza boxes. The Belkan punched Guts across the face, sending him walloping back before jumping back to its feet.

«Friss meine behaarten wurst!» it snarled at him, waving its machete threateningly. «Und deine Schwester kannst du gleich mitbringen!»

Guts spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth, before bringing up his sidearm and emptying its clip right in the Belkan's face; first cracking then shattering its blank faceless visor, shredding the pale, bloodshot-eyed face behind it.

The Belkan giant slumped back, sprawling lifelessly across the ground.

'Good work, Marine,' was what One-Six was about to say, before more hostile fire came stinging in, forcing them both down again. They crawled into a ditch that ran behind a row of hedges, beyond which was the stepped, glass-fronted entrance to the Space Elevator's main lobby.

Retrieving the pizzas and double-checking that they were all still mostly intact (and still warm!), Guts turned to One-Six.

'What now?!' he asked, reasonably.

One-Six didn't have an answer. The ruined emplacement made good cover, and without it, the firepower of the armored Belkan defenders had dropped significantly.

But even without their FlaK gun, the remaining hostiles kept up their fire - One-Six tried to edge out and move up again, but a lash of machine gun fire forced him back. The remaining Belkan defense had been centered on the steps to the Space Elevator's central lobby. Survivors from the FlaK emplacement were doubling back towards it, taking cover behind makeshift barricades while their allies laid down fire.

«Ach du Scheiße!» one of them exclaimed. «Zurückfallen!»

«Positiv denken, einfach positiv denken!» another burbled, leaning in and firing its MG3 from the shoulder as though it were a rifle.

One-Six spat, again reminded that he was up against professional ex-military instead of an untrained rabble. Even after losing their heavy weapon, they had simply reorganized and reframed their defense.

He was running out of options... and Marines. They'd all been pinned down in the shanties, and their numbers were being steadily whittled down. They were outgunned and outnumbered, and he doubted any of the other Basilisk teams were faring any better either. If they had any armored vehicles or heavy fire support, this wouldn't have been a problem, but there simply hadn't been time to organize any of these things.

So he did the only other thing he could think of.

'Long Caster, this is Basilisk One!' he said, tapping his commbead and adjusting its frequency. 'This is Basilisk One, we've got an angry customer at the front door who won't pay for his pizza! Requesting close air support!'

«Basilisk, this is Long Caster.» came the prompt reply. Evidently, the AWACS controller had been closely monitoring the operation's progress, both in the air and on the ground, at the same time - just another reason why the Basilisk Team trusted the LRSSG so greatly. «CAS request confirmed. We'll make the bastard pay for his food. Vectoring air support now, but be advised, we don't have any air-to-ground ordnance. Best you'll get is a strafing run.»

'We'll take it.' One-Six said, disappointed but unsurprised. 'Tell your boys to target my red smoke! Danger close!'

«Copy that, Basilisk. Strider One, Strider Two, assist Basilisk One. Target their red smoke. Danger close.»

«Righto,» replied Strider Two 'Count', with his usual candor. «Let's go Trigger. Pizza boy's got a tough customer, so let's go introduce ourselves!»

Basilisk One-Six managed a weak smile. He particularly remembered Count from the Cape Rainy assault during the war, and how skeptical he'd been about the Basilisk unit tradition of bringing pizzas on their operations - both as a morale booster, and an incentive for enemy forces to surrender. Now, it appeared he too had embraced it, enthusiastically, and with both hands.

He unclipped a red smoke grenade from his webbing. Pulling out the ring, he popped up briefly to hurl it out like a soda can - and almost got shot for his trouble - before plunging back down and dragging both himself and Guts to the safety of the old crater where the FlaK gun had been.

The smoke grenade landed square in the middle of the Belkan defenses, and began billowing out its crimson payload. A few of the Belkan defenders realized immediately what it meant, and began to fall back into the Space Elevator.

'Target is red smoke!' One-Six repeated. 'Danger close!'

«Righto.»

'Everyone get down!'

Hearing this, Guts covered the pizzas with his body and ducked his head.

The last thing One-Six saw before covering his head were the planes; an F-22 Raptor - Three Strikes himself - and Count's F-15EX trailing about a hundred feet behind. A cascading duet of dull, low rumbles, gradually rising in pitch and intensity to deafening, ear-shattering roars as they drew closer and closer.

Without warning, the ground in front of the Space Elevator entrance violently erupted, disappearing into a fountain of dust, shattered glass, torn metal, pulverized debris, and occasional body part. A thousand punches into dirt and metal drowned out the sounds of gunfire. Then it stopped. There was a sharp, ripping buzz noise - the unmistakable bark of an M61 Vulcan gun - before Trigger's F-22 broke off the attack, soaring back up into the skies above.

Then Count's Eagle swept in, and repeated the sequence.

«How'd we do?» he asked, finishing his run.

One-Six peered out of his crater. A stinking mist of powdered, pummeled dirt and stray gunpowder filled the air, displacing the existing haze, laced with the rank stench of raw, mulched flesh.

Shouldering his weapon and poking just out of cover, One-Six surveyed the impact zone. It reminded him of a landfill - the ground was carpeted with trash, dirt, and debris, and partially-disintegrated Belkans still wearing their smashed body armor. The glass frontage leading into the lobby had been smashed in too, and rounds had reached right up to what had once been a machine gun nest, which in turn had once been the lobby's reception desk.

The LRSSG knew their jobs, that much was certain.

'Long Caster, this is Basilisk One.' he said, while waving out to the rest of the Marines to move up and regroup. 'Tough customer has settled down. We should be able to complete our delivery. Thanks for the great air support.'

«Anytime, Basilisk.» came the reply. «That's a five star review, right?»

Basilisk One-Six grinned. 'I'll follow you guys on Gründergram too.'

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

An eerie calm had descended on the skies around the Space Elevator. Little by little, the number of hostile contacts had diminished, then dwindled, and now there were only a handful of unidentified bogeys, all of which were now evacuating to the southwest at full speed.

The air battle had finally been won.

«... Airspace secure.» Long Caster reported. «No hostile contacts remaining in the operational area. Good work, team.»

Another round of whooping cheers crackled through the airwaves.

«Yeah!» Count yelled. «That'll show those... err, whoever the enemy was!»

«They did have some pretty cool tech on display, though.» Lanza noted.

«Not cool enough.» Count scoffed.

Climbing back to ten thousand feet, Trigger kept the Space Elevator in his sights. He checked his fuel state - it was getting low, but not quite low enough to bingo just yet. He'd expended all of his missiles, and had exactly two 20mm rounds left in the gun. If a hostile aircraft were to jump him now, he'd be in a world of trouble.

But, it seemed that was no longer a concern. The IUN forces had successfully wrested control of the airspace, and the enemy resistance had all but collapsed.

«Long Caster, what's the status on Cyclops Two?» Fencer asked.

«CSAR has confirmed they've picked up Tailor in the water.» Long Caster replied. «No injuries. They're taking him home.»

«Phew.» Fencer breathed. «Nice. Tell 'em I owe them all beers.»

«That's coming out of your pay, right?» asked Skald.

«Bill it to the squadron.»

There was a chuckle.

«Long Caster, how's the pizza delivery going?» asked Jaeger.

«Basilisk One has made it to the Space Elevator. Things got a bit complicated, but Trigger and Count made sure they arrived on time and ready for some CQB action.»

«CQB?» Count remarked. «Yeesh. I'd much rather stay up here, where I've actually got air to breathe.»

«Yeah, about that.» Huxian chipped in. «Who are they even up against?»

«Belkans, apparently.» said Long Caster.

«What? Belkans? Here? Now?» Huxian asked, almost - but not quite - disbelievingly.

«Should've seen them coming, so to speak.» Count said. «Can we go home now?»

«Not yet, Count. Delivery's not finished yet - we gotta stick around until the VIP is happy.»

«VIP, huh. And who might that be?»

«The Princess, Count.» Skald chided. «You know, the one we're trying to rescue here? We didn't just come here to crack some Belkan skulls - there are actual people involved too.»

«Oh. Yeah. I knew that. Righto.»

For the first time that day, Trigger allowed himself a moment to relax.

So far, things were going well. He'd done his part, having personally accounted for ten enemy aircraft during the battle - compared to the ones and twos of the rest of the LRSSG. They had cleared the way for the rescue team, and this time, there would be no drones or bullshit Arsenal Bird to get in the way of things either.

The rescue operation was still ongoing, and success was far from assured. But Trigger's part in it was at an end.

For the first time in a while, the outcome of so crucial and delicate an operation was out of his hands. All he could do now was to wait and see.

It was all on Basilisk now.

---

The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

They'd secured the exterior of the Space Elevator, but their work was far from over. And the tasks that remained would not be easy.

Between the severe casualties they'd sustained during their initial landing, the Basilisk team's collective fighting strength had been reduced by about half. And they were still lacking clear intel on the enemy and their capabilities, or even where the Princess - their objective - was even located.

Basilisk One-Six swallowed. The outcome of the battle was all on him, moreso than ever, and success was still very much in doubt. All he could do was to choose the time and place to make his attack, and push with everything he had left - and hope to Harling's charred left nut that it would be enough.

This was it - the last ditch gamble. The fates of the Space Elevator, Erusea, the IUN's credibility - and most importantly, the health and wellbeing of the Marines of the Basilisk Team - were all hanging in the balance. Failure was not an option, but still a very real possibility, one with consequences most dire.

«Basilisk Seven, approaching drop point one.»

Another friendly Chinook dropped off the last Marine platoon, who had until now been sitting in reserve. One-Six had called them in, deciding that he'd need every gun he could count on for the battle's decisive conclusion.

Formed and fresh for the fight, theirs was a welcome supplement to the depleted strength of Basilisk One.

'Basilisks Three through Five will stage diversionary attacks on the Space Elevator's other entry points, and hopefully draw out the enemy's reserves.' One-Six had told Seven's commander, a swarthy, well-built Captain by the name of Kenneth Bryan. 'Basilisk Two is currently handling MEDEVAC. That leaves us for the main assault into the Elevator itself. We'll mass our forces and break through this entrance here,' he said, indicating the shredded, still-smoldering steps leading up to the central lobby. 'Once we break through, we'll search the facility for Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise, retrieve her, then double back to this rally point for extraction.'

'Got it, sir.' Captain Bryan said, fully aware of the subtext that any failure to break through the enemy defenses would mean they'd all end up dead. Or worse, survive to see the consequences. 'What about civilians?'

'The enemy has likely taken them as hostages.' One-Six said tightly. 'But our first and foremost priority is to locate and extract the Princess. Everyone else is secondary.'

Bryan nodded slowly, slightly turning up his lips at the implied dismissal of the lives of so many refugees, all to save the ruler of a nation that, less than a year ago, had been furiously denouncing and waged war upon Osea.

'I don't like it, sir.' he said curtly.

'Objection noted.' One-Six said blankly. 'If you're not up to this, then the time to quit is now.'

'I understand the mission.' Bryan affirmed, clearly having been around long enough to mask his personal discomforts with sheer professionalism. 'We'll get the Princess, and then we'll get out.'

'Alright.' One-Six nodded sagely, sincerely appreciating Captain Bryan's honesty as well as his loyalty. If this man has a son, One-Six caught himself thinking, the future might be in good hands. 'Then let's move out. We still have a pizza to deliver.'

The Marines of Basilisks One and Seven had formed up in the park area, hunched low in the shade among overgrown shrubbery, splintered wood, and soiled canvas. They had a good view of the main entrance, sitting invitingly from across the marble-white courtyard, barely recognizable in the aftermath of the Strider team's gun run.

Nearby gunfire echoed through the air, the sounds distorted into rough snarls by the complex architecture of the Space Elevator; the other teams had begun their diversions.

One-Six surveyed the entrance for the last time, and lowered his binoculars. Then he waved forward.

As he did so, a full brace of smoke grenades came coughing out from Captain Bryan and the Marines behind him, the 40mm canisters scattering wide across the courtyard and spewing their thick white payloads all over the place, like a bad porno.

Under its cover, One-Six and the other Marines of Basilisk One quietly got up and broke cover, weapons shouldered, and beelined up the steps leading into the Elevator's main lobby.

How close was the entrance? Did the enemy have optics that could penetrate the smoke? If they came under fire right now, what would they do? What if the whole place had been rigged with traps? What if they came across civilian refugees? With his whole world wreathed in smoke, these were the questions that swam through One-Six's head as he swept forward.

There was a distorted shout, and a machine gun spattered into life from above. Incoming fire whipped and chopped at the ground, and a Marine went down. Then another. The enemy was firing blind, but they still had the entranceway zeroed in. But One-Six kept running, for there was nowhere to hide.

He burst through the smoke, receding from his vision like a curtain, and found himself square in the center of the central lobby atrium. Scales of building alloy and broken glass littered the floor, and the mosaic paintings on the wall - commissioned by the late Vincent Harling himself - had been defaced with crude graffiti, or otherwise just straight up smashed in with fists and hammers.

A hostile MG5 machine gun was firing down at them from a balcony, two storeys up. Its elevated location had left it untouched by Strider's earlier strafing run.

One-Six immediately rolled to the side, ending up behind the frame of a low, sleek bench. His fellow Marines were surging in after him, firing their weapons, but three more went down to the blistering hail.

More armored Belkans were entering in from the balcony, fanning out to cover the machine gun from the sides. They bustled up behind the handrails like a murder of crows taking over a roost, chanting more of their monstrous battlecries,

«Frühling für Dinsmark, und Beulkschland~! Winter für Oschea und Üßtio~!»

From that vantage point, One-Six's temporary protection would be completely useless, to say nothing of the Marines still in the open. Clutching his head, he huddled low. It was all he could do.

Then Captain Bryan dashed in, covering behind a pillar. He aimed up with the M320 underslung launcher on his M4, breathed out, then fired.

A 40mm frag grenade struck the underside of the elevated balcony, ripping it open as chunks of debris and flailing Belkans came spilling out, and abruptly ending their contribution to the occupation of the Space Elevator.

Thrown off and bewildered, the remaining Belkan mercs faltered. Between them, they only managed to wound one further Marine before the combined strength of Basilisks One and Seven had wiped them all out.

One-Six looked up and stepped out of cover. The central lobby was theirs. But they had to keep moving now - as soon as word got out that Osean Marines were running around inside the Space Elevator, there was no telling what would happen to the Princess. They had to move, and quickly.

'Thanks Captain.' One-Six said.

'Just doing my job, sir.' Bryan replied coolly.

'Basilisk One, break off into squads and search the basement levels.' One-Six ordered. 'Basilisk Seven, follow me. We're going upstairs.'

'Up?' Captain Bryan asked. 'But sir, all the civilian refugees would be below ground.'

'Exactly.' One-Six said. 'And if I wanted to take a Princess hostage, I'd take her to the highest room of the tallest tower. I doubt there would be anyone else up there at this point. Let's move!'

'Yes, sir.'

One-Six led the way, scrambling up the first flight of stairs with Captain Bryan, Private Guts, and a whole platoon's worth of Marines in tow.

Reaching the second level, the Marines spread out, sweeping through rooms and storage cupboards, scouring every nook and cranny for both the Princess, and any other sneaky Belkans lying in wait.

One-Six approached the automatic door to the unisex washrooms, with Private Guts and the pizzas close behind. He was just about to toss in a flashbang, when it suddenly opened a few seconds earlier than expected - an armored Belkan goosestepped out, its armor's codpiece conspicuously absent, singing a hideous, ear-splitting ditty,

«Beulkschland, Beulkschland, über alles~! Über alles im der Welt~!»

There was a fleeting heartbeat of shocked, mutual recognition between One-Six and the singing Belkan. Then, with a screech, the Belkan rapidly drew a sidearm and shot One-Six point-blank, punching straight through his shoulder, before it bolted for its life.

One-Six staggered back, howling in pain, while Guts brought up his own weapon, shouting, firing.

'Contact!' he gasped, shrugging off a hospital corpsman's attempt to dress his bleeding shoulder. His body armor had taken most of the impact, but not all of it. 'Out of the fucking washroom!'

He started after the fleeing Belkan, following it from one hallway to another. Guts and Captain Bryan were close behind, leaving the rest of Basilisk Seven to cover the landing and continue their searches.

One-Six tracked his quarry to the door of a conference room. Fully hopped on adrenaline, he kicked it down, but what he then saw made him stop cold.

It was a handsome, yet humble little room, neatly furnished with a circle of seats around a table. A window that had once looked out into the central lobby was covered over with rusting cage metal and aluminum sheets.

Sharply contrasting this picture of comfort were the two young women and small child curled up on the floor, their arms and legs tied. One of the women had a black tank top and baggy orange pants - immediately denoting her as a mechanic of some kind - while the other two were wearing matching blue dresses. All of them were all bruised and bloodied, and collectively yelped as soon as One-Six met their bleary gazes.

Standing above them were two Belkan mercs; one of them was the runner - still missing his codpiece - and the other was evidently the guard on prisoner duty, holding an MG3 machine gun. It had just enough time to look surprised before One-Six dropped it immediately with a shot to the face.

The other merc, apparently realizing that it'd been cornered, snatched up the terrified child in the blue dress with one armored hand, holding her up as a shield, and jammed its sidearm into her temple with the other.

«Es ist Zeit zu sterben!» it barked in its barbaric tongue. «Du stirbst, ich sterbe, wir sterben alle!»

One-Six didn't need a translator to understand its meaning.

Meanwhile, the child was bawling, a horrible, distressing clamor that shook even One-Six's jaded bones to their core. The other two women on the ground were spasming and screaming something, overtaken as they were by a wicked combination of shock, anxiety, and naked fury.

... Fuck. One-Six thought, feeling slightly embarrassed as his earlier prophecy of "no one else upstairs" had proven itself false in the worst possible way.

He kept his weapon level, aimed straight at the last Belkan's head. The merc had become increasingly agitated, shouting some more and even tapping the trigger on his weapon, but One-Six did not yield.

But neither did he shoot. He was fully aware that it was he himself who said, only minutes before, that all civilian lives were secondary to the Princess' rescue. But now that he was in a real and active hostage situation, his values and integrity so suddenly put to the test, with the life of a truly innocent little girl on the line... he found himself unable to act, unable to choose between his morality and his mission. It was a disgusting, frustrating dilemma, on top of being an unwelcome reality check.

«Haha!» The merc cackled, with a voice that sounded like grinding concrete. «Die Oscheaner sind schwach, und ihr beliebteste Präsident ist ein verkohlter Skelett!»

If I shoot this asshole now, One-Six thought inwardly. This will all be over. But... I... just... can't risk that girl's life!

Meanwhile, the girl was still struggling, screaming. Her legs were bound together, but she could still move them - and after a few more seconds of intense struggle, one of her sudden, struggling kicks saw them strike the Belkan asshole right where its armor's codpiece was missing.

The asshole roared in pain, and its aim faltered for just a fleeting second.

Just the opening that Basilisk One-Six needed.

Two shots rang out. The Belkan asshole pitched over with an electronic shriek, its face visor cracked open like a bad egg, reflexively firing its weapon wildly into the air as it tumbled backward. It dropped the girl.

Basilisk One-Six ran forward, unsheathing his bayonet and verifying that the asshole wasn't just playing dead. Then he turned to the civilian refugees lying on the floor.

Guts and Captain Bryan appeared in the doorway after him, weapons drawn.

'No one else upstairs, huh?' Bryan asked, assessing the situation and smirking slightly.

'Shut up.' One-Six snapped, feeling slightly light-headed from the still-surging adrenaline. 'Help me untie them. They might have intel on the Princess.'

Kneeling down, One-Six cut the ropes binding the woman in the tank top. As soon as they fell away, she lashed out and wrapped her greasy hands around his throat, throttling him like a ragdoll, eyes wide and screaming inarticulately with pure emotion.

Private Guts intervened, having to put down his pizzas as he moved to pry the shrieking mechanic off his commanding officer. 'Calm down! Calm down!' he urged.

The tanktop woman did not calm down. She elbowed Guts in the gut, flailed around wildly - almost as though she'd been tied up for literal days - before One-Six tackled her and manhandled her into an armlock.

'Keep still, and I'll let you go!' he growled.

Tanktop struggled for a few more seconds, before eventually complying and going limp. As promised, One-Six carefully let her go.

'Good.' he said. 'Now, who are you? And where's the Princess?'

'You shitheads sure took your time.' Tanktop said bitterly, dusting herself off. Her accent was Osean.

'Answer the question.' said Private Guts, proffering a slice of pizza as incentive. '... Please?'

'I'm Avril Mead.' said Tanktop, hesitating for a moment before accepting the slice. She scoffed it down like a starved puppy, spraying cheese and tomato sauce all over the carpeted floor. '... A civilian.' she added, still chewing.

'Where is the Princess?' One-Six asked again.

'Doctor Schroeder took her,' said the other woman, the one in the blue dress, whose name One-Six would later learn was Ionela. Captain Bryan was already cutting her free, while Guts was checking over the child - named Alma - with some elementary first aid and the promise of pizza. 'He took her, I think, to the top of the Space Elevator's windbreak.'

'For what purpose?' One-Six asked, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

'Hell, we wouldn't know.' Avril said sourly. 'But if those assholes wanted to really make a statement, that would be the place to do it. If you're here, then she's probably still with them. They might have already...' she trailed off, a grave expression on her face.

One-Six nodded slowly, understanding the rest of that sentence immediately. 'Then we need to move quick. Guts, escort these civilians to the rally point. Have someone check 'em over, keep 'em safe until MEDEVAC arrives.'

'Thanks.' Private Guts said sourly, his expression falling. Not only had he been saddled with pizza duty, but he'd now just been charged with babysitting too. Still, orders were orders, and a hard look from One-Six was enough to remove any defiant thoughts from his head. 'Uh, I mean, yes sir.' He began ushering the girls to their feet. 'Okay, come on ma'ams, it's time to go.'

'Wh-where are we going?' Alma squeaked fearfully. She was clinging to Ionela as though her life depended on it, clearly still in deep shock and unwilling to trust another stranger.

'We're... going to get some pizza.' Ionela answered lightly. 'Yeah. Pizza. Right?'

'Yes ma'am.' Guts affirmed positively, forcing a grin. 'Come on. Let's go.' And off they went.

'Bryan, you're with me.' One-Six said. 'We're going upstairs.'

'Alright.' Bryan nodded. 'But how do we get up there?'

'There's a maintenance elevator in the lobby.' Avril said, on her way out. 'It goes all the way up to the top of the windbreak.'

'We'll take it.' said One-Six.

'Alright, see ya.' she waved. '... Oh, and one more thing... Thanks for coming for us.'

And with that, Avril departed, entrusting the wellbeing of herself and her friends to the semi-dubious care of Private Guts.

Meanwhile, Basilisk One-Six and Captain Bryan doubled back to the central lobby. The rest of Basilisk Seven had established a perimeter without encountering resistance, while Basilisk One's assault teams reported both enemy contacts as well as discovering groups of civilian refugees. Many of the latter category had been sent through for MEDEVAC under escort - including Avril and the girls - and a part of One-Six was at least somewhat pleased that some good had come out of this operation.

Even if their real target seemed to still be eluding them.

They found the elevator that Avril had directed them to. One-Six pressed the button... but nothing happened. A closer inspection of the control panel showed that it was already on its way up.

Someone up above had summoned it.

'Elevator's in use.' One-Six said. 'Considering how big this place is, it'll be way too late before it comes back down to us.'

'Damn.' growled Captain Bryan. 'So what now?'

One-Six looked up thoughtfully, then around.

'We take the stairs.'

Bryan blanched. 'Stairs?'

'Even a place as high tech as this should have fire stairs in case the power goes out... There!'

Locating a door labelled "Fire Exit - Do Not Use Unless You Really, REALLY Have To!", One-Six kicked it down his heavy boot. Sure enough, a flight of stairs ran upwards before him, seemingly going on forever in a pale, unfriendly light.

'That seemed unnecessary.' Bryan remarked.

'Let's move.' One-Six said, already starting up the steps.

Sighing, Bryan swallowed dreadfully. 'Twelve klicks of this...'

'Suck it up, Marine.' One-Six said, for his part trying to ignore the growing numbness in his shoulder. 'You will climb those stairs, or you will climb double. Let's go, let's get it done!'

'Oorah.' came the due acknowledgment, curiously devoid of its usual enthusiasm.

With all of the distractions out of the way, One-Six and Captain Bryan climbed up the fire stairs. Up they went, bolting the steps two or three at a time, weapons in their hands as they began their arduous climb up the main spire of the Space Elevator.

Now the hard part begins, One-Six thought, as though everything they'd been through so far had been easy.

---

Dision stopped, turned around, and fired his sidearm twice with his one good arm. The Belkans were closing in behind them.

'Go! Go!' he urged.

Rosa and Yoko ran past him, ducking into the fire stairs.

Walking backwards, Dision snapped off the last of his clip down the narrow hallway, before following the two women down, reloading as he went.

---

Twenty floors off the ground, One-Six suddenly stopped and raised a fist.

Panting and fatigued, Bryan almost faceplanted straight into his ass. '... Wh... What is it?' he gasped.

'Hear that?'

'... No, sir.' In fact, all Captain Bryan could hear was his own ragged breathing, and the pounding of his heart.

'Gunfire.' One-Six said, shouldering his weapon. 'From the upper levels.' he resumed his climb, but at a much slower, more cautious pace. 'Stay sharp.'

Nodding slowly, Bryan complied, conflicted as to whether he should be glad the pace had slowed, or worried that they were about to get tangled in a firefight in a stairwell - where it was not only narrow and difficult to move around, but also had a very, very long way to fall.

Tightly clutching his own weapon, he followed.

---

Yoko missed a step and fell forward. Her body had been under tremendous strain over the past four days of hiding and evading her Belkan pursuers, and now it had given way.

Rosa could only watch in horror as Yoko tripped and tumbled beside her, flopping down the steps to the next landing with a strangled yell.

'Oh no!' Rosa gasped, wanting to check her over, but hesitating to use her hands. 'Yoko! Yoko!'

'My... leg...' Yoko groaned. She'd rolled her ankle during the fall, and putting even the slightest amount of pressure on it sent trills of pain that made her yelp. 'Oh, it hurts! It hurts bad!'

'Yoko!'

'Don't leave me, Rosa!' Yoko babbled. 'Don't leave me!'

Having been under a great deal of physical and mental stress of her own, Rosa actually considered doing just that, her self-preservation instinct briefly taking over. However, she quickly shook it off; they'd come this far together, and she also knew she would never be able to forgive herself if she were to leave a friend to die.

'I'm not leaving you!' she said resolutely, now thinking of what she could use as an improvised weapon against the Belkans that were sure to come plunging down after them any second now.

'Yeah. You're not.'

Abyssal Dision came hurtling down the stairs at top speed. Reaching the landing with a thump of combat boots, he scooped up Yoko and draped her body across his back in a fireman's carry, holding her steady with one arm - his broken arm, visibly wincing from the strain - and his sidearm in the other. Then he continued on.

'Oh, Dision...' Yoko mumbled, blushing meekly on Dision's back.

With a hopeful, slightly envious smile, Rosa followed after them.

---

One-Six stopped again.

'Footsteps,' he warned. 'From above.'

Bryan readied his weapon, and the pair crouched down where they stood, half-leaning on the steps, weapons aimed at the landing above them.

They could hear heavy boots, running down above them. Three levels... two... then one... Right on top of them.

One-Six and Bryan braced.

Four armored Belkans came dashing down the stairs and onto the landing. One-Six and Bryan wasted them at point-blank range, bowling them all over dead before any of them realized what was going on, with one going over the edge of the railing with a strangled augmetic gurgle, plunging straight down in the gaps between the stairs.

In the narrow confines of the stairwell, the noise had been deafening. Their ears were ringing, and the hard smell of gunpowder fouled the air like a bad fart.

But there were more footsteps coming down above them.

The two Oseans remained in place, ready to shoot again.

---

Still carrying Yoko with his broken arm, Dision bounded down another flight of stairs, four steps at a time. Not as a fast as he would have liked, but he was carrying a whole extra person on his shoulders. And in pain.

Just a little further...! he willed, gritting his teeth.

He reached a landing, and twisted round to the next flight, sidearm at the ready.

---

A huge figure came whirling around the next flight up, a faint silhouette in the dim light, but unmistakably armed.

Reacting immediately, One-Six and Captain Bryan opened fire.

There was a feminine-sounding yelp, and the huge figure suddenly lurched back, out of view. A pistol blurted out back at them, and the two Oseans reflexively ducked. The shots punched harmlessly into the wall behind them, spraying powdered concrete.

Captain Bryan stood up, and was about to shoot the hulking figure again, before another voice shouted,

'Stop!'

The large figure turned around, and the two Oseans looked up. A young woman in a stained dress stepped out from behind the hulk, and was now coming down the steps towards One-Six and Bryan, arms raised and palms open. Her blonde hair was filthy and ragged.

'You're... not with Doctor Schroeder's men, are you?' she asked, in a soft voice.

'Who the hell is Schroeder?' Bryan demanded, keeping his weapon level.

'Identify yourself.' One-Six challenged, shifting his aim to the woman in white, but keeping the hulking figure in his peripheral vision - who he realized was in fact a man carrying another woman over his shoulder with one arm, and brandishing a sidearm in the other.

'I am Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of the Kingdom of Erusea.' said the woman in white.

Hearing that, One-Six lowered his weapon, but only slightly. '... You. We were sent to rescue you.'

'You're with the IUN?'

'Yes ma'am.'

At first, Rosa did not react. Then, after a moment, she giggled, and smiled with relief - a warm, gentle expression.

'... You have no idea how happy that makes me.' she said. 'I've been waiting so very patiently...'

One-Six swallowed. Even in her current state, her smile was dazzling.

'What about him?' One-Six asked, gesturing at the man on the landing.

'That's Abyssal Dision, from General Resource.' Rosa answered, and Dision acknowledged her with a curt nod. He was eyeing the Oseans suspiciously for some reason, but seemed content to let Rosa do the talking for him. 'He was the one who found me.'

'Huh, very interesting.' One-Six said insincerely. Once again, he decided that this was a problem for the intel guys. 'And who's that he's carrying?'

'Yoko Martha Inoue. One of my... associates.'

'You're all together?'

'Yes.'

One-Six nodded. '... Alright then. Sir, ma'ams, let's get you all out of here.'

Letting Rosa, Dision, and Yoko proceed first, One-Six and Bryan covered the rear as the group proceeded down the stairs, ready to respond immediately in case any more Belkans came bounding after them.

---

In that event, however, that had been unnecessary. Somehow, they had all made it back to the ground floor. By now, several dozen refugees had returned to the central lobby - awaiting MEDEVAC under guard by the Marines of Basilisk One, and all holding at least one slice of pizza in each hand.

It was almost hard to believe, but they had done it. Dision and Yoko quietly joined with the waiting refugees, while Rosa's presence was met with a collective cheer from the civilians, as well as hails for the Oseans that had rescued her. Captain Bryan and Basilisk One-Six fistbumped triumphantly, finally allowing themselves a moment of respite.

'All units, this is Basilisk One. Pizzas have been delivered, and the VIP is happy. Mission accomplished, repeat, mission accomplished!'

In fact, they were all so busy patting themselves on the back that they failed to notice Doctor Schroeder step out of the maintenance elevator behind them.

The Belkan doctor surveyed the scene before him with a look of utter disgust. Then he drew a pistol, and shot Captain Bryan in the back of the head.

Rudely knocked out of his stupor, Basilisk One-Six immediately whirled around. He jolted back as another bullet punched into his gut, striking him before he could bring up his own weapon. He sprawled backwards - dropping his M4 on the way down - bleeding profusely and soaking the carpet, gagging and coughing.

All the while, the crowd's festivities immediately degenerated into panicked gasps and stifled screams.

'Cossette!' Doctor Schroeder roared. 'I will not let things end like this! I will not! Long live Belk-'

Another shot rang out. Rosa was crouched beside One-Six, having seized his fallen M4. The barrel was smoking. Her hands were shaking.

Schroeder looked down, noticed the bloody, fist-sized crater where his heart used to be, and then collapsed like a puppet with its string cut.

The battle was over.

---

Selatapura Bay, Southwestern Usea
6 June 2020

«All units, this is Basilisk One. Pizzas have been delivered, and the VIP is happy. Mission accomplished, repeat, mission accomplished!»

«Copy that, Basilisk.» said Long Caster. «Great work out there. You hear that, team?»

Yet again, a round of applause rippled through the airwaves.

«We did it!» Count cheered.

«Hellllll yeah!» concurred Lanza, finishing off the last of his cola with a single, celebratory gulp.

«Another mission, another story to tell my son!» said Jaeger.

Trigger breathed a final, contended sigh of relief. The rescue operation had succeeded, and the Space Elevator was now firmly back in IUN hands.

It was a strange feeling. Trigger had done it - he had defeated the daemon of his past, vanquishing the specter of failure cast by the horrific tragedy of Vincent Harling's death. He had faced it with everything he had learned and gained since then, and passed its final test.

He'd been expecting to feel a great rush, a thrill, at having brilliantly succeeded where his past self had so miserably failed.

But now... Now it simply felt like the end of just another mission. Nothing special, no fanfare, as if it had been as routine as finishing a routine CAP flight.

«This is Basilisk Two-Two. Basilisk One-Six has been WIA, so I'm assuming command. Be advised that civilian CASEVAC is underway.»

«Copy that, Two-Two. What about the Princess?»

«We've already got her onboard a helo. We'll be taking her back to base for a full medical workup, so we'd appreciate you staying on for just a little longer until she gets to safety.»

«Way too easy, Basilisk. We'll stick around until everyone goes home.»

Still... Trigger was satisfied with the outcome. Perhaps now, at least, the recurring nightmares from that day would stop. And if ever that old daemon returned, to remind him, accuse him, he would point to the events of this day and declare resolutely, 'No. I beat you. Go away, or I'll do it again.'

He leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes. Nothing interrupted him, for there was nothing left to worry about.

There was only peace.

---

General Resource Head Office
Port Edwards, Northeastern Usea
15 June 2020

Gilbert Park burst into his thirteenth-floor office, looking out over the vast, glittering metropolis that made up the Port Edwards skyline. It was late. He'd been traveling and on the move for most of the last ten days, and he had been in a very irritable mood for the last nine of them.

The Space Elevator had slipped right out of his grasp. He'd almost had it in the bag, and then he didn't. The single largest energy production and distribution facility on the planet Earth had remained just beyond his reach. Several times it had been tantalizingly close, close enough to taste even, but something would always be there to deny it to him, often at the last possible moment.

Everything he'd done, from strong-arming the native rabble in Shilage, to partnerships with that naive idiot Princess Cossette... all of it had been to secure the Space Elevator for the glory of General Resource - and thus, himself. But not only did he have to carefully manage the Princess' mistrust, but there was also the hostile takeover of the Space Elevator by that scheming bastard Schroeder. And then the IUN had the brilliant idea to intervene right at the end, when everyone was distracted. They were the ones who lapped up the credit for kicking out Doctor Schroeder's flying circus, claiming everything for themselves.

The return on this investment was less than zero - in fact, the firm had lost money, suffering major damages, equipment writeoffs, and an unusually high employee turnover. It seemed the universe itself had conspired to rob Gilbert Park of his prize, and he did not like that.

'Damn that woman!' Park snarled, gesturing theatrically with his fists at no one in particular. 'And damn the whole IUN right along with her! And damn that Doctor Schroeder too! I am Gilbert Park! That Space Elevator was as good as mine. But they all ruined it! This humiliation will not stand!'

Still smoldering, he swept his desk clear in frustration, then wrenched open his private bar cabinet.

'One day, I will have my revenge!' he growled, pausing his monologue to retrieve and break open a bottle of fine Shilagian plum brandy, belching loudly as the fiery liquid gurgled down his gullet. 'I will destroy them all! Even if it takes another twenty years... I will hunt them to the ends of the Earth, into the very depths of cyberspace if necessary!'

'Perhaps I can help you with that.' said Abyssal Dision, suddenly appearing in the doorway behind him.

Whirling around, Park shot him a venomous glare. 'What do you mean?'

Dision, however, replied only with a smile.

End of Chapter FIVE

---

Assault Record #7 - Trigger
Aircraft: F-22A Raptor
Rank: Captain
Unit: 124th Tactical Fighter Squadron "Strider", Long Range Strategic Strike Group, Osean Air Defense Force
Nationality: Osean

Dossier:
A gifted Osean fighter pilot with a mysterious background. His first posting was to the 508th Tactical Fighter Squadron "Mage", with which he served during the early battles of the Lighthouse War. In particular, he seemed to have a tendency to always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, able to navigate battlefields and predict enemy movements as though he'd seen them all before, multiple times.

However, after being convicted of assassinating former President Vincent Harling on June 6, 2019, he was stripped of his rank and sentenced to join the 444th Fighter Squadron "Spare" - a penal unit. Despite appalling conditions, Trigger served honorably, leading to his case being reopened and his name cleared. After his conviction was overturned, he was swiftly handpicked to join the elite Long Range Strategic Strike Group.

Remaining under scrutiny by the OIA and military intelligence, Trigger became notable not just for his outstanding combat record, but also the unusually low friendly casualty rates observed in the missions he participated in. These anomalies made him the subject of a quiet but fierce debate to determine whether to retain him an asset, or eliminate him as a national security threat. The first category would emerge victorious after the events of Operation Domino on September 10; with the conclusion that the increased survival rate of friendly forces in Trigger's vicinity outweighed all of the other risks.

Trigger would remain with the LRSSG for the rest of the war, achieving among other things:
▪ Leading the destruction of the Erusean Navy's Njord Fleet during Operation Siren's Song
▪ Participating in Operation Dragon Breath, resulting in the destruction of the first of two FAS Arsenal Bird units ("Justice")
▪ Tracking and sinking the rogue Erusean submarine "Alicorn" during Operation Fisherman
▪ Spearheading the Osean offensive at the Battle for Farbanti; Operation Giant's Step
▪ Defeating the legendary Prince Mihaly Dumitru Margareta Corneliu Leopold Blanca Karol Aeon Ignatius Raphael Maria Niketas Archange of Shilage in single aerial combat during Operation Beehive
▪ Delivering the final blow that destroyed the second of two FAS Arsenal Bird units ("Liberty") during Operation Daredevil
▪ Destroying the two AI-controlled ADF-11F Raven drones; designed by Doctor Schroeder, and implanted with the flight data of the legendary Prince Mihaly Dumitru Margareta Corneliu Leopold Blanca Karol Aeon Ignatius Raphael Maria Niketas Archange of Shilage - during Operation Hush

After the war, the LRSSG's wartime mission transitioned to a peacekeeping garrison role. This remained until Doctor Schroeder's invasion and occupation of the Space Elevator on June 2, 2020, taking hostage Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea. The IUN intervened on June 6, where once again, Trigger and the LRSSG led the IUN forces - securing air superiority and providing critical support for the Basilisk air assault unit to move in and rescue Princess Cossette, and ultimately liberate the Space Elevator.

Trigger continues to serve the Osean Air Defense Force today as part of the reorganized IUN peacekeeping forces.

---

Author's Notes:
▪ If you've made it this far... thank you! Hope you enjoyed the ride :)
▪ Quick! How many AC3 characters can you find in this chapter?
▪ This story took much longer than I would have liked, but the main part is done - all that remains is a single epilogue to tie up all of the other loose ends, and give a small glimpse of the near-future of Strangereal...
▪ Wit and Seymour were originally supposed to appear in this chapter (as shown in the ending of Side Story: Poison Pill)... but they don't. Let's just say they were late to the game and missed out on all the fun