Author's Note: I am aware that this story is written in direct opposition to one of the major themes of Ace Combat 7, an over reliance on technology and that airplanes should be piloted by humans. It's debated and discussed throughout the game in that delightfully campy Project Aces dialogue, with the human player ultimately triumphing over the machines every time. Ace Combat 7 is anti-drone and this story's transformation of the player character into one can be interpreted as an insult or slight to the game's message. Again, I'm well aware of this fact, so this note's intention is to make it abundantly clear that this story is in no way an attempt to detract or oppose this message. I'm simply sharing my inspiration with a wider audience. Also of importance is my desire to express that while obviously a work of fiction it is also a work of science fantasy. My portrayal of computers, pilots, air combat, warfare and artificial intelligence is not always grounded in reality. The game itself is fantastical and I am by no means an expert in the field of A.I. development so expect a great deal of artistic license. I only say this as reviews expressing how unrealistic this whole story is will be ignored. Yet again, I know and ask you to suspend your disbelief. So, with that out of the way, thank you for your time and attention and I hope you enjoy Deus Ace Machina!

Prologue: Discovery

"They say that shadows of deceased ghosts, Do haunt the houses and the grave about, Of such whose life's lamp went untimely out, Delighting still in their forsaken hosts."

-Joshua Sylvester

Jawbone Atoll
Skully Island Chain
July 11, 1998

When Captain Jeremy Irons first joined Osean Spec Ops he'd done so for the adventure and the prestige. He fancied himself a hero and a leader, always seeking to be the best of the best. Selection only hardened his ambition and the hard training of peacetime left him tugging at the leash to finally put his skills to use. Then the Belkan War burned away his idealism in a nuclear fireball and Spec Ops' subsequent campaigns against World With No Boundaries left him with a promotion to Captain and a slew of dead friends. On a whole this made him a jaded, pessimistic man who reigned in those around him with a hard earned realism. This, naturally, made him an ideal candidate to go on a wild goose chase through a tropical paradise with a squad of tired commandos and an OIA agent with an obsession with the ongoing Usean coup d'état.

Said agent was Xander Lyle, an analyst from Advanced Weapons Analysis who had followed the conflict half an ocean away from Osea with great interest, the actions of a mercenary squadron in particular. Osea itself was not directly involved, the attack on the pact signing effectively killing any formal alliance for the time being, but ensured that the Usean Allied Forces were provided with the resources necessary. This included intelligence on enemy activity and it was the recent battle here that brought them all to this steamy, jungle-thick scrap of sand.

"Sir," Irons addressed Lyle over his shoulder as he cleaved through more thick vegetation with his machete, sweating through his camouflage fatigues. "This is the fourth island we've been on. Can you please tell me what we're looking for?"

"The future," Lyle replied as he helped untangle their radioman's antenna from vines that hung low over their path before checking his compass. "Something our enemies don't want us to find. We need to go more South."

"Right..." Irons grumbled as he switched places with another man who began hacking away in the appropriate direction. They were traveling in single file to limit the amount of cutting required with the commandos taking turns in clearing the way forward. Whatever their destination was, it was off the beaten path but at least Lyle seemed to know where they were going. When asked how he knew the agent simply said "Keynote" and left it at that. The team carried on in silence for the next hour, stopping every now and then to drink water and sharpen their blades. Jawbone Atoll wasn't a large island by any standard but its terrain was unforgiving. Finally, the current lead commando held up a hand, causing everyone to freeze (though Irons had to stop Lyle, who was too engrossed with his compass and a map of the island to notice.)

"What do we got?" Irons whispered as the rest of the soldiers began to scan the area around them.

"Clearing. No structures." The man's voice was level and precise.

"Contact?"

"Negative. Only wildlife." He paused. "Looks like a plane crash sir."

"Plane crash?" Lyle asked excitedly and began pushing his way to the front. Irons sighed and followed him, reaching up to push his head down below the line of vegetation. He didn't care that the Rebels had supposedly been cleared out, the fact that his men were here at all meant somebody had expected trouble. The two men made it to the lead soldier, who stepped back so they could get a look through the hole he'd made. He wasn't wrong, there was an empty clearing in the jungle, probably caused by a fire or poor soil for trees. That hadn't stopped a thick layer of grass from growing though, which made the clearing's only feature that much more obvious.

It was a plane crash, a very recent one at that. An F/A-18 Hornet had come in from the right and belly landed, tearing open a trench in the ground vegetation as it traveled before stopping about halfway across. Irons had to admit, it was a hell of a landing, though he could see where the aircraft had clipped some of the trees that bordered the clearing.

"This is it!" Lyle cheered and went to move forward. Irons dragged him back.

"Wait, we don't know if it's one of ours." The aircraft was too far away to make out any markings, though it wasn't painted in UAF gray. It almost looked red.

"It's not," Lyle replied happily and went to move again. Irons stepped in front of him to block the way.

"All the more reason to be cautious. Its crew could still be around."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Lyle explained vaguely. "We're the only people on this island."

"That we know of sir."

"That you know of Captain. I know more and I assure you we are alone. Get your men moving, we're securing that plane." With that Lyle strode past him, leaving the commandos staring at his back.

"Boss?" One of the commandos asked. Irons groaned and shook his head in exasperation.

"Move out, secure the crash site." They obeyed immediately and left the cover of the jungle, reforming their escort around Lyle.

As much as Irons hated to admit it, Lyle seemed to be correct. The team had moved across the clearing without any issue and had now formed a protective ring around the crashed plane while Lyle proceeded to take photos of every conceivable angle. Irons split his attention between the man and his surroundings, pondering over what they found. He was right about it being an F/A-18, though he'd never seen one like it. It was painted a ruby red with a metallic sheen and no visible markings of any kind. The cockpit didn't even have a seat, instead it looked as if somebody had tried to stuff a mailbox inside with an odd disco ball on top. It had clearly been in a fight, bullet holes and even a few missile impacts dotted the abused fuselage, in addition to the loss of the left wing and anything that was attached to the bottom.

"So was this what you wanted to find, sir?" Irons asked superfluously as the agent finally seemed satisfied with his photographic desires.

"Absolutely," he replied, moving to brush splattered mud from the cockpit glass to look inside. "Incredible, isn't it?"

"Sure," Irons said offhandedly as he turned to his radioman. "Signal the Vulture that we're ready to extract."

"Yes, Captain." The soldier fiddled with his radio before talking into the receiver. "Carrion, this is Seeker, trade trade trade. Watch for sparkle."

"Copy your trade, Lifter is enroute, ready for sparkle."

"You have no idea what this is, do you?" Lyle looked at Irons like he had insulted the work of a master sculpture.

"Wasn't that your intention?" Irons asked bitterly as he tossed an infrared strobe onto the ground. They were usually reserved for night operations but a helicopter's infrared cameras didn't care what time of day it was.

Lyle chuckled. "I suppose it was." He took off his backpack and unfurled a large, black duffel bag. "Help me collect any debris, we're taking it all."

Soon a pair of CH-53s came thundering from above, one touching down to retrieve the commandos, now weighed down with shards of red shrapnel. Lyle and Irons helped secure the wreckage to be lifted clear, slung beneath the other helicopter. After only 10 minutes both helicopters were away, the island returned to its usual uninhabited self. Eventually, the summer rains would feed new grass and all evidence of the crash site would fade from the land's memory. The war would reach its conclusion, the cost counted. Books would be published, events recounted in print and on screen. Peace would return, but it wouldn't last. A new war would start and end, like they always did, but what would emerge from its ashes would decide the fate of the next generation and bring the world as a whole to the brink, beneath the looming threat of skies unknown.