Rosdower was beyond silent, the wind barely deciding to make noise as it whistles through the chain link fence as those attendants and residents of the air base started to gather around the flight-line, the rumor mill working beyond overtime as only three of the planes of the four that were dispatched to the Apdodock Fracture had returned to Rosdower. Those who weren't doing anything important, namely Ronin, and there were a few of the Cascadian Independence Force pilots had also started to gather around the flight-line as the engines of Galaxy's plane spooled down, and the wind continued to whistle ever so quietly.

Rosdower was silent, behind the shouting that bordered screaming of Comic as she deplaned, and was shouting something unintelligible to those who began to gather around the flight line.

The throngs of people that had started to gather, watched solemnly as Diplomat listened to Comic's shouting-almost-screaming, and then when Galaxy's plane had finished taxiing, his argumentative voice joined the fray of Comic's own shouting.

It wasn't long before Kaiser pushed his way through the throngs of those gathered watching the remnants of Hitman team argue among themselves, and without even a glance from Kaiser, Comic shut up.

"Galaxy," Kaiser said, and Galaxy's teeth clattered together as he shut himself up all the same as Comic. "Where did they get shot down?" Kaiser's voice was sharp, cutting through the air between those remaining members of Hitman team, through their fears and their anxieties at losing a team member.

"They weren't over the cordium flow facilities, if that's what you're asking. They were gaining speed and burning away when I lost radar contact." Galaxy explained, his voice not holding the uncertain timbre that it had when he had called out the Peacekeepers initially. If Galaxy had one thing going for him in this moment — it was that when it came down to it, he did his job.

"Boss, we have to—" Comic started, her voice barely containing the enmeshed fear and anger that she held as she tried to process all that had happened.

"We aren't doing anything, Comic." Kaiser cuts down her protestations, Comic once again shutting up. "Stardust and the CIF are already setting up a SAR team, I'm flying escort in one of their planes."

"Will the federation let you?"

"That's not your business." Kaiser paused, his shoulders and jaw released their tension as best he could, and after a slow blink, his voice even lost its angry undertone, "You're all going to go rest." He spoke, in that moment, to his pilots and his AWACS operator. All of whom understood the concern that Kaiser held in this moment, and felt more than obliged to react in accordance with what Kaiser has said.

And in that moment, none stood to argue with him.

March 5

1324 LOCAL

Apodock Fracture, Yellowstone Exclusion Zone, Cascadia

Prez was pretty sure that she had never had a worse headache in her whole life. Even the times that the boys in Ronin would dredge up some really expensive (and strong) booze, didn't leave her in a morning-after state quite like this. And the midday sun baking her like a chicken in her flight suit wasn't helping that headache much either.

She peeled her eyes open the tiniest amount, her vision filling with blue and orange as the light of the sky above filtered into her eyes. She was looking up, still attached to her ejection seat, but looking up at the sky. The back of her chair against the ground, and her nose filling with the scent of the Apodock Fracture.

As such, she could best summarize her current situation in one word; "Fuck."

The sulfuric smell of the free cordium burned into her sinuses, and the salt of the processed product flitting through the air caused her eyes to slightly water in the oppressive midday heat.

Her brain, her shoulders, her legs, all hurt. There wasn't need for any additional words in this situation, so she repeated herself — "Fuck." Against the pain in her shoulders and arms, she tried to unbuckle herself from her seat, and try and move from where she was. It came loose with a satisfying ping, letting her slide herself off of the ejection seat, and lay flat against the ground, her back thanking her for getting it away from the stiffness that came with the Skira's ejection seat. As she slid against the ground, some of the free, cordium infused dust was kicked up, and burned even further into her nose. Like spikes, the feeling intensified into her brain, and it was hard for her to do much of anything, other than think about closing her eyes in hopes that the pain would go away.

The wind whistled through the sky-tinted highland grasses and rustled her parachute. A soft breeze pulling on the material, and filling it up as she lay against the ground. She doesn't open her eyes, she doesn't try to slide off her helmet, and the shade that is cast by her parachute filling up is more than comfortable compared to the midday sun that she was just laying under. She ignored the pain in her body and tried to rest here.

She didn't feel the fact that she was moving, so much as she instinctively realized it, from the feeling of the harness keeping her attached to the parachute tightening, the lines pulling tight as the parachute, unbeknownst to Prez, filled up more and more as the wind kicked up, and started to drag her along the hill that she was laying on.

She slammed her eyes open at the realization that she was moving, and looked around, panicked — realizing that the parachute was pulling her away from her seat, and down the hill. Down the hill, where she couldn't see anything other than open lava flows. "Oh fuck!" She panicked, trying to unbuckle the parachute, but instead found the safeties keeping her harness on, completely engaged, the mechanical system being activated by the force of the parachute as it filled in the wind. She scrambled for her kit, trying to unsheathe the survival knife that was tucked away inside of it. It was her safest bet, although a tiny part of Prez's mind mused that it wasn't really a bet if she had no other options.

Prez scrambled to pull out the knife, and once it was free of the kit, she started cutting at the lines that were keeping her attached to the parachute-turned-sail that was dragging her towards her doom.

Each line cut away with a satisfying twang, and as she reached for the final line, the unbalanced load of Prez on the parachute-sail started to spin her. Her descent down the hill was anything but controlled, and she became especially aware of the increasingly rocky terrain that she was being pulled down, when her knee slammed into a jutting rock on her way down the hill, giving a sickening crunch and a flash of pain throughout her leg so painful, that she almost dropped her knife as she finally got a hold of the final line.

Shitshitshit. She manages to bring the knife up to the line, and cut clean through the final line just above the gloved hand that holds onto it. The free parachute flying into the updraft that it was caught in, and leaving her to slide down the hill using what momentum remained. Still sliding towards the open lava flow, and with no way to stop herself. She couldn't stop herself from sliding, mostly because when she did anything, her right leg sent icy spikes of pain through her body, and the other one had started to slide off the edge of the hill, dangling over the open lava flow below. She dug with her hand and her knife into the ground to bleed away the last bit of momentum she had with friction, and had just about stopped, when the rest of her careened off of the edge, the friction not quite enough to stop her.

Her mind was racing a mile a minute, and was all but sure that this was how she dies— by falling into an open lava flow, and dying some unimaginably painful death.

She didn't hear the boot-steps racing towards her, but felt the hand grabbing hers as she about fell off the side of the hill. Her body slamming against the side of the hill, sending tumbles of dust and her survival knife plummeting down to the flow below. She stared up at the person holding onto her, only to find that they were surrounded by at least two others, who were trying to help her back up onto the hill.

She didn't remember much after that, the pain in her leg from slamming against the rock, and now against the side of the hill acting as a "shut-down" to her brain.

March 5

2104 LOCAL TIME

150 Nautical Miles West of Haida Gwaii, International Waters

Federation Navy Ship "Flight Without Feathers"

Peacekeeper Squadron Ready Room

The ready room had its usual amount of chatter as the pilots and AWACS of Crimson Squadron sat, waiting for their flight commander to show up and give this debrief. They had landed a few hours ago, and didn't even know that they were going to have a debrief, until well after many had settled into recreation and finding things to do other than waiting. So getting a call to the ready room for debrief wasn't exactly something that the members of Crimson Squadron were looking forward to.

There's a shuffle of boots as the door opens, and someone announces the Commander. All those present moving to salute their superior officer, who returns the salute. "At ease, Peacekeepers." They stand at ease. "Take a seat, and we'll get started."

They sit.

"Apologies for the late debrief," there's undertones of irritation in his voice as he apologizes, likely because he wasn't expecting to give a debrief this late anyways, or one at all. The Peacekeepers were supposed to have taken the in-land route to return where Crystal Kingdom had initially planned for them to be. "Crystal Kingdom wants to commend you all for your work today, all flights had successful kills, and repelled the rebel attack in all sectors. Infrastructure took markedly less damage than expected, including at the Apodock Fracture."

The room darkens itself, and the screen behind the Commander lights itself. Showing information regarding the sorties for the day. Kill tallies, ammo expenditures, and other information that was generally disregarded by the pilots. Bloodsucker, on the other hand, did pay attention to the numbers. His eyes shooting to the bottom of the board and working his way up. Not bothering to look for his name. He was the AWACS. It didn't matter what he did as long as he did his job. He never would have to worry about his own combat statistics.

However, that didn't stop him from feeling pride from seeing Crimson One's name at the top of the list. The most kills, the lowest ammo used, the most fuel on-board on his arrival back to the boat. As always.

"Crystal Kingdom would like to pass along some information of note however." Bloodsucker could sense, rather than see in this darkened room, the reaction from several of the pilots. Some who leaned forward, others who just raised an eyebrow. "Intelligence reports that you engaged with one of the mercenary wings that has been working with the Cascadian Independence Forces, and dealing them victories where there shouldn't be any. As part of their attacks throughout Cascadia, they were bolstered by mercenary flights. The fight today at the Apodock Fracture was comprised of solely mercenary planes. And there's intelligence suggesting that one of Crimson One's kills is an infamous mercenary within the mercenary forces, one that's been referred to in after-actions on our side as, 'the Crown'."

"Are you serious?" Bloodsucker's ears perk up at this voice rising above the murmurs of the rest. "You're telling me that was the Crown?"

"Crystal Kingdom analyzed your gun-cam footage, Crimson One." The Command explains, coolly. "You destroyed a Skira with markings analogous to previous sightings of the Crown in the Cascadian forces. Either it was a decoy, or it was really him. Covert intelligence from Crystal Kingdom agrees with the latter, and so does the wreckage that was found in the Highlands above the Facture."

The murmurs of the Peacekeepers picks up again.

"All of you should get rest, you've earned it. No flight ops are scheduled for tomorrow, and the Flight will continue sailing for Presidia, further orders as we get them. Dismissed."

There's a milling about of feet, as the Peacekeepers get up from their seats, and leave the ready room behind.

Several minutes later, Crimson One spits out a couple words; "Fucking pathetic." He slouches into one of the many seats in the Peacekeeper Lounge aboard the ship. An almost ornate room, with lounge armchairs, recliners, television screens, low-lights, tables — and no ranks. It didn't matter what ship or what base they were at, their Lounge would always be the same. Giving them a sense of familiarity, no matter where in the Federation's sphere of influence they were.

"Are you really surprised that the Crown didn't hold up to your expectations, boss?" One of the many Peacekeepers filing into the room spoke, taking a seat across from him. The comment elicits a few chuckles from the rest of the Peacekeepers, and other pilots and even a few non-flight crew officers were among them, having been invited into the lounge by various members of Crimson team. Some carried cards, others carried booze, some had both as they got ready to celebrate the success and commendations passed down from on high.

Bloodsucker didn't need a verbal invitation. He wasn't formally part of Crimson Team, but he had earned their respect, and besides, he was quiet enough as it was, that most people didn't notice him being there or not being there. He moved to slink into his corner, and no one bugged him as he took his seat at the corner table.

"And you wouldn't be?" Bloodsucker couldn't quite tell if Crimson One was actually mad, or if he was just teasing back to the jests from his teammates. "Daddy promises you a nice hunt, and you go out there, and find out it's just small game?" More laughs, indicating to him that there's jest more than anger in Crimson's mind at this moment. "C'mon Louanne, you'd be pissed too."

"Playing low and with her daddy issues, Headcase… Slick." Was a cheer from across the room, a crimson-shirt wearing man leaned against a table with a few non-Peacekeeper pilots, shuffling cards. Bloodsucker didn't need to see his face to identify him as Crimson Five. "You know that's the only way to keep her in line, man."

"Silence back there, Shark. Or I'll feed you to her." Crimson One jeers back. Louanne gnashes her teeth at both her teammates, before turning back to the drink that she has in hand.

Bloodsucker doesn't think twice about the fact that they use Crimson One's personal call-sign here. They're all equals. On the radio? During a mission? They were expected to be professionals, so they would only ever use their squadron name and their respective number… But here? Things were different. He was different. More relaxed, in a way that made Bloodsucker less anxious, now that he could see him start to relax, and get comfortable. Talking with a nearby pilot about something that Bloodsucker couldn't quite hear. The jeers and conversation between those Peacekeepers across the room had died down, and had given Bloodsucker as much time as he wanted to listen, and watch. That's all he needed to be, and was happy to be nothing more than a mosquito on the wall, watching and listening. Making sure to not get smacked.

That had been the hallmark of his entire career as an AWACS operator in the Federation Air Force. Starting as a low level radar technician, and working his way up all the way to Peacekeeper AWACS; stay out of the way, but be helpful. And silent if he had nothing else to say. He didn't laugh, any indication of finding humor in what had happened was kept to himself. And now that the conversation had died away, it was time to train his eyes and ears on something else. The game of watching those pilots in this lounge, their comfortable space. He couldn't dance the same dance that they are able to, but he's able to watch, able to be silent and able to call out when things aren't right. In moments like these, where the Peacekeepers, a few of the Intercept Specialists and even a few blue-shirted trainee pilots were comfortable, he could watch them, and discern things about them that they didn't even realize about themselves. How they fly, how they fight, how they fold in a game of cards, or how they call and push their initiative.

Of course, something like card games was part of that understanding that he had of them. Who would push against incalculable odds — poker faces like encrypted radios. Who would stake what, and who would fold. The trick in discerning how the games that these pilots play, and how it translates to their fighter planes, lay in the difference of stakes. That had been something that he had always been aware of, ever since sitting in the general lounge with the trainee pilots back in post-basic training, all the way until now — at the very pinnacle of what it meant to be a pilot or soldier for the Federation's Air Force. He'd seen it all before, the most timid, mild-mannered pilots playing the games like the money they bet meant nothing, or the cocky stick-jockey wingmen who would play the game like a wrong move or a misplay meant a bullet to the brain. And it took until he was sitting behind the scope of a Federation AWACS to see how it translated. It came down to a personality quirk, how they were feeling, or how lucky they perceived themselves to be — or sometimes how much booze they'd had in the last few minutes. And who they were playing against mattered just as much. When a new transfer into the squadron of Peacekeepers had happened — for instance; Crimson 10, "Crashdown", the guys in the other, non-Peacekeeper squadrons would play riskier, trying their luck against the newbie. But the Crimson team players always had their own quirks. Crimson 7 played closer to his chest, Crimson 2 didn't change her stratagem at all, and instead adopted to how Crashdown played. Bloodsucker didn't even need to see the cards she held, to know that she had outplayed Crashdown that day. And the fresh Peacekeeper didn't take much time at all to learn from that lesson.

That had been months ago, and the game had changed slightly since them. Different sorties, including today's work, had changed the entire team, including Bloodsucker himself — in almost imperceptible ways. But ways of change nonetheless. These changes were new, like growing pains, and Bloodsucker wasn't sure he understood them yet. There was a movement in the corner of Bloodsucker's vision. Crimson One, "Headcase", standing up and moving towards one of the card tables. This came as a surprise to Bloodsucker, not entirely sure what to make of the sudden appearance of Headcase at the table. He had never really been one for cards in the past… Something had certainly changed, and Bloodsucker was bearing witness to it, in this very moment.

Bloodsucker watched as Headcase sized up all the other players, before sliding in with some Federation credits, and catching the stunned look of Bloodsucker, sitting by himself in the corner.

Bloodsucker watched as Headcase grinned at him, and gave him a wink, before he picked up his freshly dealt hand.

In the moments that followed, Bloodsucker wasn't sure what the feelings in his chest at this were, and whether or not he wanted to have the feelings that the wink gave him, wash over him once again.

March 6

1850 LOCAL

Adodock Fracture Air Station, Cascadia

Kaiser's legs felt weary and heavy by the time he finally deplaned and set foot on the ground of the Apodock Fracture, meeting the glance of Stardust, who had agreed to accompany him and the CIF Search and Rescue team, looking for the downed Sicario pilots, one of whom was conspicuously absent.

Stardust claimed that the Federation was doing their best to abide by accepted International Laws, and that the Federation Air Force flying overhead wasn't allowed to shoot down the CIF planes or helicopter that were performing the Search and Rescue operation… But that would be different if Kaiser had flown in his own plane to get here. A Federation pilot was just as likely to shoot him down as was another mercenary. So he went with what Stardust had to say, and what Stardust had to say was basically "fly in one of our planes".

Kaiser didn't blink at that, having been given the metaphorical keys to a National Guard plane to fly to Apodock, but he did blink at then finding Monarch's downed Skira, still burning fuel when he circled above it in his borrowed plane. The Skira had crashed into the side of one of the highland hills of the Fracture, and was still burning fuel that was slowly leaking out of it — at least Monarch or Prez had managed to successfully dump all the munitions so they didn't have secondary explosions after the crash. Just the fire to deal with. The CIF rescue helicopter had descended to the Skira, and its crew managed to kill the fire, before checking the front of the plane for ejection seats, and possibly survivors.

There were none.

Monarch was dead. Their neck at an unsurvivable angle from the impact of hitting the ground.

The back-seat had managed to eject successfully, but that wasn't saying much, as they couldn't find a transponder for her ejection seat, nor had they seen her parachute from flying around the fracture.

Part of Kaiser's brain refused to believe it. That Monarch could be dead. The rescue team didn't have the capability of returning the whole airframe, but they retrieved Monarch's body, and then cut out a piece of the airframe, where Monarch's callsign was stenciled. It'd be best to not leave anything that anyone could identify who Monarch was flying with, or for. Especially if they couldn't bring the plane back with them.

"Monarch's wizzo's probably still alive, y'know?" Stardust eventually broke the silence between Kaiser and himself as the blades of the SAR helicopter's rotors eventually spun down, and the noise of the air displaced was replaced by the rhythmic thumping of the cordium refinery facilities around them. "Her TAC name was Prez, right?"

"Prez's seat was gone. Your boys confirmed that her ejection seat was gone. So she punched out. Did your AWACS confirm it was over land?"

"Yeah, he did." Kaiser knows, deep down, that Stardust is just simply trying to keep the story straight, to make sure he knows what questions to ask next. But still, the same part of Kaiser's brain that refused to believe the Monarch could be dead, also wanted to snap at Stardust. He did his best to quiet that part of himself.

"Hopefully the workers know something. All things considered, they're the ones out here, day-in, day-out. The admin staff all bugged out as soon as your team showed up. The workers… Didn't have much idea what was going on until the tanks started going up."

"Hopefully that plays in our favor. Prez's too."

Eventually, as the two stood in silence, they were approached, distantly, by one of the workers. A gruff, older man, with white-rooted hair singed black by the exposure to the cordium, and the heat of the facilities. Burnt-in creases in his skin, around his eyes and lips, and the signature of cordium workers all over Cascadia — milk-red eyes. He is still wearing his cordium gear, which coveres every inch of him from the neck down in its plates and its pouches. "Good evening, sir. I'm Stardust with the Cascadian Independence Force. This is my combat adjutant," Stardust lied to the man whose eyes seemed to see right through the lie almost instantly.

"Blythe" The man grunts his name, his eyes looking like they dash between Kaiser and Stardust. "Chief wants me to talk with you, what do you want?"

Blythe's curtness seems to take Stardust, at least, by surprise. Kaiser isn't so shocked. The situations that experienced cordium workers are in made them infinitely valuable to both the Cascadians, but also the Federation. Workers who are infinitely valuable, yet still ostracized for the physiological changes that the exposure to the raw material wrings upon the human body. Leathery skin, the weakened hair, and the signature milk-red eyes.

"We're looking for information about a mercenary plane that was shot down yesterday. We already found the wreckage on the way in, but we're looking for someone who ejected successfully. Did anyone on your crew see a parachute or—?" Stardust barely manages to get the final word out before Blythe cuts him off.

"No." Is the short and succinct answer."

"No… What?" Stardust continues, "No parachute?"

"'Were busy with cordium leakage. Too busy to look up."

"I'm sorry for the damage our planes caused." Kaiser responds to this.

Blythe waves away his dismissal of the statement. "No matter. Under control."

"If your crew manages to find something or someone related to our missing pilot, please contact us. We'll be sure to reward you." Stardust responds to this, knowing innately that the conversation is all but over.

Blythe grunts at this, before turning around, leaving Kaiser, Stardust and the SAR crew behind. Kaiser watches the man walk away, and Stardust watches Kaiser, leaning against his plane as he does.

"What do you think?" Stardust asks.

Kaiser scratches his face for a moment, before responding. "I don't think they're going to help us. I don't blame them on not trusting outsiders… If Prez made it out, she probably would've made it to them, considering there's not many alternatives out here." He ran his hand across his mouth for a moment, thinking a bit more. "If she came to them, they probably would've either told her to go away, or helped her get away."

"And if she didn't make it out?"

"Well then we won't ever know. And probably never will. The Earth can swallow people whole… But we should do another fly around, see if we can see her parachute or something."

Stardust nods his head in agreement, and makes a motion to the sky with his thumb to the helicopter crew, who started to spin up the helicopter's rotors as Kaiser and Stardust start to climb back up into their planes.

"C'mon Kuo…" Kaiser mutters to himself as he climbs back up into the cockpit of his borrowed plane, and straps himself in. "Just come out and say 'hi'."

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