"So..." Nicole stared at the wall. "You know, I should have known. The way you'd always get nervous whenever I asked where Larry was."
The other end of the phone hung in silence. "Yeah. I tried not to lie to you. But I didn't tell you the truth, either."
She just let the static crackle into her ear.
"He never told you, huh? Always did seem like the kind of man to gloat. Guess he kept good on his promise."
"What promise?" She raised an eyebrow, shock giving way to curiosity.
The pilot watched as the Eagle burst into flames, a terrible, horrifying rage building inside of him as the radio filled his ears with static that gave way to that voice. That. Damned. Voice.
"So," the edges of a rough chuckle snuck their way past the radio's noise. "We finally got one of the rats." A somber seriousness crept in, taking the pilot by surprise, as his adversary seemed to mumble to himself. "I'm… sorry, Katya. But your… your sacrifice…" He took a heavy breath.
The enemy ace shook his head, checking his radar. "You and me, now, mercenary."
True to his name, his hate escaping his lips, the mercenary pilot called Cerberus growled, the fiery rage of Hell turning his mind to one, sole, overwhelming thought. The Fed dies. Now.
The two planes stuck to each other in a dance of knives, tracer rounds cutting across the setting sun. "I know you. There are always pilots like you, mercenary."
The pilot huffed. "I don't think you do." He pulled his plane, the grey-and-blue-painted Sk.37 inching into view as he watched vapor condense across the Peacekeeper's wings, the over-G alarms blaring through the radio.
"You think you're above judgement." The Magadanian grit his teeth, practically about to spit into the mic. "You care about two things. Money, and legacy. But consequences? Those aren't even a consideration!" The Peacekeeper took a deep breath, furious and dripping with venom.
The pilot huffed into his oxygen mask, tightening his grip on the stick as he watched the G-indicator on his HUD climb, pushing the Eagle's airframe to its limits to even try and keep up with the nimbler plane, the Sk.37 turning into him. 2.5. 3.9. 5.7. 6.3—
The pilot shouted, the blood-curdling rage shaking the hardened plastic of the respirator, as he squeezed the trigger, howling like a demon, his vision red not from negative-G but from bloodlust. Tracer rounds ripped across his vision as the blue-tipped wings of the F/C-15 passed across the top of the grey-camouflaged Sk.37, pilots locking eyes but for a moment as they shot by.
"Look around, mercenary!" The radio crackled. "See the smouldering remains of a shattered nation? Behold, the work of your hands!" The Peacekeeper snarled. "If you ever have to ask yourself why the flag of the Federation still flies over Oceania… you have only yourself and your greed to blame!"
"Greed?" The merc grit his teeth, almost growling. "Last I checked, you bastards funneled weapons to the Loyalists for years! It's your goddamn greed for power that started this whole bloody war!" The next turn was coming up, and he let the G's kick his chest as he pulled towards the Sk.37, the lightened load of his plane the only thing that let him keep up with the impossibly sharp turns of the Peacekeeper's jet.
"How many times I have heard that sorry excuse, murderer. You say it was to break the Loyalists' will to fight. But can you see inside a soul, mercenary? Can you tell a Loyalist from a Separatist from thirty thousand feet? Can you see allegiances from on high?" The pilot fought against the force of the G's, the edges of his vision starting to turn black, the metal of his wings creaking. The HUD filled his vision, the radar gunsight ever so slowly creeping over the Sk.37, its pilot struggling out taunting, haunting words.
"This is my promise to you, mercenary. I will crush you under the weight of your sins." Heavy breathing filled the radio. "I will strike you from every record. Your legend will be stillborn, your myth shot in the cradle. I know you, mercenary. You seek glory. Fame. Wealth. I cannot strip you of your blood money. But I hold the pen of history. I will leave you with only blood."
SHOOT, it prompted him. He obliged, pulling the trigger past the detent, the spinning whirrr of the rotary gun shaking the airframe. Where there should have been a storm of vengeant fire, there was nothing but a few stray tracers followed by nothing but the roar of the engines and the hum of the spinning barrels. He shook his head. GUN 000, the HUD read.
The mercenary's breath shook. Shouting in frustration, he pulled back hard on the flight stick, pitching to plant his velocity vector right on the Peacekeeper's plane, before burying the errant, rage-blinded thought and letting it go.
I… no. I won't die today. Even if it means that Feddie bastard… lives.
He checked the fuel state. Not much, but… he resigned himself to his fate. It'll have to be enough. The Flanker turned in on its prey, and the Peacekeeper found his adversary turning away.
"Coward!" The Peacekeeper snarled. "A cornered mercenary, running like a rat. I see the act is over."
Tracers streaked over his vision as he jinked the Eagle, burning as hard as he possibly could to run as far as he possibly could.
"A legion of damned souls owe their torment to you, mercenary! Compared to their curse, I am but a mercy!" More gunfire. He rolled the plane this way and that, the nose of the Eagle entwined in a tango with thirty-millimeter rounds.
The Peacekeeper shouted, rage dripping from his mic. "Quit running! Accept defeat! Face justice! Die, coward!"
Another burst of gunfire. Another narrow escape.
"No," the Peacekeeper mumbled to an unheard command, the master caution blaring in the radio. "I've got him right here..."
"Shut up about the meter, I have enough fuel! I can take him down and come home— I know it's tight! I can make it!"
Over the radio, the Peacekeeper snarled. "God-dammit!... Acknowledged, Crystal Kingdom."
His tone turned stone-cold. "You should have taken my offer, mercenary. It would have been an easier way out. Remember my promise. I am a man of my word."
The Flanker turned off his tail, a final, parting gift of tracers for the mercenary to jink and dodge.
As the sun set over Oceania, all there was left for the mercenary to do was wither and die.