Trigger paced back and forth in what was apparently his new room.
He'd only really brought the essentials along with him—toothbrush, hygiene products, and a few smaller comforts. The biggest standout was probably the old wolf plushie he'd had since he was a kid. He wasn't sure why exactly he'd felt compelled to bring it along with him, but it felt…right.
It wouldn't be the first time Luna had seen war, after all, or even the second.
What is the purpose of this possession? I do not see a practical use for it.
Trigger just sighed. "Sometimes, you just need a little something to remind you of what you're fighting for."
…
What is your reason for engaging in combat, Father?
Before Trigger could ponder how to answer that, however, there was a knock on the door.
"Oi, Trig. You in there?" A voice filtered into the room—Diplomat's. "Kaiser wanted me to ask you if you were joining in with the potluck."
Trigger hurriedly stowed the plushie away where nobody could see it, and only then did he crack the door open. "…The what?"
"Y'know, the victory potluck. Did nobody tell you about it?"
Trigger just blinked. "…We have…a victory potluck? We're a fucking mercenary company that does potlucks?"
"Yeah," the other pilot said simply.
Trigger snorted.
Dip gave him an indignant look. "Hey! It's a time-honored tradition, dating back to—"
The thrice-stricken pilot couldn't hold it back anymore. He burst into laughter.
"…Okay, fine, it is kind of funny…but seriously, are you cooking anything or not?" Dip asked again. "Hell, could just be mac and cheese for all we care. Normally I wouldn't be as insistent, but with those crazy-ass stunts yesterday? You were, like...the man of the hour. You gotta join in!"
Trigger had to think for a moment about this. What would he even bring...?
"Well, I do know a few good recipes…" He sighed. "Need to break out the cookbook, but I'll figure something out. When's this happening, anyways?"
"Day after tomorrow. Be there or be square," Dip said, firing a air of finger-guns at him as he left.
He stood there for a few moments, processing this.
…Father? What just happened?
"…I'm not really sure either, Nemo, but apparently you are learning to make ginger cookies tomorrow," he muttered under his breath, as he stepped out into the halls.
Monarch felt the cool air of dusk settle around him as he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, sighing deeply.
He'd done a few cursory searches to see if he couldn't find anything more fitting for Trigger to use, and come up with…well, not much.
What you could find in Usea's markets were usually a few notches above what was found in Osea or the Anean continent. Hell, there were a few decent pieces he'd almost considered buying on the spot…but there was always something wrong.
Most were those early sorts of COFFIN aircraft; the ones that were finicky even if your brain was functioning at full capacity. He…wasn't sure if that was the case for Trigger, to be frank. He didn't know the extent of the man's injuries, but…well, he'd seen how he'd looked after the crash, and the fallen pilot had had a concerning number of head wounds.
Combine that with the way Trigger sometimes seemed to "zone out" or talk to himself, and Monarch didn't want to risk that—hell, he didn't want the man flying on his own at all if Monarch could help it.
...He didn't usually question Kaiser's decisions, but what in the hell was his boss thinking? Kaiser wasn't the type to throw folks into the meat grinder for no good reason. Sicario hadn't survived this long by driving its mercenaries into the ground. So why was—
"Are you really out here overthinking things again?"
He practically jumped out of his skin as he turned around, only to find…
"Prez." He sighed with relief. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
"Oh no, the big bad King is feeling vulnerable," she joked, looking off into the distance. "…Seriously, though. You gotta loosen up. Everyone else feels it when you're this tense."
She sat down. "So, what's on your mind?"
"Your new flying buddy…what do you think of him?" He asked. Best to be brief and to the point.
"Trigger?' She shrugged. "I mean, he's no worse of a conversation partner than you," she jabbed.
"His ability to fly, I mean," Monarch sighed. "I'm…concerned about his health. Do you think he should be in the air?"
A flash of pain flitted across Prez's face for just an instant. "…I wish he didn't need to. Even with all the cybernetics, he's struggling. I see it every time we fly. Nobody's an instant expert with that kind of stuff."
"Is it something you can handle?"
"I…think so." She glanced off to the side.
Monarch squinted at his old friend. Prez was usually more sure of herself than that…she was the type to answer in definitives, not "maybes," even if others didn't like her answer.
When she couldn't give a yes or no, something was very wrong.
"I see…keep an eye on him for me, will you?"
"Sure, boss," the sassy wizzo teased, perking up as she left.
Monarch sighed. He'd always hated uncertainty, and this "Trigger" had introduced far more of it into his life than he's prefer. He had to remind himself that it wasn't through any fault of the man's own, but it frustrated him to no end.
Hitman Team had been a three-man flight for nearly a decade. Having another person—one he didn't know well, to boot—threw dozens of wrenches into the cogs of Monarch's mind, forcing him to account for more and worry about more.
He knew what Comic and Dip could do, and what they couldn't. The same couldn't be said of Trigger—he was a wild card.
One thing was certain, though: He was not letting Hitman Four fly on his own.
It needed to be something with a second seat, then, so somebody could keep an eye on him. Robin seemed to have become the "de facto" pick—Monarch wasn't sure he liked one of their best mechanics being in such a dangerous position, but it made sense. They got along well, and she did a good job of picking up the pilot's slack.
This all limited the choices to older models, but Trigger strangely didn't seem to mind that too much. By Monarch's guess, the man was used to being underequipped.
Still…he cringed at the thought of the man needing to use the old Tomcat in serious, modern combat again. He was pretty sure the only reason the enemy hadn't ripped him to shreds was the sheer audacity of it all.
He ran a hand through his hair.
He really didn't want to do this, but...
He pulled out his phone, dialing up a number and almost cursing as the on on the receiving end actually picked up.
"Ah, if it isn't the little prince. At eleven P.M., no less. What are you calling for at this hour?"
"Hey, you old hag. I need your help again."
Pacing about the confines of a half-forgotten Neucom office, there was a scientist.
One who'd had everything he'd spent years working on potentially ruined.
Now, his ultimate gambit had been lost. He'd watched with horror as NEMO's signature had vanished from tracking, along with the aircraft and the Singularity.
The search teams he'd sent hadn't even found a body—only the bloodstained remains of a shattered F-22 had been found at the crash site, which were then snatched by scrappers before his subordinates could even bring them back and have them analyzed.
The Singularity was almost certainly dead. And of course, his prized creation had probably perished along with him.
He'd have to play his cards very, very carefully, and wait until he found another opportunity. The CONDOR project, perhaps, could be leveraged to destroy Dision—but could he do so before the Ouroboros rose to power and made everything ten times harder?
He wasn't so sure about that.
"Damn it!"
There was a knock on the door as he mulled it all over, trying to figure out where to go from here.
"What is it?" He growled.
No thanks to the Singularity. If he'd only cooperated, so much of this could have been avoided…
"Sir! We've collected recent security camera footage from UPEO and General Resource, as you requested."
He'd been asking his subordinates to bring him back black-boxes, transcripts, security footage from the other corporations, anything they could get their hands on so he could get his bearings now that the plans he'd laid out in the simulations had gone off-course. Of course, he was careful not to tell a soul about why he needed these things, but with enough hush-money, nobody cared.
He huffed. "Thank you. Now leave," he said, pointing to the door.
"Uh…sure?" They said, wandering out from whence they came with a bit of visible confusion.
Once they were gone, Simon sat down, taking a look at what he'd been given.
As the footage began, Simon nodded to himself in confirmation. It was indeed a UPEO hangar, filled with…mercenary troops.
Sicario.
He'd heard news of them from his contacts in UPEO. Park was normally an easy man to manipulate—tell the old fool that the AI would be his if he pulled a few strings, and make him think he was the man who'd masterminded everything, and he suddenly became oh-so-pliable.
Manipulating Park to his whim should have been hilariously easy.
Unfortunately, recent circumstances had delayed Simon's end of the deal. Park had gotten fed up with him being so slow in providing him with his "dragon," and decided to take on some no-name mercenaries from Osea instead. It was almost farcical, but to Simon…
He scowled.
Yet another wrench thrown into his timetables.
He returned to reviewing the footage. There was a series of aircraft, all adorned with the mercenaries' rather…interesting markings, filing into a hangar one by one.
The last one in, however, had him rubbing his eyes to make certain he didn't have dust in them.
Right there was a gods-damned Tomcat.
How had that ended up in a fight in this day and age, let alone survived? This was modern warfare, not some scuffle between pirates and coast guards!
The canopy popped open, and the pilot seemed to struggle to get out until their backseater helped them down. Once his feet were firmly on the ground, the pilot ripped off their helmet, and Simon saw.
That bone-white hair, those blue eyes…
He stared at the video for a moment, before it dawned on him just what it meant.
It was him.
The Singularity yet lived. More importantly, however…
NEMO might still be functional.
And moreover, NEMO might be exactly where Simon needed him to be.
The AI's tracking chip had always been questionably flimsy, though he'd never quite had the chance to tweak the design. Was it possible…?
A grin finally seized him as he locked the door to his office and made sure that those sound-deadening walls he'd had installed the other day were turned on.
It was all he could do to stop himself from running across Neucom HQ screaming "It's alive! IT'S ALIIIIIIIIIVE!"
Instead, he leaned against a wall.
A small chuckle escaped Simon's lips, though it was soon replaced by a grim smile as he sat down at his computer.
"Three Strikes. You idiot."
The plan had changed, but even the Singularity couldn't squirm out of the grasp of the fate.
In the meantime, he needed to learn all he could of this "Sicario."
Soon, Yoko, my masterpiece-and your vengeance-will be complete.
