March 7

2100 LOCAL

Rosdower Air Force Base, Northern Cascadia

Ground Forces Briefing Room

Your brain feels sluggish from being woken up so early. Granted, 2100 hours isn't normally 'early' for people. But it is for you, considering that your body had just grown accustomed to the pattern of waking up in the evening for your patrol duty, and then falling asleep at some point during the day. But this was a meeting that you weren't allowed to miss. Although you wonder exactly how important the meeting could be that you hadn't heard about it until someone else in your team had woken you up to get ready for the meeting. Apparently everyone from Ronin needed to be there. So awake you are, despite your body's protestations.

At least in these moments prior to the meeting's start, you were able to say 'hello' to those of your squad that you hadn't seen, for having been on night shift, and at least a few other people in Ronin who you're friendly with, if not acquaintances. Catch up with those people ahead of being put back on the day shift, and your sleep schedule being ruined by your job, once again. Most of the conversations were subdued, and revolved around the strange happenings of the pilots of Sicario, since the lead of Hitman team had died. You still aren't sure what the hang-up about one pilot is — you know that Hitman was one of the strongest teams of Sicario's air-wing, but you never gave it much thought about it being perhaps just one pilot who was so good.

The meeting time came, and the soldiers of Ronin began to quiet down. You sit down in one of the seats in the briefing room, and other people do as well. You turn your attention to the front of the room, more specifically towards the double doors that you had entered from, and knew that there was the only way to enter. Eventually, the doors opened, and in walked Captain Kelleher, not wearing his kit, or much of a uniform as you had grown used to seeing him. He wore cargo pants that are tucked into his boots, and a plain shirt. An attire worn by several of the off-duty operators in this very room. But it wasn't Kelleher's entrance that caused a stir, it was the appearance of Kaiser, the boss of Sicario, behind him. He looks ragged, to say the least. Unkempt hair, bags forming beneath his eyes, and the starting of a beard that had started to grow out from his face since the last time that you saw him in the Hangar.

Everyone else seemed to be as equally disturbed by the appearance of their boss. Some shuffled their feet, others sat up in their chairs. Like there was something more in the appearance of Kaiser in this moment. You shift your eyes between those who are present, and catch those faces that drop, and you sense the air become more heavy, more solemn around you.

"Cascadia's lost this war." Kaiser speaks plainly. You don't detect any kind of lie in his voice. He's speaking the truth, although you're not sure what propels him to say as such. He takes a deep breath. "With or without our help, it's a lost cause… Even sticking it out for the money isn't going to be worth it to us…"

You think to yourself; 'Did losing Monarch really mean that much?' You know, very well, that Monarch was, without a doubt, the best pilot in Sicario, but you still don't know what it exactly means to have lost one pilot out of the many that still work for Sicario, those who can still fight. And not even that — the plenty of other Mercenaries that the CIF had hired as well. Surely what they didn't have in raw talent, they would make up for in numbers.

You watch as Kaiser motions to Kelleher, who throws a black folder onto the empty table in front of the two. "We're done working for the Cascadians, and we sure as shit can't work for the Federation's states anymore. Instead, I'm demaning everyone's loyalty to me. Ronin be damned, Sicario be damned, CIF be damned."

There were murmurs, mostly of assent, from some who you recognized as the longer-time Ronin operators, those of whom who looked like they knew what to do, even if there hadn't been any orders given yet.

"If any of you aren't a fan of what I'm saying, or how I'm saying it. Take a look in that folder." He motions at it, while looking over the collection of operators in front of him.

No one moves.

"I'm the only one who knows what's in that folder, who knows what our next steps are as we withdraw from Cascadian ally-ship. But what I can tell you that what the end of the folder says, is worth more than any reward that the Dusties could give us for their war efforts…

"So I'm asking, reaffirm your loyalty to me here tonight, and I'll bring you along with me."

No one moves for the folder. Your mind is curious about it, but yet you do not move. The subtext of the meeting feeling more like a sword hanging above everyone's head if they move the wrong way. There were two ways to leave this meeting, in line with what Kaiser wants to bring Ronin along for — or in a body bag.

March 8

847 LOCAL

Apodock Fracture, Cordium Crew Quarters, Cascadia

At some point in the night, or maybe the day before, someone had come and casted her leg. She wasn't entirely sure how someone had managed it, considering Monah had told her that there wasn't many accidents that weren't fatal here. So how on earth they were able to cast her leg, was beyond her. She had looked around when she had first noticed the cast, and wasn't sure exactly if she was supposed to leave the bed or not. There wasn't a cane or crutches or anything to balance herself with. So she stayed in bed, with parched lips, and no idea where anyone was, much less Monah.

She laid in bed, letting the days pass as best she could. Every time she woke up, she wasn't sure whether or not it was day or not from her bed. The light flitting in from below, the lava flows illuminating the room ceaselessly. At this point, she wasn't entirely sure how many days, or how many times she'd fallen asleep here. Sometimes when she'd wake up, there'd be food waiting for her, sitting on her bedside table.

The last few times she'd woken up, there was nothing, or rather, had been nothing.

She let herself lay in bed, and let the restlessness wash over her as her body healed.

It felt like during her waking hours, every heartbeat would send little washes of pain throughout her leg as the local blood pressure increased, and set off the nerves that were inflamed from the break in her knee, and sent those washes of pain throughout her leg. In between pulses of her heart, the pain dropped down to the baseline, and it wasn't so bad. So that's what she tried to focus on. Those moments between heartbeats, those ones where she didn't have pain, and could try and fall asleep again. At some points, even the heightened pain would fade into the background, and she was able to just focus on the things around her. The ceiling, the spinning fan on the ceiling that dangled over the foot of her bed. The ceiling reminded her of the old hangars that Hitman had worked out of, back in the Creole Republic. The ceiling that looked like it was as much metal, as it was anything else, with occasional holes in it, that she couldn't quite see light through.

At night, or rather — when she was asleep — the pain would subside, but everything else was worse. She would see visions of the inside of the Skira. The crash site of Monarch's plane. The voice of Monarch saying something that she couldn't quite hear, or sometimes, the bloodied image of Monarch inside their cockpit, staring up at her.

She wouldn't wake up at these images, which made seeing them all the more horrible.

Instead, she had to force herself to wake up. And found herself still staring at the same ceiling that had been a constant for her these past few days.

She sensed the person, rather than heard them. She turned her head to meet the look of a man who was reading a book, but was positioned in a way that she could tell that he was waiting for her to wake up again.

"Awake?" The man asked, his voice gruff and deep.

"Why the hell are you watching me?" Prez asked, her voice sounding foreign and forced as she tried to use it. The words came out more defensive than she meant for them to.

"Leg healed. Gave you salve, bone should be done fusing by tomorrow." Prez blinked in confusion, and did her best to prop herself up with her arms while not moving her lower body. "Wouldn't recommend moving much, if I were you."

"The hell did you put on it?" Prez resisted the urge to reach down and feel where the break had happened. "What kind of salve heals a break this fast?"

"Cordium-adapted bark. Heals bones when they're starting to fuse." Prez blinked in confusion again. She hadn't heard of anything like this. Much less cordium byproducts being used in some kind of medicinal way at all. "Yes," The man spoke, almost like he'd ripped the thoughts from her mind entirely. "Can use cordium medicine. No one but us."

"Who's 'us', cordium workers?"

The man grunted in acknowledgment. "Blythe. Chief of the crew."

"I'm Prez."

"Monah said." Blythe tilted his head, giving his milk-red eyes a shimmer in the glow of the room from the lava flows outside the window. "Not a Federation pilot, but speak like one."

"I grew up there. Now I'm a pilot for the CIF." Prez half-lied.

"Nope. Vulture." Prez let herself fall back down to laying on her back at this. She had been seen through instantly. "I met another Vulture. Didn't know he was looking for you. Was enraged when I lied to him."

"Why would you lie?" Prez tried sitting back up again, but winced at the sudden movement. She was all but sure that it had been Kaiser who had come looking for her and Monarch. That would make sense wouldn't it?

Blythe shrugs at the question, "Same reason you do. Protect yourself, protect your crew. 'Sides, didn't know you weren't a fed until just now." He shifted how he sat, "Could've been a fed looking for a dustie, a dustie looking for a fed. Didn't think that vultures looked after their own." He gave a small, jagged smile, his scars preventing the smile from fully forming. "You fell from sky, injured. Crew wants to take care of you. Vulture shows up, looking for someone my crew is caring for? No one fucks with my crew. No crew? No cordium."

"Didn't want someone tearing up your home?"

The chief grunted at this. "Everyone needs cordium, no one wants to get it themselves. We get it, they leave us alone. Simple as that. Don't look kindly at someone poking at my crew's affairs."

"Makes… Sense. I guess." Prez admits, loathe she is to admit it.

"Monah wanted me to show you something." Blythe says, and pulls a small phone from somewhere, and taps at it, before turning it to show Prez. "This your plane?"

Prez nods at the familiar Skira.

"We got to it before the Vultures. But we didn't scavenge it. Vultures took a body out of it when they came past." Blythe explains. "Want to see?"

Prez shakes her head, and pushes herself that much further down into the mattress and pillow, knowing already who the body was.

"You were friends with them?" Blythe spoke, kindly. And Prez gives a single nod at this. Squeezing her eyes shut, not wanting to think too hard about the subject matter, but needing to anyways. "I will pray to both of you?" The Chief stands up, and wordlessly disappeared, his footsteps barely discernible above the rattling of the ceiling fan, and the far-off rumbling of some machinery. Leaving Prez alone, to mourn her friend, her lover, a second time.

The hours pass in silence, and Prez isn't sure when she falls asleep again.

March 15

1157 LOCAL

50 Nautical Miles West from shore, Cape Olympus, Cascadia

Federation Navy Ship "Flight Without Feathers"

Peacekeeper Squadron Ready Room

The Cascadian Peacekeeper squadron had been almost bored, if you could describe them as such. They had been deployed a handful of times in the days following the skirmish above the Apodock Fracture, and now were what could ostensibly be called "cleanup duty" for the remnants of the Cascadian rebels' air force. Quick, one-and-done sorties that barely gave the pilots on those missions time to warm up before the mission was done and over with. For most of the missions, the bombs were guided in by laser from the ground, or were guided in by satellite coordinates — or the enemy planes were shot down with extreme-range missiles guided to their targets using Bloodsucker's far more powerful radar. Allowing the missions to be done cleanly, and without risk of the Peacekeepers taking damage from those who would be lucky enough to get into dog-fighting distance with them. There was no need to expose the Peacekeepers to damage if they didn't need to. And ever since putting down that one Mercenary over the Apodock Fracture — it certainly seemed all the more easier for the Peacekeepers, and the Federation Air Force at large. No sudden appearances of the Crown, no mysterious losses of superior air power against the lesser Independence Forces. Nothing of that nature. And to that extent, the squadron was almost bored in their duties. Wondering why it was at all that they had been activated, and brought back to Cascadian shores for such an underwhelming endeavor. They were now being treated as a spearhead of sorts, being deployed and sortieing at the forefront of Cascadian resistance. It was never a long battle, not like the Apodock Fracture incident.

That being said, it wasn't like there still wasn't sport in it. Although it may not have been the sport that Headcase was looking for, when he'd heard about the Crown, his teammates still found enjoyment in hunting the small-fry of the CIF, and in that respect, he knew that he had to show his colors, to show his superiority at air-to-air combat.

Every sortie was its own kind of dance, and in that there was something to be had, to be taken from the enemy, something that Headcase knew that he was deserving of having, and so he took it. Fight after fight, sortie after sortie, each and every fight that he was in he took what he wanted from his enemy, yet each and every time, he found himself wanting, waiting for something that would never come. The fight that the Crown was supposed to bring, but never did, bringing instead disappointment, something that he couldn't quite understand. It was something that ate away at him in the quiet hours of the day, something that whispered to him at all times of work and recreation aboard the Flight Without Feathers. Something that he couldn't quite explain to someone if they asked him. Although no one did.

But it was something that still ate at him in his sleep, and threatened to boil over into his work, as every fight left him wanting more.

"And with the most kills out of the last dozen sorties… Headcase with ten!" Crashdown — Crimson 10 — announced to the ready room, reading off a screen that all could see, but that didn't stop the cheering as he announced Crimson team leader's kill count. It was almost an honor in of itself to be the one to announce the tallies for all those involved. Bloodsucker merely watched from a corner of the ready room, fiddling with something in his flight bag that wouldn't be needed until his next sortie.

There was cheering, a couple of the Peacekeepers applauded, and there were many voices congratulating

"That's mighty fine work, Crimson Team." A new voice spoke, cutting through the rest of them.

Those who weren't standing, rapidly became standing as the call of "Captain on Deck." Came from Crashdown first, the one closest to the door to realize who it was who had spoken over the Peacekeeper's celebration. All moved to salute their superior officer. Bloodsucker had to rapidly scramble to put down the his flight bag, before going to attention himself.

"At ease." Captain Jefferson ordered. And to ease they moved. "You've done a lot of good work Crimson Team. But the war isn't quite over yet. There are still elements of the Cascadian rebel forces that are going to need your… Finesse, as it were."

"Sir?" Crimson 2 asked.

"New orders from Crystal Kingdom." Jefferson explained, "Sorties tomorrow involving all elements… More of an exploratory mission… May I?" The Captain motions at the tablet that Crashdown holds, and Crashdown offers it to him. The Captain taps at it, pulling something up on the screen that's displaying the tablet's screen. Deployment orders, flight compositions, ordinance down to the kilogram. All things that were generally left to the discretion of the officer in command, but instead were coming directly from the Crystal Kingdom itself. All things that drew in the attention of all those present. Things that weren't generally drawn out, were drawn out. Things that weren't generally thought of as important, were labeled as such.

"Sir?" Headcase asks.

"Go."

"Is this more of a force-reconnaissance mission?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, it is. This is a mission to gauge the capabilities of the Mercenary forces still working for the rebel forces. We haven't seen very much of what we anticipated were mercenaries in the last week, so Crystal Kingdom is deploying you to the places that seem the most likely to contain Mercenary elements, and in accordance with federation law, detain those who surrender, and destroy those who don't. Independence Forces are still under the same RoE. But it seems that Crystal Kingdom is trying to keep around enough mercenaries so that they can get information from them."

"Understood sir." Headcase responded.

"In that case, that'll be all, Peacekeepers. Briefing is at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Dismissed."

The Peacekeepers all salute as their superior officer leaves the Ready Room, and leaves them to simmer in the light of the screen as it displays their orders for the next day.

"So, even after all the bashing we've been giving 'em, those on high want us to do that much more?" Crashdown speaks from the front of the room, somewhat scoffing as he does.

"Guess so." Says Crimson 2. "Could be worse, they could be having us just bombing targets from altitude."

"True that." Someone else comments, and the conversation continues on and on, talking about things both of consequence and not of consequence, about the mission that's been set forth for them and things unrelated to it.

Bloodsucker returns to his flight bag, picking it up from the floor of the Ready Room, and paying attention to it instead of the conversation, until someone taps him on the shoulder. He looks up, and practically jumps at the sight of Crimson One, Headcase, looking (slightly) down at him, the distance between their two heights all the more obvious in this closer-quarters situation.

"S-sir!" Bloodsucker says, trying to set down his gear again, to give respect to who is ostensibly his superior officer.

"No need. Just need something from you when you get the chance." Bloodsucker puts up a hand placatingly. "Just something from your logs when you get a chance."

"W-what is it?" Bloodsucker isn't sure if it was the sudden appearance of Headcase that made him suddenly that much more apprehensive, or the fact that he was so close to him in between the lines of gear lockers.

"I'm just working on a personal project, looking at Apodock?" Headcase explains calmly, seemingly unaware of the apprehension that Bloodsucker has in this moment. "Just need what your radar showed that day, that's it."

"Yeah, I can get that for you later today… Sir."

"And not that garbage processed stuff either. The raw data if you can." Headcase notes.

"Yeah, I can do that… But do you have the processing power to—?"

"Not a worry of yours. I'm just looking to set up some simulations."

"Ah. Gotcha."

"Anyways, that'll be it… Drop it by my quarters."

"Will do, sir." Bloodsucker resists the urge to salute as Headcase moves away.

Something buzzes in his ears, something about the closeness and sudden appearance of him in such close quarters had certainly taken Bloodsucker by surprise, but he didn't expect to practically be buzzing with a personal request from who was basically his boss.

The other members of Crimson Team, upon quick glance, are dispersing, going about their midday duties. Giving Bloodsucker time to go about his mission from his boss, and to also inspect his plane's equipment, before tomorrow's mission. Even if the rest of the team's briefing is as early as the captain said, his is going to be even earlier — thanks to the slower, not jet-engine powered plane that he's been assigned during his stay aboard ship. He didn't mind it, but it certainly meant that he was going to be getting less sleep that night.

At least he was going to get to see Crimson One in action again tomorrow.