Chapter Nine: Trust and Tests
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444th Air Base, Zapland.
July 1st, 2019.
1600hrs.
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Naomi leaned her head back against the smooth walls of her new friend, solitary confinement. McKinsey had not been happy that they'd shot down the bombers without his permission, so he sent them all to solitary, insisting they miss out on breakfast and lunch and they could come back out before dinnertime. The cell was dark, way too hot and dusty, but there was enough room for her to just barely move around. Coughing fits hadn't been uncommon in the last few hours, and she could even hear her fellow inmates coughing every once and a while.
It had been a little after nine o' clock when they'd been thrown in there, and as the day dragged on, the hotter it became. This had to be some form of torture, right? It gave her time to think, yes, but not about what she'd done wrong. No, it made her think about whether or not McKinsey was sane. It also made her think about how she'd rather be in Osea, or back at Fort Grays, not stuck in this hell hole.
At last, the sound of footsteps and guards talking came from outside and she heard the latch on the cell door open up. She squinted against the sudden sunlight before someone grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her out of the cell, dropping her onto the hard ground. Naomi grunted, coughing as more dirt filled her lungs. Her eyes adjusted and she rolled over to look around her, feeling a little. Count put a hand to his head as he sat up, groaning a few feet away. Soon they were joined by Tabloid, Full Band, and soon enough the entire squadron had been released from solitary.
"There," one of the guards snapped at them, taking a step back away. "I hope that taught you all a lesson." He looked at the wristwatch he had and then at the setting sun in the distance. "Dinner is in an hour. You have until then to wash up and get your worthless asses in gear." Naomi glared at them as she stood up. She attempted to follow the others as she began to drag their feet to the showers, but the guard stopped her. "Hold on, there, Trigger. McKinsey wants to speak with you before you go, so you're coming with me. The rest of you, stop wasting time and hurry it along!"
Naomi began a tired walk alongside the guard as he accompanied her away from the area where they kept the cells for solitary. The main building wasn't too far away from the yard, so it was only about a three minute walk through the scorching heat. The guards didn't look at all uncomfortable in the weather, then again, they hadn't been locked away to be toasted for six or seven hours. The only thing that didn't keep her from falling to her knees from exhaustion was the thought of the air conditioning inside the building.
Once inside the dirty gray building, she let out a sigh of relief and took a long, deep breath. It wasn't exactly what one could consider fresh air, but it was cold and it was probably the cleanest they had around this dump. The guard continued his escort to McKinsey's office, reaching the door and giving it a firm knock. McKinsey called out to them, "What do you want?"
"It's Sergeant Baker, sir," the guard replied. "I've brought you Harling's murderer, just like you requested."
There was a pause on the other side before McKinsey answered, "Go ahead and let her in." The guard opened the door and like they had on her first day, he shoved her inside and slammed it shut behind her. The office was darker now that it wasn't receiving any direct sunlight. In the torn up couch by the window, the Scrap Queen was sitting, her arms spread across the back and a leg with a brace on it was stretched out. She looked pissed, and most of her anger seemed directed at McKinsey, although she gave a cold look when Naomi entered the office. McKinsey greeted her. "Well, Trigger, how'd you like your first trip to solitary?"
Naomi scowled at him. "It was fine," she lied, not wanting him to see that she was feeling the long term effects from it. And to think the heat had been the only thing on her mind. Right now, the air conditioning was probably all that was keeping her from collapsing. She regarded Avril curiously before she crossed her arms and turned back to McKinsey. "Is there some reason you called me here, Commander? Because I'd really like to shower and get something to eat. Unless, of course, you're revoking my food privileges like you did to Count and Champ the last time you tossed them in solitary?"
"No, you're still allowed to eat. For now, at least, but don't try my patience," McKinsey warned. Nodding to Avril, he turned the subject around to why he'd had her brought there to begin with. "I've spoken with Avril just now about the cell situation. I want some cells at the ready in case we get more prisoners, so I'm putting the two of you together to save space. I figured you should be formally introduced to one another. Avril, this is Trigger. Trigger, Avril. If you're thinking about having a little catfight, go ahead and get it out of your system. I expect you both to at least act like you get along."
Avril let out an impatient huff, standing up and limping towards Naomi. She hadn't paid attention to the limp or the leg brace to begin with. How'd she get that? Naomi wondered, looking her up and down. Avril was only about an inch taller than she was, with tanned skin stained with grease and a messy black pixie-cut. She was at least two or three years older than her, Naomi would have guessed. As Avril drew closer, Naomi tensed up, bracing herself for some sort of argument to ensue. Instead, the woman simply held out her hand and said gruffly and matter-of-factly, "I'll help you move your stuff in. The bottom bunk's mine."
Naomi hesitated, unsure what to think. Avril was a rough type, just like everyone else in the unit, it would seem. Finally, she accepted the handshake, holding back a wince as their hands made contact. Although she didn't know why she should have expected much less, Naomi was taken aback by the roughness of Avril's hand. Calluses and dirt made her skin dry, and Naomi recognized this as some form of 'Mechanic's Hands' as they were so appropriately called. They both let go at the same time, Naomi subconsciously wiping her hands on her flight suit. Avril must have noticed, since the corners of her mouth twitched, as if fighting off a deeper scowl.
They both looked to McKinsey, waiting for permission to leave. He had turned away from them, but seemed to sense them staring at him. Without looking up, he waved a hand to dismiss them, "Go on and get outta here. I've got nothin' else to say to the two of you. If I hear about any fighting, you're both going on a long trip to solitary. Understood?" Both of them gave stiff nods in response. "Good. Dismissed. Send in the guards in on your way out."
Avril led the way, practically yanking the door open, not watching to make sure she didn't nearly hit Naomi, who followed foolishly close behind. Naomi clenched her jaw and stepped out, noticing Avril didn't say anything to the guards as she limped past them. "McKinsey wants a word with you, Sergeant Baker," she said, offering him a fake grin and gesturing behind her with her thumb. "Thanks for the escort, boys." The plan to keep her mouth shut was really hard to follow, so she decided that from here on out she could just wing it and hope for the best. She was a pilot after all.
"Hey, kid!" Naomi looked up to see Avril waiting for her by the door, an impatient look on her face. How the hell did she get all the way over there that fast? The building setup was somewhat odd, yes, but one might think it would still be difficult to navigate with one leg. "If you don't want to starve then I suggest you get your ass moving and stop harassing the guards. I can assure you, they hate you enough as it is." Naomi took a deep breath to calm down before she followed the older woman. Avril didn't even flinch when she opened the door and stepped into the scorching summer heat. Naomi didn't want to leave the air conditioning, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter.
The weather had cooled off now that the day was starting to come to an end. It wasn't much of an improvement, but a light, comfortable breeze helped with the adjustment, even if it scattered some dust in her face. Avril limped along as fast as she could to get back to the cellblock, and Naomi found that she was surprisingly agile, in spite of having a stiff, uncooperative metal and plastic brace attached to her leg. Naomi took an interest in this, fishing for conversation starters and running with the first one she found. "So…uh…Avril, is it? What'd you do to your leg?"
She fixed Naomi with a cold stare, dark brown eyes looking surprisingly icy. Naomi didn't shrink away, instead she chose to focus on her surroundings as Avril took her sweet time answering. Finally, she gave a gruff, simple response, "A bad crash landing. Wound up with a concussion and this damned thing." It seemed as though she purposefully made it straightforward and simple. She summed the whole story up so she didn't have to have any further discussion. Clever little tactic, but if Naomi was going to have to share a cell with her in this hellhole then she might as well get to know her.
"So, you were a pilot then?" Naomi prodded, knowing enough of her background to know why she was here. But she wanted to try and bond with her fellow inmate and woman, even if Avril didn't seem interested in it. "Pretty cool…so, I guess you were in the air force?" Avril glanced at her, shaking her head firmly. There was a change in her expression when Naomi asked the question. She wouldn't pry any further there. "Well…okay, not in the air force then…so how'd a civilian pilot like yourself wind up as a mechanic for a penal unit?"
Avril sighed with frustration and stopped abruptly, placing her hands on her hips and turning around to look Naomi straight in the eyes. "Listen to me carefully," she said sternly. "I don't know you, and I have no desire to know you. You don't deserve my trust and you don't deserve to know my life story, or whatever the hell it is you're trying to get at. We're cellmates and that's as close as we're gonna get. Got it?" Naomi nodded, finding that she wasn't all that surprised by Avril's reaction.
Everyone here just seemed to genuinely hate everyone and everything. Maybe even themselves. Could she really blame them? Naomi looked out at the desolate runway and hangars, the damaged control tower, the razor wire fence, then at the building where all the cells were housed. The answer was simple. She really couldn't. This place would beat the fight and cheerfulness out of just about anybody. It was only just now starting to get to her, now that she realized no one around her was anything like her squadron at Fort Grays. They do say that you never know what you have until it's gone.
The pair made their way inside and down the dim hallway, past empty cells. Avril stopped at her cell, sliding the door open. "Here we are," she said flatly, placing her hands on her hips again and shifting her weight off of her injured leg. "Home sweet home." Naomi looked inside it. Not much different from her own cell, other than the fact that the bed was on a different side of the cell, off to the right when you entered. Adding to the different position, it was a cell with a bunk bed, made to accommodate more than one person. By the sink, there was a hole in the wall, likely the place that the rats called their home base.
Naomi gestured to her old cell, right beside the one she now shared with Avril. "Let me just go and grab my bag. It'll only take a second." Indeed, she simply stepped into her already open cell, grabbed her duffle bag off of the cot and snatched up the bar of soap as well. Since two people would be using the soap, now, the faster it would be before they ended up needing a replacement. Just because the area around them was filthy didn't mean they had to let their personal hygiene suffer for it just to blend in. Naomi set the newer bar of soap beside the smaller, used bar on the sink, tossing her bag up on the top bunk. She looked back at Avril, standing in the entrance to the cell. "There. All moved in."
"Great, now let's lay down some house rules," Avril said with a fake smile. "First and most importantly: We're not friends. Second: I don't do any girly gossip or chit chatting about guys or celebrities. I frankly don't give a damn about either, so keep it to yourself. Third: You better be on your best behavior. This means no threats, no giving me any reason to think you might kill me in my sleep, and no 'fantasizing' about anyone or anything. Four: No talking when I'm trying to fall asleep." She paused and thought for a moment. "Yeah, that should be it. I'll tell you if I can think of any others. Any comments?"
"Well, none. But I would like to tell you that those rules should be pretty easy to follow for several reasons. One: I never thought we were. Two: I don't do that and I don't give a damn about them either. Three: Why would I do any of those? And four: I fall asleep pretty fast, so no worries there." Naomi played it cool. It was all true, so she had no reason to lie to make herself look better. "Believe me, you'll hardly know that I'm here. And we can avoid each other as much as possible if you'd prefer that. Sound good?"
Avril took a moment to consider this before she nodded slowly. "Fine by me." She turned around and began to limp away, leaving Naomi alone in the cell. "See you around," the mechanic called over her shoulder. "Watch your back out there." Naomi watched her leave, hearing the sound of the main door let out a metallic screech as it was opened. She heard Avril's uneven footsteps slowly fade off.
Sighing and taking a look around, she took a quick look around the cell. The guards did sweeps of their cells before they went to bed, sometimes during the day while they were out, just to make sure they didn't sweep any weapons in or anything that wasn't permitted. At the same time, Naomi didn't exactly trust the prisoners here. They seemed sneaky enough so that if they didn't want something found, you wouldn't find it. Avril was no exception, and she wanted to make sure that her new cellmate wasn't hiding a wrench or something in here that she could bludgeon her with.
The search turned up nothing, not that she expected much to come from it, so Naomi set aside her worries and grabbed a change of clothes so she could hit the shower. Outside, the sky had started to turn a mix of purple, red, and orange as the sun began to sink lower and lower beyond the horizon. The dark blue that had been present throughout the day was nearly impossible to make out in the mix of colors. It was beautiful, but the massive fences and guard towers and overall mood of the base around them took away from it. Naomi found it difficult to appreciate it a whole lot.
Everyone had gone in for dinner now, only a few guards outside. The most activity came from the runway. Naomi could hear a barking sound coming from that direction, and as she glanced that way she could make out the silhouette of a man and a dog playing what appeared to be fetch. The sound of the animal's handler praising it carried on the wind, and the dog seemed more than happy for the break from its normal duties of guarding prisoners all day. She managed a small smile at this, perhaps realizing that the guards did have some sort of emotions was comforting in a way. That and it was nice to see something with more life than the prisoners around her. At least the guards' dogs were enjoying their life.
Shaking her head, she continued on her way.
444th Air Base, Zapland.
July 2nd, 2019.
0900hrs.
Another day in hell started right on schedule. They were all woke up at 0400hrs, then sent to help clean up any damage done by their battle the previous day. After a few hours they were allowed breakfast, and then McKinsey was kind enough to give them the rest of the day to take care of their planes. While Avril and the other mechanics worked on minor repairs, the pilots took care of the cleaning of their fighters, fixing the dents, and touching up the paint. Dirty soap and discolored water coated most of the hangar floors as they worked with what little they were given.
Each hangar, when the squadron wasn't being scrambled, had as many planes as it could hold without creating any issues crammed inside. The hangar Naomi's plane was in also held Count's Su-33, Tabloid's Mirage 2000-5, Full Band's F/A-18, and lastly Champ's MiG-29. Each pilot worked with their own plane, mostly keeping to themselves. Full Band was lucky enough to have an WSO to help him out. Naomi hadn't paid any of her new squadron much mind that day. High Roller and Tabloid had sat with her at dinner the night before, but Tabloid wasn't very talkative that day.
Growing tired of the silence, Naomi sighed and brushed some sweat off of her brow. She glanced over at Count, who was busying himself with scrubbing the canopy. The rest of the plane was still a mess, with Count working one section at a time and spending a lot of time on each one. The tail had been the first part he'd taken care of, likely so his personal emblem was visible under the grime. Luckily he didn't have obtrusive white lines.
Turning towards Tabloid with a topic in mind, now, she tried to start a conversation. "Hey, Tabloid?" He perked up and turned around upon hearing his name. "I've got a question for you."
"Alright, shoot," he said. "What's on your mind?"
"I was just thinking about something. What do these damned lines on the tails of our planes signify?" she asked him.
She didn't have to wait long for an answer. Tabloid gave a dry chuckle, "Oh, yeah. Only a matter of time before that one came up. Y'see, they're here as a mark of our crimes. Something to remind us that we're worthless in their eyes."
"So, what do the differences in the number of them mean? I noticed Champ has two, you, Count, and Full Band only have one. Why's that?" Naomi elaborated on her question. She heard an echoing laugh from where Full Band was as he ducked under Tabloid's plane and approached them, wiping his hands with a dirty rag. She raised an eyebrow as he stopped to stand beside Tabloid, his laughter slowly dying off. "Something funny, Full Band?"
He shook his head, slinging the rag over his shoulder. "Yeah, how naive you kids are. Allow me to educate you," Full Band said. "In this unit, you get your tail marked with scratches; the more scratches, the more heinous the crime. We call 'em 'sin lines'. Most of us have one, Champ and Wrestler have two, and as for you..." He trailed off, eyes flicking towards her plane's tail. Naomi frowned and followed his gaze before looking back at Full Band. He gave a small smile. "You see, you have three scratches, right Trigger?" She nodded in response. "Well, no surprise there. After all, you are Harling's murderer."
"Who came up with the idea to mark our planes up like that?" Naomi asked. "Was it McKinsey?"
To her surprise, it was Count that answered. He practically slid down from the ladder pressed up against his plane, his feet hitting the ground with a small, wet clack before he made his way over to the small group. He came up behind Naomi, pretending to examine her plane before he casually replied with, "Only partly. Bandog had some say in it too." Naomi blinked, giving him a curious look.
Count sighed and offered forward an explanation, "Oh, that's right. I forgot, you're still new here. Well, Bandog, as you see, hates us. And on top of that, he takes every chance he can to remind us that we're worthless as far as Osea is concerned. As a way to dehumanize us, he suggested to McKinsey that he mark our tails with these stupid sin lines so the only thing that matters is our crimes. It makes our deaths a bit easier to live with, so they don't feel like there's any blood on their hands."
"That seems awfully…harsh." Naomi commented, looking down at the ground.
Count shrugged. "Yeah, well, welcome to the 444th Squadron."
"He's right," Tabloid answered. "That's just the way things are around here. And if you don't like it, well, there's always a cell they're more than happy to send you to in solitary." Naomi watched as they all returned to their planes, the conversation ending just as quickly as it had begun. Tabloid lingered for a moment, as if wracking his brain for a way to continue the conversation. In the end, he simply sighed and went to find a wrench.
Taking a last look at her 'sin lines', Naomi went back to cleaning her plane before McKinsey or the guards monitoring them got upset and threw them in solitary because they weren't doing what they were supposed to be at the time.
Erusea Air and Space Administration, Erusea.
July 3rd, 2019.
1300hrs.
The faint roar of an engine caught the attention of the base personnel one hot summer afternoon. The pilots from Mihaly's squadron took a break from work to see what the commotion was about. Even Schroeder pulled himself away from his computer to look out of the hangar and out at the runway. A transport plane had just landed and was slowly coming to a stop. Mihaly's granddaughters were standing side by side, patiently — yet eagerly — awaiting the plane, with Mihaly watching from his seat just outside the hangar. Schroeder wasn't aware of anyone coming out to visit, but nearly everyone else seemed expectant.
Perhaps the ground crew simply didn't bother sharing that sort of information with the scientists working with Mihaly, or perhaps they themselves hadn't known until recently. But as the plane came to a stop, the elegant red rose emblem on its tail glinting briefly in the sun, it was clear that the newcomers were of some importance. What importance exactly, however, was a mystery to Schroeder. The door-like rectangle in the side of the plane slowly lowered down to the ground, revealing steps for its passengers to use to board and exit.
Schroeder watched as Ionela led the way to the plane, her sister trailing close behind. Out of the plane stepped a young woman, not much older than Ionela, dressed elegantly in all white, her golden hair held up by what appeared to be a simple, silver tiara. It shimmered as the sun hit it and Schroeder watched clearly as she looked out at her surroundings. Her expression was serious, and her face was familiar to Schroeder, although he couldn't place it. A lively golden retriever barked and leapt down from the steps, racing over to greet Ionela and Alma.
The young lady watched and gave a small laugh, her lips curling into a radiant smile as she followed her pet over to Mihaly's granddaughters. It was when he saw her smile and begin speaking with Ionela that Schroeder was able to recognize her. The fair, expressive features and perfect posture, coupled with the tiara and expensive, tailored dress and jacket she wore. This was Erusea's new ruler's daughter, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise. The TV in the crew room on the site always had ENN playing, and the princess — although only recently having turned eighteen — had been giving many speeches in the days following the war, traveling her country to visit different cities. Obviously loyal to her father and country, Schroeder wasn't surprised that so many in her own country, as well as others, seemed to adore her.
Schroeder kept his gaze fixed on the three of them, having an animated, cheerful conversation. It was obvious that the three knew one another from the way they were talking and had greeted one another. It didn't come as some sort of great shock. Just the night before, Mihaly had been speaking with his wingman about their lost nation. Mihaly held a great status at one time, having been the heir to the nation of Shilage. Shilage was now a state in Erusea and Mihaly barely spoke of his homeland any longer. Schroeder could easily see how the Erusean royal family would have some sort of relationship with the Shilage family.
"Massa," Schroeder called out the name of his assistant, finding himself somewhat entranced while he was watching the princess speak. Even if he couldn't hear her, he now knew why so many listened to and took the time to watch her speeches. He wasn't much of a political man, preferring science and technology to humans and petty politics. Politics were behind most, if not all wars, in his eyes. Why should he pay attention to something so troublesome? Yet the princess seemed too young and kind for the brutality of war and politics. It seemed like a mistake to place her in such an important position when it came to moral and decision making. Surely there was a reason behind it, but Schroeder simply didn't see it.
He heard his assistant walk over to him upon hearing her name. She looked out at the plane and then to Schroeder. "Do you need something, Doctor?" Massa asked him, holding the files she was carrying close to her. He saw her shuffle them to get a better grip out of the corner of his eye. "If this is about the new flight suit for General Shilage, I put in the order just like you told me to. They're expecting it to be ready in the next few days. Hopefully by the 9th, since I asked if they could get it out to us ASAP. They gave me the estimate."
"Well, thank you. That is helpful..." Schroeder said cooly. Massa relaxed slightly at this. "But that isn't what I wanted to ask you." He nodded to the princess and prepared his question. "As you can see, the Erusean princess has paid us a visit. I was just wondering how she knew Mihaly's granddaughters. Did they attend school together or something like that?"
"Oh, yes, actually," Massa said with a smile. "Alma was talking about it to me just the other day. Ionela, too. You see, they went to the same high school. Since General Shilage is well respected by the royal family, the two families also had dinners and the Shilage family was invited other social activities, like parties and a few meetings. The princess and Ionela became rather close friends, from what I understand. Alma seemed more exited than her sister to see the princess again, come to think of it." Schroeder nodded as he listened to his assistant's explanation. Massa tapped her foot in mild impatience, not a fan of standing still for very long. "Do you need anything else, Doctor?"
Schroeder shook his head. "No, that's all. Thank you, Massa." The girl gave a nod before she went back to what she was doing, disappearing from sight. Outside, the three girls began to sing and Alma began to sway back and forth as if dancing, with the princess giving a laugh and joining in. Mihaly's wingmen all smiled at this, whereas Mihaly simply kept his stone cold expression, his head tilted up towards the blue sky. Only in his eyes, if you looked hard enough, could you find any signs that he even noticed his granddaughters and the princess singing and dancing. Neither the old pilot or his granddaughters seemed to even care that a war was waging on several miles away.
With a sigh, Schroeder took off his glasses and wiped them off with his coat before he made his way over to Mihaly. The ace didn't look away from the sky as Schroeder approached. "Good afternoon, Doctor," Mihaly greeted with a mild rasp. His voice was once as smooth and cold as Schroeder's was, but over time his throat became tender from his age and cough and he began to rasp out most — if not all — of his words. "How has your work been coming along?"
"It's coming along as well as it can, I suppose," he replied with a small shrug. "We're still downloading some of the data from your last sortie, but they should be ready before the day is out."
Mihaly gave a stiff nod. "Good." Short and to the point. Never a man of words. Schroeder had been working with him long before the start of the war, and yet Mihaly was always so guarded about his feelings. To some he seemed cold and detached, but his wingman and granddaughters seemed to love and trust him all the same. It was unusual to Schroeder to see everyone just naturally flock towards someone who rarely ever showed any emotion towards them. Mihaly seemed uncomfortable in the silence, briefly glancing at Schroeder. "Did you need something?"
Schroeder narrowed his eyes, trying to think up a good reason to stay here and take a break from his work. As ridiculous as it was and as dedicated as he was to his work, even he needed a break from it once in a while. Admittedly, he wasn't as invested in his work as he normally was, but he couldn't put his finger on the reason why. For the time being, he was blaming it on the slight hangover he had from the night before. Every night, most of the base went to the local bar for a social get together. Schroeder usually stayed away, but Massa suggested that he get out and about and socialize. He'd only had two drinks and a glass of water, but he didn't have a reputation for being able to hold his alcohol.
"Actually, now that you mention it, there was," Schroeder said at last. "I wanted to tell you that your new flight suit is on the way." This seemed to grab Mihaly's full attention, as he finally took his eyes away from the sky and gave Schroeder a look that invited him to continue. "A lot of modifications were made to the original this time. Hopefully it should be able to track your movements a lot smoother than before. Not to mention, it should be far more durable than the last."
Mihaly nodded slowly, looking away, satisfied with the answer. He watched as his granddaughters led the princess inside, the singing pausing briefly before Alma resumed, leaving her sister and the princess to talk with one another. Mihaly's wingmen gave small chuckles and picked up their own conversation. Mihaly took a deep breath and Schroeder saw him tense as he inhaled. It was a few seconds before he relaxed and slowly let out the air in his lungs. "I want to try it out during a sortie as soon as it arrives," Mihaly said at last.
Schroeder stared at him, incredulous. "You want to what?" He tried to keep the shock out of his voice. Mihaly didn't repeat himself, knowing just as well as Schroeder that he had made himself perfectly clear. "The suit needs to be tested first, sir. We need to make sure that it's in top condition. We don't know how it will affect your body or how it might limit your movements. The Osean forces are learning, General. Do you not remember your battle with those last two squadrons? The longer the war drags on —"
The general raised a hand to silence him, maintaining his calm composure. "The faster we collect the data, the quicker the war comes to an end. You said it yourself when I first agreed to serve as your test subject."
"True…" Schroeder admitted, lowering his gaze. "As much as I want to cut back our losses during battles, I don't believe it to be worth the risk of your health." He was trying to sound more confident and caring than he actually felt. Of course he didn't want to be responsible for Mihaly's health declining, although he was already contributing to it due to the failure of his recent flight suits. Mihaly was technically only his test subject but it was Schroeder's responsibility to keep him alive and in top condition. It could affect his flying and thus interfere with the data the drones received.
Mihaly paused for a moment. Schroeder was hoping he'd come to his senses and give in, agreeing to the tests, but Mihaly was a stubborn old man and stood his ground. "We've been wearing the flight suits out testing them so often," he said levelly. "We can see how it will hold up in an actual combat scenario. I need someone to match my skills and push me to the limits in order to know how well the suit will hold up. My own squadron are only capable of so much, however quickly they may be learning." He looked out at his wingmen, some sort of pride in his gaze. "I trained them myself. I know how they move and react to counter different maneuvers. There's no challenge in it."
Stubborn old fool, Schroeder couldn't help but think to himself. You're going to get yourself killed. He fought back a frown and gave a small nod. "Very well, then, General. I'll inform you when the flight suit arrives…" No response came to this, so Schroeder turned back to the hangar to start on his work again. Somewhere inside him, he knew Mihaly had a good point. Although the flight suit always held up during training and mock dogfights, Mihaly would have difficulties in real combat when he began to engage the enemy fighters.
Schroeder couldn't help but wonder what Mihaly meant by someone to 'match his skill', though. Was he really looking for a rival? An equal in the air, someone who challenged him enough to make a fight interesting. Very few were able to match Mihaly in the sky, although his pupils came incredibly close to it and the drones were improving every day thanks to his skill. Osea didn't have a single pilot that could rival Mihaly, Schroeder was confident of that.
In fact, only a few days before, Mihaly and his squadron tangled with two Osean squadrons. He took out a few of them, with the others critically damaged and barely surviving long enough to retreat. However, in spite of his victory, Mihaly showed them some respect for evading his attacks when he returned from the sortie, correcting the younger pilots that flew with him when the youngest made a cocky remark towards the Osean fighters. Respectful of their leader, the other pilots had been humbled and agreed that their opponents fought well.
Perhaps someone in the Osean forces was up to the task. Schroeder pushed aside the thought of how the war might end if such a person existed. Mihaly and the rest of his squadron would be overpowered and Erusea would begin to lose the war if that happened, and Schroeder wanted his drones to succeed. If someone rivaled Mihaly, they rivaled the drones too. His hard work — his only legacy — would be for nothing.
No longer wanting to think about the thought of Mihaly and Erusea meeting defeat, Schroeder forced himself to focus on his work. For now, he was certain that Erusea would win the war and Mihaly would remain the ever victorious ace he was. The drones would improve and soon other countries would realize that laying lives on the line was pointless. A new, technological era would begin and no longer would there be bloodshed during the ridiculous wars that seemed to never end. That sentiment gave Schroeder new energy to continue with his work that afternoon.
Still, there was still the off chance that somebody could still rise up to challenge Mihaly. It seemed inevitable the more Schroeder kept coming back to it, no matter how hard he tried to push it out of his mind. If or when that day came, how would Mihaly feel? And how would the pilot that might take him on feel about it? Schroeder wondered if the Oseans had the same sense of honor that Mihaly and the Erusean squadrons did towards their opponent.
444th Air Base, Zapland.
July 3rd, 2019.
1900hrs.
Naomi clutched the tray of the watery mashed potatoes and what they claimed was steak. For a steak it was a sorry one, all shriveled up and over cooked, likely dry and. Simply prodding at it with the reused plastic silverware they handed out did nothing but prove that it was stiff and probably disgusting as well. It's not as if the food at Fort Grays was professionally prepared or anything, but as an Osean officer suddenly thrown in with the lowlifes that her country didn't want, she realized how spoiled her tastes were after spending months on a sweet, safe little island.
Scanning the room, she weighed her seating options. She could sit with a rather angry looking group of guards awaiting their next shift by smoking and passing around a flask of what was likely whiskey, with a group of unfamiliar prisoners that looked…nice for the most part, but not exactly beaming with joy. Then there was Count's little pack or whatever the hell they were considered, minus Champ. Instead of Champ, a man that Naomi was unfamiliar with was sitting with them, one of the guard's dog's laying at his feet, underneath the table. A rather unusual sight.
They appeared invested in a game of poker, their dinner pushed aside. Unless she wanted to go back on her deal with Avril, then she had two options to choose from. The decision was ultimately made for her when High Roller took notice from her and grinned, looking away from the cards he was holding. Everyone else at the table did the same as their companion waved to get Naomi's attention. "Hey! Trigger, come on over here, why don't ya? We could always use another player." Naomi hesitated and High Roller picked up on this almost instantly. "C'mon, kid, we won't bite ya. If you won't play, at least come sit down for some conversation. Count and Tabloid are puttin' us to sleep over here — ow!"
He began to laugh and reached down to rub his leg which had no doubt been kicked by Count, who had an even more sour look than usual. Naomi slowly approached the table and set her tray down, taking a seat beside Tabloid. He gave a friendly smile. "Try not to look so nervous, Trigger. I think you'll find some of us are capable of behaving like gentlemen."
"What reality are you living in, Tabloid? Do we need to have your head examined?" the unfamiliar man scoffed, not bothering to mask the venom behind his words. Unlike the prisoners around her, he wore a uniform similar to Commander McKinsey's. Stained greenish-tan fatigues with a camouflage pattern and a few OADF patches on the shoulders. He was broad shouldered and had a rigid, stiff posture. He had short, dark hair that Naomi couldn't tell the exact color of. The lighting made it appear either black or a dark brown. His eyes looked to be blue, but again, the lighting made it hard for her to tell. If she had to guess his age, she'd say he was in his late twenties or early thirties at the most.
His voice sounded familiar to her…one of the other pilots in the squadron? No, he wouldn't be wearing a guard's uniform if he was. Naomi stared at him for a moment and then she was able to put two and two together. "Bandog?" she asked, trying to mask the surprise in her voice. He looked up at her, for a moment his smile faltering. "You're Bandog?"
"And you're Harling's dumbass murderer?" he retorted, obviously not pleased by her reaction to him. "Pleasure to officially meet you, Trigger." After his sarcastic comment, Bandog looked back at his cards, reaching down with his free hand to check and make sure the dog was still at his feet. That must have been his own dog, but why on Earth would the AWACS radio officer have a dog? She made a note to ask about it later. His expression was blank as he gave the dog's back a pat, but as soon as he pulled his hand away and reached for a drink of water, his face contorted into a scowl that rivaled Count's. As if Naomi had never interrupted, he growled, "Full Band, it's your call."
Naomi glanced over at Full Band, who pursed his lips as he studied his cards. He sighed and set the cards down on the table face down, shoving them away from him. "Eh, I don't wanna risk it," he said with a sigh. "I'm gonna fold."
Naomi watched for the others reactions to this. High Roller was smirking confidently, looking around the table at his opponents. Count's brow was furrowed as he studied his own hand, but he said nothing and barely reacted to Full Band's withdrawal. Tabloid was looking at his own cards with a guarded expression, only smiling when High Roller, Naomi, and Bandog regarded him with suspicion and curiosity. Bandog let out an impatient huff, looking over to Count. "You gonna call it quits too, Count?" he taunted.
Count smirked and his eyes had a determined spark in them. "Ha! You wish you were that lucky, Bandog," he replied. Bandog raised an eyebrow, dubious that Count truly had a chance at winning. He tossed the cards onto the table for all to see, clearly determined and convinced he had a winning hand. "Read 'em and weep, boys. Full house, right there. Beat that, I dare you."
Bandog exchanged an annoyed look with Tabloid before he slammed his own hand onto the table face down, but he didn't admit Count had beaten him. Tabloid shrugged and did the same, only he said, "Well, better than what I've got." Full Band shook his head and gave a small laugh at this, and Tabloid quickly grinned. Bandog looked pissed, and High Roller hadn't lost his grin.
"You got something up your sleeve, High Roller?" Naomi asked, her dinner forgotten as she was now invested in their game. Count had started to reach for the crumpled pile of money on the table, assuming that High Roller was folding like the rest of them. As soon as Naomi mentioned it and he saw the look on his wingman's face, Count drew back and crossed his arms, waiting.
"Now that you mention it…I think I've got a little somethin' that'll beat that pathetic little hand of yours, Sir Count," High Roller teased, slowly running his index finger along the sides of the cards. In one swift flick of his wrist, the cards fell to the table and landed in a perfect position, displaying his hand for all to see. Naomi noticed Count's face drain of color as he stared at the cards. Naomi knew from the games she watched at Fort Grays as well as from what Boggard and Brownie had taught her that it was an excellent hand, rare and hard to get. But nothing beat it. "Royal flush! That's how it's done, so I hope you were all paying attention, there."
He reached forward to collect the money, with the color returning to Count's face as he scowled. Naomi carefully watched as High Roller collected most of the cards and began to shuffle them. She recognized what he was doing, though, and how he'd managed to get such a good hand. He was making it look as if he was shuffling the deck in an extravagant way, but he was tilting the corners towards him and going slow enough to see which cards were where, enabling him to deal whichever cards he wanted to whomever he wanted. "That was impressive, High Roller," she said with a nod, and he gave a laugh in response. Quickly, and calmly, she added, "At least…it would have been impressive if you weren't cheating to accomplish it."
High Roller froze and tensed, looking up at her, although he didn't lose his smile. "You sure you know what you're saying there, Trigger?" Naomi suddenly had everyone else's attention. "I've been at this game a long time, and I've always won fair and square." The look in his eyes said that he was challenging her. Alright, so he wanted to see if she could prove it and if not she'd be humiliated. Either way, he would gain something from it, albeit in a strange way. He slid the deck over to her and crossed his arms. "So…what was I doing to cheat, then?"
Naomi smirked, picking up the deck of cards. She took a deep breath as she focused on the cards, aware of High Roller and the others watching her closely. With ease, she replicated High Roller's movements to the best of her ability, remembering how he did it. She tilted the corners of the cards towards her and was able to get a good look at what order they were in as she continued to make it look like she was shuffling it normally. When she was finished, she placed it back in the center of the table. "Take a card. The first one should be an Ace of Hearts."
It was Count that reached forward and took the card and get a good look at it. Mildly impressed, he flipped it around to show the others. Sure enough, he held an Ace of Hearts in his hand for all to see. High Roller crossed his arms and chuckled as Count set the card beside the deck and looked to Naomi. "Alright, Trigger. I'll be honest, that was…impressive. However, it doesn't exactly prove anything. So…what'll the next one be?"
"If I remember correctly…Three of Spades," Naomi replied, pretending to think for a moment. Count pulled the card off the deck and nodded, turning it around for the others to see. Tabloid, Full Band, and High Roller laughed it off, but Count and Bandog looked to High Roller, clearly upset by this. Naomi also looked to the gambler, smiling sweetly. "How'd I do, High Roller? I'm no expert at poker, and I don't normally make it a habit to know how to cheat, but I figured I wouldn't lose anything from a simple demonstration."
High Roller smiled. "You did pretty good, kid," he replied. "It took me years to get that technique right. I mean, you're clearly a bit rusty but you managed to get it down almost perfectly." Naomi couldn't help but find herself a tad surprised by his praise, trying to play it cool. In reality, she was surprised she hadn't screwed it up. High Roller seemed to have gotten whatever he wanted and he didn't seem at all upset by his 'exposure'.
Tabloid chuckled. "That was something else, Trigger." He clapped her on the shoulder, and Naomi couldn't help the pride that was starting to well up in her chest. "I gotta ask, though…how'd you figure it out? I mean, we've been playing cards with him for months now and we never noticed it. At least, I didn't. How'd you manage to replicate it, too?"
"Umm…well…it's kinda hard to explain." Naomi tried to wrack her brain for the simplest answer. "Well, for one my dad always taught me to be aware of my surroundings and to take notice of the 'little things' that people do. I guess it's like hypervigilance, although it doesn't stem from any sort of anxiety or paranoia. How I was able to replicate it, even if not perfectly, I owe to a photographic memory. It's the reason why I can watch something be done and learn from that." She knew her explanation was getting lengthy, and although Tabloid and High Roller were indeed interested, even Count appeared to be listening, she felt bad about interrupting them. "Er…anybody up for another game? Would you mind if I joined in?"
"Yeah, I'd like a chance to win my money back," Full Band replied, looking around the table. "You guys up for it?" There were no arguments as several murmurs of agreement came from those seated around him. Full Band looked over at Naomi and smiled. "Looks like you're in, kid."
Bandog let out another huff of annoyance as he glared at High Roller. "I'll play again, but only if High Roller doesn't do the dealing."
Count smiled and reached for the deck. "Well, I'll do it then." A hand came down on his as soon as his fingers brushed the top of the deck and they all saw Bandog had reached across the table to stop him. He frowned at this and spoke in a mock hurt tone, "Aww, c'mon Bandog. You don't really think I'd be that dishonest, do you?"
"Dishonesty is what got you sent here to begin with, Count," Bandog snarled, taking his hand off of Count's and allowed the pilot to lean back. Count had a very quick reaction, only a briefly annoyed look that told Naomi that Bandog hit a nerve, but it was replaced with his usual smirk almost as soon as it had appeared. Bandog nudged the deck over to Tabloid. "Here. You deal, Tabloid."
"You trust him and not me?" Count asked, feigning amusement and disbelief. The smirk was still there, but his lighthearted tone was most definitely forced.
"Tabloid's not a pathological liar," Full Band teased. "He's too much of a goody two shoes to cheat."
Naomi expected Tabloid to retaliate, but he just laughed along with the others as he went around, dealing the cards. When he was done, he set the remainder of the stack in the center of the table. "Alright, then. Let's get this show on the road."
2040hrs.
The game managed to drag on for the remainder of dinner. Naomi had barely eaten anything, simply tossing it out. The guards left the prisoners in Bandog's charge before they cleared out, going outside to smoke or something like that. As it turns out, there were a lot of things to learn about Bandog that were eventually explained to her that night. Like the dog that was laying under the table.
She found out that the dog at Bandog's feet was an MWD left in his care after her handler was killed during one of the first Erusean bombing runs on their base. Apparently it was some sort of accident that killed the guy and McKinsey wanted to keep the dog around to keep the prisoners in check instead of shipping her back to Osea to retire. As it turned out, Bandog was capable of some sort of emotion close to affection and seemed almost happy to take care of the dog.
It wasn't long before the other prisoners, Avril among them, left to return to the cellblock. Full Band and Bandog left the game quickly, Full Band not wanting to risk anything and Bandog just getting too bored to go on, or so he claimed. Eventually, it was down to Count and Naomi after Tabloid quit and went to return to his cell and call it a night and High Roller decided it would be more interesting to watch his wingmen in a showdown situation.
Count seemed confident he was going to win. "Just you and me left in this, Trigger. So what's it gonna be?" he asked. Smugly, he added, "I mean, if you call it quits now, no one'll blame you." Naomi looked at him, managing to hold back a smile at this. It was actually kind of funny how confident he continued to act, even after losing the first game that Naomi had walked in on. Granted, he hadn't had a chance the first game.
Naomi wasn't an expert at the game, hell, she only joined in because she had nothing better to do and dinner was awful. Now she had no choice but to follow through, and she didn't want to give Count the satisfaction of a win. She had an okay hand, but it wasn't a sure-fire win. She just had to throw caution to the wind and give it a shot. "Sorry, Count, but I'm not gonna let you down that easily," she told him, sure to keep a blank expression. Laying the hand down for them to see, she read it out to them, "There. Three of a kind. Give it your best shot."
She noticed High Roller give her a 'not bad' look, same with Full Band. Bandog had a bored look on his face but looked to Count expectantly. Naomi didn't miss the slip in his smile as he reluctantly set his own cards down. "Two pair," he replied, his confidence having ebbed away.
"Better luck next time, Count," Full Band said to him, hiding the amusement in his voice and fighting back a laugh. He sighed and finished off the water he had before standing up and patting Count on the shoulder. "Nice game. Real entertaining, really." He started towards the door, calling over his shoulder, "I guess I'll say goodnight. The guards'll be pretty upset if they catch the rest of you out, so I'd hurry up unless you wanna spend the night in solitary." Naomi heard the door to the mess hall squeak open and then slam shut as he left.
Bandog stood up and stretched out his back. "Full Band's right, you know," he said to them. "Better pack it up before I get my ass chewed out for letting you idiots stay out here past curfew." He looked down at his dog and made a sharp whistle to get its attention. The canine reacted, lifting her head up and perking her ears, suddenly showing more energy than she had all night. Bandog beckoned for her to follow him. "Hey, c'mon Sarge. We're going for a walk." Turning to look at them as the Dinsmark shepherd trotted over to him, Bandog said, "I'll be waiting outside in the hall. If you're not out in five minutes then I tell McKinsey and the three of you are sleeping in solitary tonight."
With that, Bandog and Sarge left the mess hall to wait for them and escort them back to the cellblock. The money on the table was rightfully won by Naomi, but she felt bad taking it all. She quickly counted it all up and then divided it between the three of them. High Roller gladly accepted, but when Naomi stood up to follow Bandog, Count grabbed her wrist to stop her. "I don't need or want your charity, Trigger," he snapped, shoving the money back towards her. "I don't take handouts, either."
"It's not a handout." She snatched her hand away from him. "What the hell am I supposed to do with all this money, huh? Buy myself a pardon? Fat chance. The shit at the store on base is cheap, so that won't do me any good either. So keep it, it's practically worthless to me unless I want to spend it all on poker again." Naomi pushed the money back towards Count and this time he didn't try and stop her from walking off.
The walk back to the cellblock with Bandog was spent in silence for the most part, with Count walking ahead of Bandog and not wanting to stay behind with Naomi and High Roller. Sarge had her leash on, but Bandog allowed her to roam ahead of them, throwing a rubber ball for her to chase after to give her some exercise. Count seemed oblivious to the dog running back and forth, even when Sarge occasionally brought the ball to him before Bandog corrected her. For a dog tasked with guarding them and trained to be aggressive and assertive towards the prisoners, Sarge seemed more suited for being a pet. Naomi actually found herself missing the two dogs that her parents owned the longer she watched Sarge play.
High Roller quickly distracted her from being homesick by starting up a quiet conversation. "Y'know Trigger, I gotta hand it to you. You've got some skills," he said to her, and Naomi could only blink at him, not sure what he meant. He picked up on this and started to explain, "Not gonna lie, I like you. With those skills I mention, well, you've got guts. Honestly, I don't think anybody around here has ever made Count that angry. Sure, he's all bark and no bite but until you came along he was the only one good enough to be followed like a leader, except maybe Tabloid. But ever since the other day, there's been a lot of talk about you."
"I…don't know what you're getting at, High Roller," Naomi replied, glancing over at Count and Bandog. "I'm not trying to take over the squadron, or anything. I've never been much of a leader, so by all means, keep following Count in the air. I'm just trying to survive like the rest of you."
"It's not only that. Tabloid trusted you the other day and you even got a higher score than Count did. Hell, Champ was impressed and that's no easy feat," High Roller told her. Naomi didn't know how to feel. She just met these guys and obviously she wanted their respect so she could make it out of this place alive, but she didn't want them to just throw responsibility at her. Were they doing that? Was she giving herself too much credit? High Roller went on, "I guess what I'm trying to say is, you've got promise. And you've got me some good money. Can't say I'm thrilled that you figured out how I win at poker…"
Naomi stopped, just for a heartbeat, long enough to recall her 'exposing' him. Before Bandog noticed, she began walking again and looked High Roller over carefully. Of course he wouldn't have just let her show him up like that. "It was a test, wasn't it?" she asked him calmly. He shrugged, the closest thing for a confirmation that she received. "Okay…what was the purpose of it, then? Did I pass?"
"With flying colors, actually," High Roller said. "The test in question was to see how you were under pressure. You didn't crack, which tells me that you're not like Count. You can walk the walk, instead of sit around bragging about it all day long." He put a hand on her shoulder and Naomi felt surprisingly at ease. High Roller and Tabloid were the nicest people she'd come across, but High Roller's betting on his squadron and on her life still didn't sit right with her. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, kid. Don't want you going down out there, right? See ya later, Trigger."
Naomi watched as he followed Count into the cellblock. She hesitated as a cool, midsummer breeze helped alleviate some of the heat. It was a nice night, but she had little time to enjoy it. Bandog growled at her, "Hurry it up, Trigger. Neither of us have all night." Naomi sighed and complied with the order, stopping just to lean down and pat Sarge on the head. The dog's tail wagged at this and Naomi smiled, bidding Bandog a good night as she stepped inside and made her way down the hall to her cell.
Once she reached it, she took notice of her surroundings. Avril was already asleep, her back facing Naomi. Out in the hall, she could hear a guard going through and checking all of the cells, locking them all inside for the night, talking loudly and barking at Count and High Roller to get in bed, which woke a few of the other prisoners, who groaned at the disturbance. Naomi hurriedly kicked off her shoes and flight suit and climbed into her bunk, not wanting the guards to get mad at her and wake Avril. She didn't want to face their wrath.
Eventually, the guards cleared out and shut off the lights, leaving them all in darkness. The silence of the night was disturbed only by the snores from the other cells. Naomi found herself unable to sleep, tossing and turning for hours. The whole time she was thinking about her new squadron. She didn't know them, at least, she barely knew them. Should she behave like Avril, no room for any friends as she worked with a single goal in mind. Or were these guys actually worth her time?
Tabloid was a friendly guy, and High Roller had some questionable intentions, but she actually found that they were growing on her. Maybe she could get Count and Avril to come around. Who am I kidding? Naomi thought, reminding herself that they weren't 'friend' material. Besides, she wasn't here for friends and neither were they. Avril made that clear. But still, if she could prove to the rest of the pilots that she had their back, surely they'd do the same. High Roller was already out there watching her back.
Sighing, she rolled over on the cot and closed her eyes. She'd figure it all out. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she was back at Fort Grays, with Clown and Knocker to offer her advice. Or back in Osea with her father and the Razgriz giving her tips on her flying and telling her stories to distract from the awful situation. Hell, she'd even go for a game of poker with Boggard, and he cheated much like High Roller did. At least he gave her a run for her money.
"You're on your own now, kid," Naomi whispered to herself, trying to tell herself what her father or her flight leaders would say if she went to them. "Like I said, you need to make the best of it. They're not so bad…"