Monarch wasn't sure if he should be considered lucky or unlucky that the old lady had picked up.

"Oh, you need help from little old me?" She cackled over the line. "What'll it be this time? Parts, perhaps? Or another piece for your collection? Unless I've sorely overestimated you, I know you're not fool enough to crash that thing this quickly; it's barely been a month."

Monarch sighed. "I need something for a wingman of mine. Preferably with a second seat—he needs someone to keep an eye on him."

"Oh? You're a picky sort…those're hard to come by these days, with everyone using COFFIN. What's your angle?"

Monarch drew in a breath. How much did he want her to know about Trigger?

"…He has some injuries after an accident, and I'm worried using COFFIN would only make things worse. That, and I need someone to keep an eye on him."

There was a pause, before she spoke up again.

"Sounds like you care a lot about your buddies…a lot of mercs don't, you know."

"If I want my wingmen to be reliable, then I have to be too," he explained. "Otherwise it all falls apart."

A small chuckle.

"What? I'm serious!" He pouted.

"Oh, no, it's fine…You just reminded me a bit of my son for a moment."

He blinked. "Your…son?"

Where had that come from?

"Oh, yes…he wasn't a mercenary per se, but he was in the business. Real sweetheart, about your age…"

"Sounds, uh…nice," he agreed awkwardly.

It…felt a bit odd to be compared to someone's kid.

"…Anyways, I've got a piece that might just work for you. Nice one, too. It won't come cheap, but given you're the sort to spend money on aircraft…I suspect you can handle it."

"No price is too high," he asserted.

"Hah…good to see the prince treats his subjects well," she cracked.

"Oh, so I'm a prince now?"

"Yes, a prince on his pretty white horse, saving maidens and what have you."

Monarch was silent for a few moments. "…You're enjoying this."

"Far too much," she agreed. "Regardless of how fun you are to mess with, though, I expect to see you in the next three days. Bring the lucky man and his other half along with you, too."

He frowned. "Why do they need to be there?"

"I like to think of myself as a tailor, albeit one of steel. I have to make certain the plane I'm selling fits the pilot like a glove…and besides, they deserve a chance to try to damned thing out, no?"

Monarch sighed. "…Yeah, I suppose they do…by the way, I've been meaning to ask you something. What should I call you? 'Old hag' is funny, but an actual name would be nice."

There was a brief pause over the phone, before she finally answered.

"I've been given plenty of names over the years, but you can call me Ragnelle."

"Thanks, then, Miss…Ragnelle." He tested it out. It was an old name, one that sounded strange on the tongue.

"Ha!" She snorted. "Don't mention it. Just get your ass over here soon, yeah? I'm a lot of things, but I'm not infinitely patient like my son."


Trigger's hands rested on his hips as he looked over the armada of ingredients he'd acquired, counting out each of them as if he were doing pre-flight checks as the dirtiest screamo metal he could find blared through his earphones.

Granulated sugar, check.

Ground ginger, check.

Fresh flour and baking soda, check.

Brown sugar—where was the brown sugar?

He looked around frantically for a few moments, panicking at the thought that he might've left it in the shopping cart before a small chime sounded in his head.

The container labeled 'brown sugar' is on the counter behind you.

Trigger looked over his shoulder, blinking in surprise as he realized Nemo was right.

…Thanks, Nemo.

This unit is pleased that you are pleased.

…Yeah, you keep saying that.

Because it is true. Are exact measurements of great importance in this process?

Trigger ran a hand through his hair. Well, my mum liked to just kind of eyeball things, and it usually turned out alright, but…I've never trusted myself that much. Too easy to screw things up. So I try to keep things exact.

This makes sense...using exact numbers is a highly reliable system, after all.

He slipped his headphones back on. He'd never much liked the noises of the kitchen and its machines—the creaking, the groaning, the clicking…it wasn't loud, but it always set him on edge, making him feel like something could go wrong at any moment.

Hence the headphones. Were they sort of big and clunky? Sure. But they blocked out most of the noise, and he could play music while he was working, which was always a boon. Especially now, as he tried to focus on stirring together the wets and dries. Call it unfitting, but the death metal helped him to focus a bit better, especially with his newfound coordination problems.

Proximity alert, Nemo suddenly piped up. There is an entity standing behind you.


Rena blinked at what she was seeing.

One of the new mercenaries—Trigger, she recalled, had apparently commandeered part of the kitchen, and was now mixing together…something.

She'd been a little shocked seeing him the first time—the man almost looked like some kind of ghost, and tended to act like one too. He was quiet most of the time, speaking softly and only when he had to. He'd snuck up on her a few times without even really meaning to, or so it seemed.

Perhaps that was why, for a good minute or so, she just stood and…stared. Because when he escaped notice so often, it suddenly became intriguing to see him standing in the open.

He seemed to be struggling with this simple task, though. There was a look of concentration on his face, and the metallic right arm holding the bowl seemed to waver all over the place as she watched.

In the dim lighting, she noticed something glint just slightly on the back of his head, underneath his hair. What was—

"Hey, could you help me out here just a bit? My arm's not doing so great right now, and I need someone to hold this bowl steady while I mix the wets and dries…"

She froze, train of thought completely derailing. It took a moment for Rena to realize there wasn't anyone else in the room, and he meant her.

It felt…odd. Being addressed like that—

"Shoot!"

Her body moved as soon as she saw the bowl slip from the counter, diving for it. She just barely managed to catch it, a tiny bit of its content splashing on her hands but otherwise not making too much of a mess. She wiped it off as she set it on the table, noting it looked like…some kind of dough?

"Thanks…I've been trying to get used to this arm, but…" He waved a hand in the air, as if that somehow explained anything.

"What's this for?" She asked, as the man began mixing in various ingredients, both familiar and unfamiliar.

"Ginger cookies," the man said with a small grin as he stirred it in. "My ma's recipe is going to knock people's socks off at the potluck."

"…You realize we are in a war, right? And that you could die at any moment?"

"Yeah. Doesn't mean it's suddenly illegal to bake cookies," Trigger pointed out simply.

A spike of irritation rose in her chest.

"…How did you even get allowed in here, anyways?" She grilled him.

"I asked if I could use the oven."

She sputtered a little. The only reason she was allowed to go through here was because it was the fastest route that didn't get direct sunlight most of the day. And he'd just…asked to use the oven?

Oh, she was definitely going to report this to—

"Hey, let's make a deal." Trigger leaned towards her ear a little conspiratorially. "Help me out a bit more here and don't mention this to Park, and I'll let you taste-test 'em."

"…Is this bribery?"

"Yup." He popped the P.

"I would never accept—" She trailed off.

The batter smelled faintly of cinnamon and ginger. It reminded her of childhood, but she…wasn't quite sure when the last time she'd had a cookie was. Maybe when she was…ten? It all felt like a blur…

"…"

"…I want a taste of the batter up front."

The older pilot grinned, offering her the bowl of now-mixed batter. "Go for it. I made plenty."


Fiona picked at her food as she sat in the now-empty mess hall.

She'd been told again and again not to worry about the mercs. But how could she not? They didn't know the extent of their loyalty. The four pilots they were to work most closely with—"Hitman Team"—were…friendly enough, but they put her on edge.

Especially the man called Trigger. She couldn't resolve the contrast between the person she'd seen in the skies—the one who'd saved her ass in an aircraft that was well over half a century old—and the man who'd staggered onto the ground, shaking violently and scarcely able to stand up.

Had Commander Park thought this through?

She had about a million questions, and it all seemed to circle back to one in particular: Who the hell was 'Nemo,' and why had they never shown up?

She groaned in frustration, letting her head rest on the table. She lay like that for a few minutes, next to her tray of half-eaten food, before she was roused by someone poking her in the side of her head.

"Hey, Fi…"

She glanced up. When had Erich gotten there?

He pointed to her left, and as she followed his gaze, she saw him. Trigger. Coming out of the kitchen, of all places, with Rena not far behind. They split up shortly after, but Rena seemed to have…the smallest of smiles on her face. And also what looked like crumbs. What in the hells?

As Trigger walked out, though, his flight lead arrived. Monarch, she was pretty sure they called him. He suddenly grabbed Trigger by the arm and practically dragged him out of the room and down a hallway.

Erich was oddly silent through all of this, just…staring at the mercenary as he walked out with a cloth bog of something that smelled awfully good. As he vanished into a hallway, he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it.

"What's up?" She pressed. Does he know something?

"I'm not sure. I just…" Erich shook his head. "I'll talk to you about it later, if I ever figure it out."


Trigger had not been expecting to get yoinked by his flight lead as he rounded the corner, but here he was.

Monarch practically dragged him down the hall with grip strength that would probably be painful were it on his real arm, and he stumbled as he tried to keep up.

proximity alert what is designation Monarch doing where are we going did we do something wrong did this unit do something bad—

"Monarch, what the hell—at least let me put this stuff in my room, it's heavy—"

"Trigger, I finally found something for you and Prez," Monarch cut him off.

Trigger frowned. "You're gonna have to be more specific than 'something.'"

"A plane. Sorry, I'm…in a rush right now." The mercenary shook his head. "Point is, I need you and Prez to come with me somewhere tonight. Got a solid deal on an aircraft you two can use that isn't a dinosaur."

"Oh?" He perked up at that. "What sort?"

"It's, uh…a surprise," his flight lead mumbled.

"A surprise." Trigger narrowed his eyes. "Does that mean you're telling me, or does it mean you don't know?"

"I—" Monarch glanced away briefly.

This unit detects an eighty-three percent probability that designation "Monarch" does not know the answer.

Trigger snorted at that.

"A-anyways, hurry up with whatever it was you were doing and find Prez, yeah? The old hag isn't the most patient woman," Monarch grumbled.

Trigger groaned as his flight lead walked off.

Oh gods, this is my life now…


Erich glanced into the hangar, finding it mostly unattended.

Like a cat, he crept up to the anomaly in the room—Trigger's Tomcat.

He knew he shouldn't really be doing this, but he just couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu.

He'd seen Trigger before, somewhere. He couldn't remember where, or how, or why, but he'd seen that man and his insignia.

Maybe at an airshow? Or maybe the guy was an old colleague of his dad's?

He pulled up his contacts list and decided to take a chance.

Snapping a photo of the insignia, he hastily typed up a message, hoping his dad would see it if he was still awake.

hey dad, have you ever seen an insignia like this one on a plane before? it's important to something for work.


Interlude: The Cursed Beauty


Ragnelle sighed as she finished cleaning a bit of grime off of what was once a rather cutting-edge piece of technology. Now that she was done having her fun tormenting the man who had proclaimed himself a king, the sorrow had bled back into her old bones.

The F-15 ACTIVE wasn't fundamentally so different from the jet she'd flown once to brave the cold, unforgiving skies. It was the same airframe, more-or-less, and yet…when she'd sat in the cockpit a few times, it had felt fundamentally wrong.

That madman Phoenix had tuned it specially for her a few decades ago—but her old plane had seeped into her blood and bones, becoming a part of her. Trying to fly anything else just wasn't right.

It was a reminder that her time was long gone, and all she could do now was supply those whose turn it was to touch the sky.

She'd wanted her son to have this one someday, but…

She held back a sniffle. At this point, she had to accept that she and Larry might never see him again at all, let alone in the air. and maybe that was her fault, for not doing enough. would they ever find his body?

She just hoped that the prince and his friends would make good use of it.