That probably helped, because there wasn't much time to think.

She didn't have time to listen to Gabi's stunned gasp.

She didn't have time to listen to Phil's shocked "What the fuck?"

She didn't have time to listen to the slow yet ephemeral shake enter into Zmei's breath and leave not one second later.

"I confirm," Bluejay stared at the console, dazed. "Splash one Peacekeeper." He blinked, shaking his head, and squinted at the radar display. "You know, maybe you Dusties are on to something after all…" the AWACS steeled his glare, and returned to his usual duties. "Whatever the fuck it is you're doing… do more of it!"

She breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

In. Out.

Methodical. Constant. The sound of her breath hitting the oxygen mask wiped the echoes of panic away— panic was for those who didn't know better. That's what Uncle Brian had always told her. Pilots didn't panic.

The ones who did didn't live long.

As the world came back into focus, there were six enemy contacts on her radar and a shrill tone from her radar warning receiver. Training and instinct coupled together into a harmony hellbent on helping her draw one more breath. On living one more second.

She pulled her plane into the missile's radar notch, strands of aluminum-coated glass chaff scattered into the wind as it sailed far too close for comfort.

It's them or me. She had come to that conclusion not minutes before, but it hadn't been real until the shockwave rocked her plane. The radar display beckoned her— six contacts. Pick one. Pick one and kill it. No different than usual, no? It was routine. It was her job. Just do your job. Just do your job. Just do your—

Her hands moved as her attention snapped to her HUD. A ring. A box. On the ring, three arrows and a line— a clock's hand, running counter to wind down the seconds on her former comrade's life, each tick bringing them closer and closer. By six o'clock the HUD said she could fire. By two-thirty, whoever was on the other side was dead or lucky.

It was five minutes to six.

Three.

Do you want to live with that?

Two.

Do your job. Two-thirty.

One.

Shoot here and they can dodge if they're good. Your friends are good.

Six o'clock struck as she passed into the missile's range. Contrails filled her vision as her allies and adversaries alike shouted over the radio. The range gauge on the HUD kept counting down.

Do your job. They would never call you a friend again.

"Polaris Three, Fox Three times two!" Jackal's F/C-15 shot two radar-guideds towards the broken Federation formation, the aircraft weaving and turning as they vectored themselves into launch range, launch angles, gliding through radar notches with trails of chaff as missiles sped towards them with the effortless grace that since Oceania only a Peacekeeper squadron, even the lowest of them all, could put uncontested claim to— barring, if you believed the legends, the Crown.

She'd never see the truth behind those legends unless they got through these six planes.

A pilot of that skill certainly wouldn't be… completely impossible. Not when she watched the radar signatures of Midnight Squadron, a bad Peacekeeper team, dance across the sensors as they did now.

"Polaris Three, missiles failed to connect." Bluejay chirped over the radio. Burn, it seemed, had gotten lucky. "Jackal— you've got incoming, evade!"

"Got it, Bluejay—" The F/C-15 pulled, vapor rushing over the wings as he tried to beat the missile.

Burn had gotten lucky. As IRIS checked her surroundings, scanning the horizon for anything her aircraft's sensors had missed, it was clear that Jackal hadn't.

Holy shit, she blinked. Bluejay's anxious chatter landed on deaf ears as her survival instincts rushed her conscious mind, throttling her compassion by the neck. Them or us, dumbass! Them or US!

She turned her attention to her HUD.

Two minutes to two-thirty.

"Polaris Six…"

One.

"Fox Three."

The clock struck, and a missile dropped off its pylon, rocket motor kicking it into the vast blue skies. They're in no-escape range. She cycled to another target, a similar distance away— just outside, but she wouldn't take the risk. Visual range wasn't that far away, after all. "Polaris Six, Fox Three." She had run out of the medium range missiles— she hadn't brought many; after all, they wouldn't be as useful in the almost sure furball over Presidia as Sidewinders. "Polaris Six is skosh."

"Copy, Six," Bluejay told her. "Great. One of ours is already out of radar-guideds." He didn't say the rest of the sentence. And another two are dead. "By the way… I'm tracking, and… good contact— Polaris Six, splash one Agile Eagle!"

Fed channels lit up. "We lost DASH!"

Gabi? DASH had been like an older sister to her— not one without their own problems, but one who was more than capable of solving hers. I killed— No, her instincts growled. Your. Job. The faint outlines of aircraft on the horizon moved ever closer, until their colors and silhouettes were visible.

Three canarded Eagles.

Three Super Hornets.

All painted in the same colors as the plane she flew.

The Fed channel squawked. "I see them, coming into visual— three contacts, Midnight One. Eagle, Falcon, and… Hornet. Wait—"

Her mentor's voice shook her to her core. "I... see them. I see her."

"The goddamn traitor," the other voice— Ranger, Midnight Four, Phil— snarled. "Was wondering when she'd show her face. Wait… do you think…"

"Yes." Her mentor's tone remained stoic. "Can you hear me, Lieutenant Khoury?"

She didn't dare reply. Fear locked her in place as the silhouettes grew larger and larger. All she could do was breathe. In. Out. In. Out. She flicked her thumb across the selector switch until 9M hung against her HUD.

"Guess not, boss. Don't think she can."

"No." Zmei's voice was eerily constant, calm. "Our wayward friend is finally confronting the consequences of her betrayal. Of her cowardice."

He wasn't smiling. He wasn't snarling.

"Give her a minute to gather her thoughts. Let the traitor die understanding her deeds."

Bluejay gripped the handhold on the radar display, sweat beading on his face. "Three Polaris and three Cygnus on… five Peacekeepers. I don't like your odds—" An explosion at the corner of her vision interrupted the AWACS' speech as an infrared missile found its target. "Make that three Polaris and two Cygnus. All CIF callsigns, break, break!"

She sent her plane evasive, the G-forces kicking her stomach as she steadied herself, readying a reply. She didn't see any inbound heaters yet. Are they going to kill me last?

The radio crackled. "ALCON, ALCON— This is Independence Force HQ, representing the free and civil government of Cascadia. All active units, stand down. I repeat, all units currently engaged, cease fighting immediately."

"Fuck that!" Dagger grit her teeth. "They're still coming after us!"

"Well maybe if we stop, they will—" IRIS held her tongue. Do you want them to hate you too?

"Normally I'm not one to break orders, but you want to tell them that?" Burn replied.

"They… they've reached a ceasefire." The AWACS grinned. "Presidia is ours."

"Then why aren't the bastards ceasing fire?"

The blue skies were a weave of contrails as the planes still vectored for each other, the growl of heatseekers echoing in the pilots' ears. "See? I've got a missile on me!" Polaris Four, Dagger, dumped flares. "Breaking!" As the F/C-15 turned with its trail of embers, Dagger saw the missile go wide and grinned. IRIS heard it in her comms: "Polaris Four, missile trashed!"

The Federation channel buzzed. "All Federation military forces operating within the territory of Cascadia are to stand down and evacuate. This is an order from your Prime Executive, effective immediately."

She could do nothing but watch as a second Sidewinder, shot just before the call, streaked straight for the undercarriage of the Eagle, but as its warhead transformed into flame and shrapnel, a blinding flash from the distance overtook the pilots' vision, and the world ended again.