Original story based off characters and material by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them.

Chapter 1: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

Somewhere in Central Sotoa
13 March 1995
2331 hrs.

A muddied cream-white Karin SUV crept down a path that led about 6 kilometers from the main road, its cargo of mercenaries scanning their surroundings. The driver took a careful pace, not revving the motor too high as they traversed the gravel and small rocks pressed under its tires.

The driver hastily switched off the SUV's lights before a curve that brought a one-story cottage into view, and let his passengers out into the nearby brush.

The three mercenaries knew that at night, the brush could be home to any kind of predator, animal or otherwise. In this part of the world, the only difference between the two was that the animals were born with their weapons. The humans had to scavenge their own.

They could spot the cottage ahead, and a cursory peek through infrared binoculars could at least tell that its sole occupant wasn't at the window. That didn't make it any more safe.

The man they were looking for was the reason they were loaded up to raid an encampment. They spread out just enough that they could see each other and cover three sides of the cottage while the SUV driver backed up and made his way around a nearby clearing to observe the fourth. Their lead kept an eye on the front door, where the three footmen eventually converged.

The Gebet-made FAL rifles they wielded weren't anything fancy and were probably older than they were, but the soldiers kept them maintained like new. One of them also had a canister of gasoline slung behind his back.

They would need these rifles to perform like new as they pushed through desert foliage into the clearing around the house, taking measured, quiet steps as they stacked up by the door.

Their lead gave the knob a brief turn and found it unlocked, as if their guest was expecting them.

They crept in, sweeping all corners in the living-dining area with hand-wielded flashlights, shining them on furniture in disuse or general disrepair before making their way to the bedroom.

Their target was already visible from the bedroom door, and they could swear they could have heard him before they even got to the house. The lead mercenary could already hear his target snoring the moment he entered, but he assumed it to be a trick recording until the moment he saw the sleeping beast. Nevertheless, he raised a fist to order the others at ease.

Sleeping soundly and clad only in a pair of boxer briefs that might have been one size too small, the pilot clearly looked the part of the slumbering beast with his limbs splayed across the bed.. Entering his mid-20s, he had a lumbering figure and complexion from one side of his heritage, and wavy hair and other burliness from the other. His muscles weren't exactly sculpted thanks to the lack of dietary options in this part of the world, but they did possess just enough mass to give the impression that he could easily wrench someone's limbs off if he tried.

"Wake the fuck up arsehole," the lead mercenary ordered with a low mutter, giving the pilot a poke on the shoulder with the barrel of his FAL, "It's time."

With a conspicuous groan, the pilot slowly sat up on the side of his bed, keeping his eyes squinted shut as he yawned and stretched as if there wasn't a gun pointed at him. The other mercenaries didn't flinch, but they did take one step back from their leader. He looked a little smaller than he did when he was sleeping, but still big enough to tackle the lead mercenary and snap his neck if he clearly wasn't as sleepy as he looked.

That didn't stop the mercenary's two comrades from keeping their rifles raised at him.

"Is it morning yet?" he asked groggily as he rubbed his eyes. Could've fucking knocked at least.

The lead mercenary knew that, as he lowered the rifle at ease and sighed in frustration.

"Didn't think the Baron's kid would make himself so easy to find, is all," he began, rubbing his forehead.

Still calling me a kid when you're only a few years older than me, fuckhead.

"Didn't think you'd take so long, Danie," the pilot groaned, yawning before continuing, his head bowed but a glint of mischief shining in gray eyes looking at the mercenaries. "I was about to have a nice dream for once." A smarmy smirk crept across one of his cheeks.

I think maybe you were in it.

"Smells like you were already havin' one, bru," Danie replied, waving his hand in front of his nose. Even if it wasn't that much colder out in this savannah than it was in the day, their armor made it feel like the pilot had built himself into a brick oven. "You really fit in out here, makes me wonder why you'd want us to get you out."

Danie never referred to the pilot by his real name. Maybe that was because the pilot derived some kind of masochistic enjoyment from being referred to by the expletives they gave him over the years in place of his real name.

"I'll tell you during the ride out. Lemme put on some fucking trousers first," the pilot muttered as he stood up and stretched his arms, his hands almost brushing against the ceiling when fully raised.

"Don't forget your papers, too," Danie gestured toward the side with his FAL.

"Yeah, yeah, I already had them ready," the pilot growled, grabbing and putting on a worn pair of jeans and a tanktop along with an old Yuktobanian pistol he hastily shoved into one of his pants pockets. He then made his way to the bed and withdrew a small suitcase from under it. The suitcase had a folder on top, which he removed and held under his other arm.

"Come on, let's bounce," Danie continued, gesturing with the rifle for the two to leave. The mercenary carrying the gas can unslung it and started to empty its contents in the other rooms.

The SUV was already parked outside, the driver having kept the engine running as the four came out the front door. The gasoline man came out last, chucking the can back into the house once it was empty. He lit a cigarette and took a quick puff before throwing it in too, igniting the trails of gas that would soon erase any evidence that the pilot lived there.

The pilot sat in the middle of the back seat, between Danie and one of his teammates. Fortunately for them, there was ample room that they weren't squeezed in too tightly.

"I can't believe the monster is actually leaving his lair," Danie remarked with a surprised smile on his face as the vehicle began accelerating back up the bumpy path from whence it came. "And I'm the one to chaffeur you out!"

"Yeah, well, it's been getting kinda boring around here," he sighed, looking out into the brush. "That and this monster's flat out broke."

"That explains the fucking Air Force greens you had in your closet there?" Danie added. He'd noticed a brand new uniform of the new government's fledgling air force stashed in the same clothes drawer as the pilot's casuals.

"Did I fucking stutter?" he asked, like it wasn't a big deal at all. "At least someone's bothering to offer me a paycheck that doesn't fucking bounce."

"You gotta be desperate to join that air force, though," Danie countered, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're still young, you don't want to retire like that."

Stable governments weren't exactly characteristic of the Central Sotoan countries where the pilot of many unsavory nicknames had earned his bones. They'd thrown off the shackles of oppressive colonial rule only to find that their local revolutionaries were only united in the same 'enemy of my enemy' philosophy exhibited by the global superpowers during their Cold War.

"That's why I also asked you to give me a fucking glide out of here," the pilot laughed before turning to look out the window with a hint of resentment. "Pasture's plenty green on the other side, better pay than the same fuckers paying me to drop grenades on some floppy encampment or swat some Yuke surplus out of the sky."

Danie had known the pilot to be carefree and colorful with his selection of words, but he could understand the sentiment underneath. The newfound realities of the meteors had gotten the world's more powerful nations to attempt mending relations with each other, which meant pulling support for their preferred factions in what was left of the region.

As a result, some countries found a way for the majority blacks and minority whites to live in some semblance of not killing each other daily, while others simply continued as they were, some even escalating the conflict knowing the world would be looking up at the falling stars rather than inward at the blood already being spilled.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Much to the pilot's regret, he'd ended up in a country leaning toward the former. The local air force was more than happy to recruit him as a symbol of talent over their neighbors and whatever faction refused to come to the negotiating table.

And at least they could actually guarantee they could pay him in currency that was worth something.

"I'd say there's still plenty of work down on the ground, but I know you'd just say-"

"No fucking way?"

"Exactly," Danie chuckled. "So you know what you're gonna go for once you get to Wilburg?"

"Papa had a connection down Usea way that could pull a favor for me in case I ever needed it when he died," his tone slowly became more solemn, but didn't quite lose its edge, "Made his own private company called TriSpec, you know them?"

Danie shrugged. "Nah, never heard of them."

The pilot nodded. Plenty of private security companies had sprung up in the past few years, a motley and volatile mix of former South Sotoan army men and other veterans, mostly-developed-world hoodlums and ex-cops and nobles looking for a foreign thrill, and locals seeking anything from catharsis to food in their bellies.

Much like the free market, not many companies survived unless they could build a clientele that could rely on them, including resource companies and the occasional government agency. And the anarchy that continued to encroach over this part of the world made jobs bigger than simple security or training work anything but viable without the backing of a corporation or a superpower's government.

"Got contracts across Usea now that they've gone Chicken Little," the pilot explained. Most of these companies were headquartered in Usea, not just for legal purposes but also for the meteor-inspired gold rush. "Security guards, logistics, consulting, training, the usual. But I gave them notice that I wanted out to the Ustio 6th Air Division."

The mention of Ustio caused Danie and his comrades' jaws to drop, even causing the driver to look back right as they reached the main road. "You crazy, man?" Danie asked, hoping his comrade for once wasn't being serious.

"...What? I need a challenge," he shrugged, having long since gotten used to finding way to surprise even his most battle-hardened comrades. "And their planes actually don't fall apart on the runway."

"I know Old Man Rijnders had crazy friends but Ustio isn't exactly the brush, mate," Danie pleaded as if he also knew exactly what he was talking about. "The way things are looking in Dinsmark, you'll be facing bigger monsters than yourself."

"...and?" he turned to face his friend with a grin. "Those old fascists are steeped in old-tyme tradition and knighthood. They'll never expect some barbarian like me coming for their blood."

Osea's rowdy neighbor could never match it or Yuktobania in size or weapons quantity. So the Belkan Federation made it up in quality, and had easily thrown its weight around several times this century. Its eastern conquests had included a few colonial masters, inadvertently fueling independence movements in other parts of the world by drawing the colonists back.

But the last decade hadn't been particularly kind to Belka after it turned out their most recent financial ledgers had a few misplaced decimal points. Getting rid of their conquered territories for pfennigs on the mark damaged their pride enough that it enabled a fascist party long thought dead to rise from the ashes and take power.

Ustio was among the first territories to escape, but now its former master aimed to rein it back into its fold by any means necessary, with the full support of its vaunted military-industrial complex.

"You've never seen their crazy propaganda, have you?" Danie hung his head and laughed defeatedly. "Oh wait...no, you wouldn't say that if you didn't. S'why people want you."

"Oh, they want me, all right," the pilot replied, his grin turning feral and toothy as he adjusted himself in his seat by a quick gyration of his pelvis. "You're worried you'll miss me, love?"

Danie only raised an eyebrow as he remembered that the pilot's list of conquests didn't just include destroyed planes and military vehicles. "I'm gonna miss our drinkin' rounds, that's for sure, bru," he sighed as he leaned against the window to watch the savannah go by. "You sure you don't want to join us over at ExOps? Puma Serra's gettin' hot and there's good money in it."

The response he got was boisterous laughter. "I'm about ready to take a nap first, okay? Just wake me when we have to give the damn papers."

"Sure thing, bru," Danie chuckled and shook his head, "It'll be a ways before the border anyway."

The pilot considered imagining what could happen in this part of the world if someone with enough lust for power and blood had access to an arsenal like Belka's or Osea's, and not just the occasional shipments of Yuke, Osean or former colonial surplus.

Then he realized he was going to find out first hand anyway. He leaned his head back and resumed his dream, the most recent version of his past life now just a pillar of smoke and ash in the Sotoan brush like any other.

South Sotoan Border Crossing
14 March 1995
0722 hrs.

"Oh hey, remember that one floppy tried to escape in some old clunker, and you followed him all the way to the Mediverusean in that knockoff MiG?"

The sun had since risen, the first wafts of the desert heat bearing down upon the border checkpoint and slow roasting anyone waiting inside the vehicles. Fortunately, the conversation had long since resumed, and the old Karin still had working air conditioning.

"Pretty sure he went down over the Emirates, mate," the pilot replied dismissively, trying to recapture his thoughts. "Oh yeah, that was back when that Emirates mining company sponsored the Liberation Front."

"Yeah, they weren't to happy to see bits of their sponsored ace raining down on their manicured beaches," one of the other mercenaries chuckled. "Wait, that's also when you ran out of fuel on the way back and Jakobsen's boys scraped you off the sand?"

"Is that how you describe my getting my first taste of actual Yuktobanian vodka at the People's Labor celebration at the oasis?" the pilot feigned a glare. "Besides I didn't run out of fuel, it was Made In Verusa-"

"Vodka? That was bottled paint thinner and you know that!" the other mercenary guffawed.

"Look, all I'm saying is that Jakobsen's guys didn't have to ruin the fun-"

"Papers and passports, please." Their conversation was interrupted by the border guard, who wasn't in any mood for a chat.

The SUV had finally inched its way up to the front of the queue in its lane. The guard was a fit-looking fellow younger than the pilot with frustration on his face that suggested that he was recruited a little too late to do some fighting, but was content with having a leader that was more conciliatory than others in the region.

"Leisure, just finishing up with business back there," the driver said, pointing back to the pilot.

The pilot responded by winking and puckering at the guard, who rolled his eyes. "Just hand over the papers," the guard replied, much more disturbed than flustered.

"Sure thing," Danie replied, taking the folder that the pilot had carried under one arm and handing it forward to the driver, who then passed it to the border guard with the group's other documents.

The guard read through each of the papers and passports, running Danie and his crew through the usual list of declarations before gesturing to a comrade to perform an inspection and search of the vehicle.

"Funny thing is," Danie muttered to the pilot below his breath, "People say that the more you're in the brush the more you miss civilization but honestly, it's like both of these places are on a commute."

The two turned to the back where one of the custom's officers had just opened the rear door and began peering inside.

"That a threat to make me go legit?" the pilot asked, feeling genuinely threatened for the first time since Danie extracted him.

Danie chuckled. "No, man. Just that it reminds you, it reminds us. Whether behind a desk or behind a gun, you're representing who you're fighting for."

"Now you know that who I represent and who you represent are two different fucking things," the pilot countered with a slight sneer.

"And we lived because we're a little professional about it at least," Danie added. "We know what we're getting into, and we try not to dig graves deeper than six feet under, true?"

"I guess," the pilot acknowledged, "Mine's already a mile deep. Might as well call me a demon if it's gonna be dug straight to hell, eh?"

"Okay, you're clear to take him to Willemsburg," the guard said, as his comrade slammed the rear door shut and slapped his hand on the window to signal that they were good before their documents were returned and divvied up among their respective owners.

The entire operation had been disguised as a bounty hunt. Having lived and worked as long as he did in that part of the world made him wanted in more ways than one. So he decided to give the opportunity to get him out of a land where risk now outweighed reward, to the people least likely to cash him in. Danie had become part of a professional outfit that understood the balance between doing things to the letter and doing them right.

"Anyway, what I meant to say was," Danie continued as the SUV pulled away from the checkpoint, "You're gonna become part of a legitimate enterprise working in a more developed part of the world. You can fly as you were, but they're going to need you to be much more professional about it."

"Don't worry about that then, bru," the pilot replied calmly, "Don't think that none of my 'old man's' manners rubbed off on me."

"Just sayin', man," Danie nodded, opening the window just a crack to let the stale air out. "But yeah, I think you'll do just fine. You're not the type to let anything get away if you want it bad."

No shit I'm going to do fine... and considering what other countries call vodka, I'd want the paint thinner instead.

Willemsburg International Airport
Willemsburg, South Sotoa
1121 hrs.

'Bounties' brought into South Sotoa for a variety of reasons got turned in at any variety of locations, but were never loosed at the main terminal of the largest airport on the continent without any restraints or cuffs. Although the mercenaries kept their armor on as they arrived in the airport's primary outdoor parking lot, they kept their sidearms ready as they let their 'bounty' out into the sweltering city heat. The pilot also left his gun with them.

He'd put on a tropical button-down shirt, having kept his brand-new army issue dress boots so he wouldn't get kicked out of the airport so quickly. Any casual onlooker would have probably mistaken him for a South Verusean tourist or worker. Some carefully-applied deodorant and he certainly wouldn't smell like one either.

"Hey! Where's our reward, bru?!" Danie asked, licking his chops.

"You were expecting one?" the pilot replied sarcastically, before waving it off. He put down his suitcase and took out three thick bundles of mid-denominated Erusean francs. He walked up to Danie and discreetly pressed them onto his palm, concealing it by putting his other arm around the merc's shoulder. "Nah, I'm just fucking with you. Here, this is for the beer run I'm gonna miss."

Danie flipped through each of the bundles, making sure at least most of the bills were actually Erusean francs. "Yeah, there's barely enough left for fuel, asshole," he assured the pilot, before waving. "Hey good luck in Ustio, bru!"

"I won't need it, Danie, cheers!" the pilot replied as he watched the mercs get back into the SUV and drive off.

Once he was sure they were out of view, he put his suitcase up on a nearby cart and went through it for his ticket and passport.

The passport was faked, Benjamin Smith wasn't even his real name. Not that it was particularly easy to tell real from fake when it came to documents issued from the country he'd left. But he would transit through countries implementing computer databases, and most of what savings he had went into making sure real visas ended up in those pages.

Yet while he could believe the passport, he couldn't believe his itinerary, contained in several tickets.

Any other year, Smith could have scored business class to Directus via Vriesterdam in the Free Association of Territories in Osea, and a scenic train trip right up to Valais township. But the Luftwaffe's aggressive maneuvering around their airspace disrupted civilian traffic, and the havok it wreaked on passenger lists would leave him to take trains and buses from Caerdon.

The one thing these two trips had in common were the taxi rides from the Township to the base, nestled far up in the mountains.

He took a deep savory breath of that Sotoan air before withdrawing an old jacket that was much too warm for the weather from his suitcase, slinging it over an arm. The jacket had a couple of old patches on it from squadrons long since dissolved with their nation - along with a cheap one of a devil from an Osean college or professional sports team he couldn't identify and was only there because apparently whoever sewed it on thought it looked nice.

The Alderney Devils. Better have been champions at least.

He kept it close to him though, as it was much more than a souvenir or any old hand-me-down.

The terminal itself still felt as lived-in as it did before the change in administration, but the uplifted mood of the country reflected kindly on its appearance, with plans for new, larger terminals under way for the international sporting events they intended to greet the new millennium with.

If we're all still around by then.

"Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?" The check-in agent at the Sotoa Union Airways booth was probably the first time he'd seen a civilian smile at him of their own will in months.

"Oh, sorry," he chuckled, "I'm on Flight 667 today."

Heh. Neighbor of the beast.

"To Caerdon. What are you going to be doing over there?"

He handed his passport and ticket over before locking the combo on his luggage and placing it on the scale. "Coming home from vacation."

The check-in agent was cheerful about it, probably having heard that from many a tourist that experienced Wilburg's local "culture" firsthand. "Hope you enjoyed your stay here then, Mr. Smith. Would you like a window or aisle seat?"

Seriously, I should have just asked the guy to write my real name on it. "Aisle seat. Preferably near the restroom." Even if it's my adopted name, it's still interesting...

"Is this the only bag you'll be checking in?" she asked, gesturing to the old suitcase.

"Yes, ma'am. No carry-ons but my jacket."

"Anything to declare? Any firearms, perishable or hazardous materials, cash over 10,000 Osean zollars?"

Only that it's a shame that I won't get to see the sights on the way up to the goddamn mountains. Oh, and there might be a bug or two in the jacket.

"Nope." And it's only 3,000 guilders. Probably 1-K Osean, tops.

"Okay, just give me a moment..." the agent continued as a baggage handler took his suitcase and lugged it onto a conveyor belt that would hopefully send it on its way to the plane. As it disappeared he quickly felt up the jacket just to make sure those 3,000 guilders were still there.

"There we go, Gate B7, you're checked through to Caerdon. Enjoy your flight, Mr. Smith!" she continued right off the script, as she handed him his boarding pass.

He smiled back, as soft as he could without flashing his teeth. "I will, ma'am. Thanks." He tucked the boarding pass into his jacket as he head toward the metal detectors.

This was far from the first time he'd actually been a passenger in an aircraft, and definitely not the first time he'd taken a civilian aircraft with any identity. Sometimes it was the most convenient option to get from place to place when the people after him focused on the non-commercial routes of transportation. And it certainly wasn't his first time out of Sotoa, having taken "stopovers" in West Verusea and other out-of-the-way neighbors to the cradle (and the grave) of civilization.

But this was the first time he decided to strike out on his own, out in what was now the great unknown, in a much different climate against a much different enemy. Trying not to get stressed out on the flight out of Sotoa would be the very least of his challenges, though he knew his adoptive father famously kept the con-men closer to him than his best friends.

Or at least he didn't keep con-men near him that he couldn't easily find when they tried to pull a fast one.

Hopefully the jacket isn't the only thing protecting me from the fucking cold.

The jacket did, at least, manage to clear the security checkpoint with him.

As he arrived in the gate concourse and spotted the passenger jets taxiing to and fro through the viewing windows, it dawned on him that he hadn't entirely considered exactly what kind of aircraft TriSpec would assign him. In terms of fighters Ustio had inherited airfields full of Belka's almost-retired leftovers, Expansion War bounties and some newer models given by Osea to sweeten their natural resource deals with the Ustian government. Certainly a better selection than whatever they could scrape up from the scrapyards in Sotoa.

That was all well and good, but he didn't know who else or how many people competed alongside him for the pilot jobs. The fact that TriSpec guaranteed him a pilot job win the first place was down to most of Ustio's pilots returning to Belka after independence.

And even that wasn't a guarantee him a fighter or attacker role either.

Fuck. I'm in for a long trip.

Onboard Sotoa Union Airways Flight 667
1506 hrs.

There was no better reflection of how much South Sotoa had changed than the view of the 747-200's business seats. Where once even plane travel was restricted to the elite minority - and SUA's range restricted accordingly - now many members of the majority were taking advantage of the new leadership's policies ostensibly for the country's benefit.

Heh. Guess Danie was right, there's probably more money fighting in the office instead of the mines. It's probably not as fun though...

This helped the pilot feel a little less alienated as he made his way down the rows. He found his seat and shoved his jacket into the overhead storage bin, sprawling it in front of someone else's luggage in what little space remained.

Even he was surprised at how good a business class seat felt as compared to the cockpit of a MiG or Shenyang, as he put on his seat belt almost out of reflex. It felt as if he could just doze off and wake up in Caerdon like the flight around Usea boiled down to a science-fiction teleportation.

"Okay, dear, here's our seat."

"Mama, can I sit by the window?"

"Sure! Now you go in first..."

Or at least the seat would make him comfortable enough to observe the young FATO mother and her son taking their seats opposite the aisle from him. It was better than observing the harried-looking businessman in the window seat next to him. That one was already engrossed in some travel magazine, probably as a way of distracting himself from that Osean-looking tourist between him and a quick route to the restroom.

The child kept his face almost glued to the window as the plane took off, his wonderment rendering him oblivious to the Jumbo Jet's noise and rumbling. Soon even he was staring out at the sky.

The sight of the two entranced him. Perhaps it was the sight of a family not having to cower for its life, or simply a parent and her child unarmed.

"I can't wait to tell Papa about this!" the child exclaimed.

Perhaps it was his pilot's instinct and the benefit of hindsight wondering how things could have turned out were it not for something or other.

"Just sit down, dear," the mother assuaged her son, "It's going to be a long flight, and the sky's not going anywhere."

A small smirk crept across his face as he diverted his gaze in case the child's mother thought it suspicious, before he leaned back and tried again to savor the comfort of business class. The last set of comforts before the storm.

Once we were all innocent. But no more.

And yeah, my sky's not going anywhere.

To be continued...

Author's Note: So I was in the middle of writing this during Nelson Mandela's recent death. With all that in mind, that facilitated a bit of toning down in places. With any hope we'll all be getting to the Valais action very soon.