"Yang."

"Uhhmmmpphhh."

"Yang are you awake?"

"Ughhhh…. is it time for school yet?"

"Yang we aren't in school anymore," the familiar voice reminded her. "But you should consider yourself lucky we don't have any work today."

The blonde girl stammered a little more before fluttering her eyelids a little, trying to manage them and clear the blur. Her head was sore; pounding like someone was driving a hammer against her skull. She felt around, the rough fabric at her side and the open floor on her opposite end. The memories from the night before returned, the time spent in the bar, raving, laughing, the frustration, and a quiet ride home before falling onto the couch.

"Yang, it's about time you got up," Weiss ordered her, getting very impatient with the sloppy display.

"It's still early, not even… like… the sun's not even out yet."

Blake answered this by opening up the blinds in the nearby window, letting the sunlight stream in and over the room and its occupants like a warm embrace.

"Ow! Blake! Quit it! That's too bright!"

She rubbed her head some more, still squinting her eyes. She searched her pockets in vain for her sunglasses in hopes of dimming the light again, remembering they had been left in her room last night.

"Yes hello? Uh, yes this is her. I'm sorry?" a confused Weiss answered. "Perhaps you should tell me who you are exactly before I do that… yes… I see… and how did you find me? Hm, alright one moment."

She strolled over to the couch, where Yang was leaning back into the corner of it trying to collect herself.

"It's for you."

"What?"

"It's for you," she repeated blankly. "No, it's not a joke."

Ignoring the oddity of the situation, Yang took the scroll from her friend.

"Uh, hello? Yang. I mean, Yang's talking. I am."

"Hey, Yang? You there? Can you hear me?"

Immediately her eyes shot open and she felt a surge of energy.

"Hey! Allen! Or, Saint, hey! What's up?"

"Just calling to check up on you. I had to keep my promise, you know?"

"You did! I'm so happy you did!" she replied, betraying her joy. "But… wait, why did you call Weiss' scroll? And how did you even get her number?"

"Well, it was a hassle. I never got your number, and your weird scrolls aren't connected to our phone system yet. So I had to borrow the one at the front desk of the hotel I'm staying at, right?"

"Uh huh."

"So I remembered some of the stuff you told me about yourself, and, well long story short I ended up calling Beacon."

"You called my old school!?"

"Yeah, they were pretty confused with one of the new American fighter guys trying to contact a student that graduated years back, funny stuff! Anyways, whoever I talked to, she didn't have your number but she did have Miss Schnee's. I guess since she's pretty important."

Yang could tell from his rambling that he was very happy over having found her, and she was happy as well.

"Hah, I'm flattered you went through all that trouble for me… but thank you. I'm really glad you did," she admitted. "So… how are you feeling? After last night?"

"Pretty rough honestly. Hangovers suck. I'll need a few more hours of sleep. How about you?

"Oh, what me? I'm doing awesome, totally. Hangover's nothing… well it's not fun, but a little coffee and exercise and I'll be out kicking butt again."

"You sure got the fighter spirit in you."

"Thanks, that's, ah… hang on," she stopped, turning her team mate on the couch. "Blake, how loud is the TV?"

"Not any louder than normal."

As if to undermine her claim, the television switched to commercials, the kind of drastic switch that was harsh and amplified the sound without warning, so much so even Allen could hear it on his end, making him jump a bit from the surprise of it all.

"Oh sorry, let me go into the kitchen," Yang said, now having a bit of trouble focusing on the conversation over Blake and the television due to her hangover.

"Sorry, sorry!" her friend replied in honest embarrassment, turning it down only for the commercial to end and for the screen to shift back to giving the morning updates on the events of the wider world.

Atlas officials confirmed this morning that American fighter squadrons would be visiting the kingdom, the first time a large American force would be doing this. U.S. officials were very jubilant in their own announcement, seeing as this has been a long-held goal by the U.S. to try and get on better terms with Atlas diplomatically as it has had closer ties to Russia since its arrival. At the conclusion of the announcement, the American officials again raised the issue of Russia's claim to the 'dead continent' in the northern Pacific and the building of an airbase there. Atlas stated the squadron would be kept at the same base as the arriving Russian squadron, and that this would primarily be a 'sales test' in order to determine which type of fighter aircraft the kingdom would buy next; in regards to the land claims, they once again asserted the Russian claim to the land, citing it's close proximity to Siberia and stating that it had always been uninhabited even before the arrival on Earth. Atlas had already purchased a number of Russian MiG-29 jets last year.

This comes as the U.S. Pacific Command announced late yesterday that the aircraft carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower and its combat group had taken up what they called a 'patrol station' in the central Pacific among the rising tensions. The government and military spokesmen of Menagerie issued a lengthy and heated statement calling this an 'unacceptable threat' to their peace and claimed the carrier would enact an 'oppression of our own Faunus people in our domestic waters', with an ending that stated they would be closely monitoring and 'testing' the carrier group. Mistral's government had a much shorter and tame response, only asking the carrier and its aircraft to respect their nautical and aerial borders before reaffirming their isolationist stance.

"You know, it can be unhealthy to stress over things like that. The news has a habit of sensationalizing things," Weiss warned her friend.

"Do you… ever hear much from Atlas? About what's going on?"

"Hardly, you know I've grown comfortable with the simple life here. I only ever get the calls from my family for well-wishes. Diplomacy and military matters were always more of my sister's field, and we rarely discuss them," Weiss explained in her standard matter-of-fact demeanor before softening slightly. "And… what about you? Do you hear much from… back home?"

"Not… as much as I'd like. A letter now and then," Blake sighed. "I just can't believe it's getting this bad. At home too I mean… some of the stuff happening over there. It doesn't make sense they'd allow it… I don't know."

"I'm sorry, but I'm sure things will be ok," Weiss assured her friend, heartfelt but naïve, resting a hand on her shoulder.

The television newscast continued on but its sound was lost in the kitchen, where Yang was now finally catching up with her date from the night before.

"But yeah, I had a great time last night. I'd love to hang out again sometime."

"Well, I don't know if you're like… interested but, in a few days we have this fight thing… it's kind of like a basic duel between Huntresses and Huntsmen in an arena. We usually do it to keep our skills sharp, and for friendly competition. I'm just going to be doing a basic one-on-one with an old friend, if you want to come and watch."

"Really? I get to see you in action? Oh you know I'll be there!"

"Awesome! Awesome, that's great! But hey, let me actually give you my number this time so you don't have to go hunting for me again."

After a quick exchange of information and a short but honest farewell, the two hung up. Yang handed the scroll back to her friend, expressing genuine thanks in return. Yang felt better, so much better, as if her headache had been washed away by the sheer good feeling she experienced. Jackson had kept his promise, been a man of his word, and any ideas or internal debates about what she actually wanted from the night before completely absent.

"Hey thank you Weiss, thank you so much!" she exclaimed, handing her scroll back and somewhat oblivious to Blake's more somber mood. "That was my friend from last night."

"Oh your date?"

"Yep! He's one of the good one's alright!"

"Really? The good ones? You're moving pretty fast with this Yang."

"What? Fast with what?" Yang asked before catching on. "Oh no, no, no, I'm totally not! Not like that, a lady's got to take her time you know? I'm not looking for something serious like that. I just like talking with him, hanging out and stuff-"

"And inviting him to watch you fight?"

"-and it's just a day-by-day thing you know? It doesn't happen all in one night like in one of Blake's cheesy romance novels."

"Wh-Hey!" the Faunus girl jumped suddenly.

"It's all about the timing and the ride and… oh… yeah. Hey, girls… does anyone think they can spare a ride so I can go grab my bike... please?"

"Add power… you're on the ball."

"Touchdown soon."

The Super Hornet struck against the flight deck of the carrier hard, catching the arrestor wire and dragging the speeding jet to a halt. It was a good landing, to be expected with the calm seas and moderate winds. The waves of the Pacific were not as choppy today, with the ships in it churning smoothly through the water and the sun shining brightly as ever, illuminating the beauty of the world. Even in the vast nothingness of the Pacific Ocean, people could find it calm, soothing, comforting. That was probably why Becker loved being out here as much as he did, though he probably did not have as deep an introspective as to know it.

"Wire… two," he noted, looking back to check past the tail of his Hornet. "Alright not bad."

The F-18 was dragged out of the way to make room for the next landings, and before long the fresh Commander was out of the cockpit and being welcomed by the crew and ushered into the ship. He was guided through the passageway along with a few other pilots that were coming in today towards the Ready Room for an introductory briefing. He was one of a number of pilots that were coming in to fill in the rosters of some of the squadrons on the carriers, though he had a good deal of experience and rank over the fresher faces that he saw, but it was for good reason. He had been brought aboard for a more specialist mission, but he still had to fill out the standard fighter roll and help however else he could.

The briefing proved standard, well put-together but scant on the more important details in regards to possible hostile forces and what actions to take with them. But that was to be expected; intelligence could only come up with so much and leaving it a little vague gave some freedom on how to respond to new situations. Once the briefing was concluded, and all the notes were stashed, the squadron leader of VFA-34 pulled him to the side for a conversation focusing more on his own skills. The two made their way through the corridors up to the island itself, getting to catch a view of the open ocean from the side.

"I hope you're finding the Eisenhower accommodating."

"It's not too shabby, not as cozy as the Nimitz was, but this is just my second carrier," Becker admitted. "I appreciate the one-on-one welcome Commander Dominguez."

"You're a VIP, and to be frank with you, it's going to be odd having someone under my command that's the same rank as me. First time

Becker laughed a deep laugh that seemed to echo out against the bulkheads.

"It's no problem! Weird for me too, but I don't plan on stepping on any toes. Your boat, your squadron, your wish is my command my main man," the new arrival assured him. "And look don't let any brass hear this but, between you and me? Never very keen on being squadron leader. Just not my style you know? I was a lot more into the 'specialized' stuff, same stuff I'm here for."

"So, you mind if I ask what it was like?" Dominguez followed up, switching to informalities. "Being a Red Eagle."

Becker had lived a more interesting career than most Navy pilots. After an initial fighter stint he, through luck or timing and with no small amount of skill, ended up helping in the newly stood-up VF-126, the Navy's adversary squadron that played as the enemy to train naval aviators in air combat. After that, thanks to an even greater fortune in luck and timing, he ended up Groom Lake in Nevada.

The truly special thing about him, one that was kept quiet except for those pilots who needed to know, was that he had been a Red Eagle for a short time. A pilot assigned to flying foreign aircraft that had been acquired through one clandestine mean or another, usually foreign fighters of nations that could be hostile to America. It had been a project operating since the Cold War, and though officially ended with the conclusion of that nerve-wracking, half-century standoff, it was never fully ended. The whole time in both squadrons had only been a couple of years, but it had been enough to impart on him a very intimate knowledge of the ins-and-outs of both the tactics of enemy aircraft and how they worked. That was the reason he was here aboard the Eisenhower.

"It was a lot of busy work. Same as any assignment, you know?" Becker admitted, downplaying his little adventures. "But… it was pretty sweet. In and out yeah lots of studying and practice flights, all the time. But absolutely sweet. Getting to fly a Sukhoi is a Hell of a trip. It was real bad man."

"Not as well built as our jets huh?"

"Huh-oh, not bad as in bad bad. Bad as in good, like bad to the bone bad."

"Oh… alright, got it," Commander Dominguez replied. "It is great to have you on board. I'm sure the guys are looking forward to hearing about it from an expert. Getting all the tricks to knock those bastards down."

Becker took a deep breath, letting the salty air of the ocean fill his lungs.

"Look, I'll do my best but there's always going to be some blind spots. Unknowns."

"Technical issues? Tactical?"

"I can teach the guys the ins-n-outs of a Flanker yeah, other ones like Fulcrums and Floggers and stuff a little too, but only as far as we know it."

"I understand; the enemy's always got some trick hidden up their sleeve."

"I went over how to deal with Russian Flankers, especially the ones in the Baltic and farther north. I know they're causing problems out here but like you said with the briefing, the biggest worry is Menagerie. I don't think them Russkies are going to be our main problem," he explained. "I can assume they fly the planes a little different, similar but not the same. Different little specifics too."

Becker took a deep swill of his drink to clear his throat, finishing up the water he'd been giving during the briefing and moving on to the more pressing worry.

"Then there's that dust crap. We were hearing rumors out at Nellis and Groom that they were uh… experimenting with it on their jets. We know so little about what they can really do with that stuff, God only knows what shit they can come up with."

"Our guys have been tracking some unusual things when the Faunus take their birds up. Scary stuff is none of it is consistent, only consistent thing is that they act unusual. Certain aircraft going faster than they should be, sometimes giving off weird electronic emissions. I assume they're still working on that gizmo that can actually detect that stuff."

"I don't know, that kind of stuff isn't my department, and it's secret and kept well away from us. From all I heard, no. There's no dust detection equipment yet. There's so many damn different kinds and we can't find a good way to track one of them, much less all dust."

Becker leaned his back against the bulkhead of the ship. The sky overhead was clear and the sun's rays were unhindered, and had heated the metal thoroughly enough for him to feel it through his clothes. Just from the sounds alone, or lack of sound, it seemed like the flight deck was less busy than usual. Maybe flight ops were done for the day. The ship was feeling comfortable already; it was oddly quieter than he thought it would be. Not that it was quiet, but quieter than the man had guessed before. It would not stay that way. It never did, it was not part of the life on this machine, and he did not expect it to stay quiet.

"There's other issues too. Not just with the Faunus I mean," the squadron commander continued. "Over the past couple months our guys have been tracking flights and ships going to and from Menagerie. Us and other sources."

"Uh huh?"

"We've been tracking a whole lot of military flights going in from Southeast Asian countries. I'm talking about MiGs from Malaysia, a flight of F-16s from Indonesia."

"Jesus, really?"

"One of our Tomcat guys last week intercepted a flight of two way out to the west, made visual on them? Two Mirages, they had Indian Air Force markings on them."

"Yeah I heard plenty of rumors back stateside. They're really committing too?"

"Yes this is just the latest confirmation. They didn't brief you more about it back there?"

"It wasn't seriously considered. And I don't keep up with international politics much. What has Menagerie got that's convincing these guys to help them? Not like the Indians were pissed at us before these dudes showed up. The Hell did we do to them?"

Dominguez simply shrugged his shoulders, emphasizing just how little anyone knew of the situation they were sailing into.

"Don't know, the bad guys don't exactly tell us what their closed door secret meetings entail."

"Oh man, imagine a world where they did that! A spy of our own in their ranks, moles in every enemy's secret bunker. Our jobs would turn into a cakewalk."

"Yeah, but anyways I just figured I'd get an early taste of everything you're bringing in. We can go over more details in a proper meeting," Dominguez concluded, giving his arms a stretch. "I could go for a cigarette. Anything else you want to know right now, or you just want to get to your bunk?"

"Yeah, yeah, what about that team that the briefing said was going to get attached to the CSG if the balloon goes up?"

"Huh? You mean the huntsmen team?"

"Yeah that one."

"What about them?"

"Are the stories about them really true? Like all the super nonsense about being able to take death blows, block bullets and stuff?"

"Don't know, I haven't seen them for myself. But according to all the reports? Yeah, they're the real deal. No shit."

"Huh… pretty radical."

"Yeah that's one way to put it."

"Here's hoping I get to meet them," Becker mentioned before a mental realization. "If I do meet them out here that means war's going down. No good at all, that would suck."

Becker gestured goodbye to his new commander before turning to head off on his own.

"Maybe under different circumstances. But circumstances are always weird. Never know who you'll run into and where, right? Maybe… better circumstances."

The sky over the stretch of ocean that separated Vale from Japan was cool, or rather cooler than average for a mid-Spring day. It was still warm but this was still helpful with the cooler air better feeding the jet engines. That and the lack of heavy winds would be of great help today considering it was a technical training flight.

"King to Griffon, how's it looking?"

"It's good so far. We're formed up."

Saint shook his head slightly; the sunlight still gave him a mild ache despite it being a couple of days since his night out. He took a look over his shoulder to glance down below the wing of his jet. A single team of five older F-4 Phantoms were formed up in a standard finger formation, though the pilots were being liberal with the spacing between each aircraft. It was all fine though, not a major concern for today, as the pilots were still polishing the skills they had been taught and were not seasoned yet.

The old Phantoms, though refurbished, modernized, and cared for, still would naturally lag behind an F-15, and Saint could not allow that. It was his job today to 'tutor', as his boss put it, the Valean pilots in what was to be their first usage of live ordinance. They had been trained well, organized, done everything in practice, in theory, but today was the next big step. Being the first, and newest, line of defense for the Kingdom of Vale in intercepting airborne Grimm or a hostile aircraft was the new duty for Griffon.

Griffon had been Vale's first fighter squadron, and indeed her first jet flying squadron at all, with all of the training done by American professionals stateside in a sort of exchange program to ensure these men, who had never seen aircraft of this design before, could learn properly in a controlled setting. Still, they got a hang of the controls surprisingly fast, and though they did not know all the tricks that came with their planes, it would come in time. Vale's second fighter squadron, going by the name 'Siren' and flying more capable, older-model F-16s, was still standing up. But, under the watchful eye of the Americans, particularly King Squadron and their AWACS, these Phantom pilots would eventually be able to stand their own.

"Vale Approach, FORD, we're set here and ready."

"Copy that, FORD and DODGE, frequency change approved, contact 167.90 for your director, good luck."

Each pilot adjusted the knobs in his cockpit to the appropriate frequency, taking care not to miss any numbers.

"Baron, King Eight, do you read? We're on station."

"Five-by-Five King, loud as a Rooster on a Sunday mornin'," the AWACS operator affirmed through a thick west Texas accent. "You got your nuggets with you?"

"Go easy on them, they're not total greenhorns."

"AWACS Baron, this is Griffon Flight. We're with King Flight."

"Affirmative, we hear you Griffon. Y'all continue on to Bullseye Alpha and we'll keep it rolling as fragged. Got plenty of wildlife for you all to hunt up here."

"Copy WILCO Baron, King out for now."

The fighters cruised onwards through the sky, everything keeping relatively calm at their high altitude, boring even. They were herded over to the 'bullseye', the pre-planned designated point for meeting at this stage of the mission. Here it was little more than a general area over the ocean; there were not many landmarks over the open seas, but that was good. It meant less of a danger to civilians or property for such live-fire training, and this would be a very important milestone for the Valeans.

Ever since these new continents had arrived, their particularly deadly forms of fauna were harassing the coasts and ships of every nation that was near them, right from the first day. The Grimm were indeed a serious shock to everyone on Earth; soulless monsters having never existed on the planet, of course. However, the various local militaries quickly found how weak they were individually to modern weaponry, and though they would initially eat through munitions reserves quickly, the tide was stemmed. After some cooperation with the experts, primarily from Atlas as they would be the first nation to really work with other nations, the monsters were pushed down seriously.

This was not to say that they were not a threat, they always were, and as far as anyone on the new continents could or would tell, they always would be. But everyone was still happy now, the days of them being a commanding terror on any land had by and large ended. The numbers were culled, the stress relaxed, and however they reproduced, they would not do it fast enough to threaten the lands with an overwhelming force as they did before. Still, they were a hazard, a threat that both the Huntsmen on the ground and now the various aerial and naval forces would have to deal with.

In a stroke of efficiency, the local commanders decided to 'multi-task' as the King squadron commander put it. Various aviary Grimm would still fly about over the ocean, and the Valean pilots were in need of real life target practice. Fighter aircraft had already proved themselves capable of killing most flying Grimm, being faster and employing weapons far outside their reach. As such, the Griffon Squadron of F-4 Phantoms was slated to go out, flight by flight at different intervals, to whet their trigger fingers against the smaller of the nearby Grimm.

"Hey, King Eight, Saint? Exactly how often do these jets fight Grimm?" one of the F-4 pilots asked.

"Huh? I don't know, pretty often."

"Well do you have like, a guesstimate?"

"I don't keep touch with averages… sorry it was Snippy right?"

"Yeah it's Snippy. Don't worry we're all bad with remembering names too."

"About once a week, maybe more," Salt interjected with an answer. "Used to be more often in the early days."

"Yeah no need to worry, these jets can swat them down easy," Chip assured their trainees.

"I hope so; I had some close calls with them back in the Bullhead. I don't like getting close."

"You won't have to with these," Saint assured him. "Let's get back to brevity. We're coming up on the point. Just continue as fragged got it?"

"King, Griffon, I'm seeing you at the anchor point. You all ready?"

"Affirmative, King is."

"Griffon is on standby… what was it? On station! For playtime and uh… ready for tasking."

"Hey take it easy, just keep calm. You don't have to get it all perfect," the AWACS assured him. "Alright, King, Griffon, we have multiple contacts ahead, picture is cluttered over a wide area. Looks like Flies, fourteen of them."

"Lancers, right?" one Griffon pilot noted, remembering his code words.

"Yes, now hold your horses and pay attention. Altitudes are varying, from angels eight to twenty-one, no consistent speed or heading, just hovering around. Bearing from you all is between two-six-six and three-three-eight. You got all that?"

The pilots repeated the information accurately, a pleasant surprise to the AWACS and F-15 pilots.

"Alright, let's continue. Griffon you are cleared hot, weapons are free on the designated group, got you? Engage the Flies at your leisure. King, keep track of them and stay on standby."

"Copy Baron. King flight, fence in. You too Griffon," Saint advised

"Alright, so that's it? That's it, we can go now!" Snippy jumped.

"Affirmative, go get them, we'll be right here watching your backs."

"Ok, Griffon Flight, break formation, engage those contacts individually."

Each Phantom broke off and began to go after the nearest Lancer on their radar, though their coordination could use work, as some went after the same target as one of their wingmen, causing a bit of confusion until each began to call out their target with great detail. There were also some growing pains with working the complex systems of the aircraft and its targeting computers in an actual combat environment. But all of these were good things; it was the experience they needed and it was best to get it in a semi-controlled area against a weaker foe.

"Ok, ok… radar, track… radar locking… tone, fox three! Griffon One, Fox One!"

The Sparrow rocketed off of the jet and off into the distance, closing in with the target and striking the Lancer dead on; the explosion was powerful enough that most of its body was destroyed on the impact, with the remainder evaporating to ash

"Alright… alright I killed it! Griffon Three? Rails, you got one? You got one too?"

"Yeah… I can't believe I used to be afraid of these things."

"Griffon Two… locking… Fox One!"

"This is Slim! I got a kill! I got one!"

One by one, the Phantoms plucked their targets out of the sky with ease. The Lancers were dangerous normally, to anyone they actually came across and a serious hazard to pilots. However, they were still only limited creatures, only being able to see and react so fast. The Sparrow missiles on the Phantoms could fire from many miles away, well outside the visual range of one, and with radar tracking the missile was deadly accurate. Having been engineered during the era of the Vietnam War to shoot down the more nimble and faster enemy jets, the slower Grimm did not stand much chance of even noticing one in time, much less avoiding it.

"King, this is Baron," the AWACS called.

"Baron, King, I hear you."

"Picture update, Gorilla… unknown details, standby."

"Gorilla? Of what?" Saint thought, noting the codeword for some large, unknown force in near the area of operations.

"King, Baron. Confirm bogies are Ravens, flock counts twelve, high at Angels thirty-three, moving at… roughly one-twenty knots. Bearing two-eight-zero."

"Are they a threat?"

"Not yet, not by the ROE but they could turn into a big problem," the AWACS operator noted. "Still, orders are weapons hold on any contacts not designated for us to kill, unless they become a threat."

"Well these guys look like they can become a threat," Saint repeated in irritation.

"That's what I was tellin' you."

"With the way Griffon is scattered around we may not have time to wait. Can you ask for permission to engage?"

"Yeah wait one. You contact Griffon and tell 'em to hightail their asses back to you."

Jackson complied, switching over and rushing to contact the Valean pilots.

"Griffon, King, do you copy?"

"Uh, yeah King. What is it?"

"All Griffons break off engagement, disengage and adjust course back to us. How copy?"

"Break engagement? Wait why?"

"Turn back to us now Griffon, there's a bunch of Ravens inbound and we can't have you fluttering around like this!"

"Raven- wait the Nevermores? Oh man."

"Those things… they're a step up," another Phantom pilot shuddered.

"Yeah that's too much for us to chew on, let's get out of here!"

"Griffon Four, buster back to you guys!"

Larger, faster, and generally more cunning, the Nevermore was much deadlier than the Lancer. Even though the various militaries had learned how to deal with them, they were still a larger threat in general, and had the potential to fight back. Their feathers alone were great and sharp enough to cut right through any aircraft, as they had done to some very unfortunate airliners in the early days, and an over-eager or inexperienced fighter pilot could still fall victim to one. A handful had before, and usually the experience left a serious mark on the squadron they were part of.

The American pilots knew how to deal with them, but this was a bad situation to be in. Their allies were inexperienced, spread out, and had fired most of their missiles. The Griffons could not reliably pick off the great ravens with their Sparrows, nor were they in a good formation to cover each-other with the few missiles still strapped to their hard points. It would have to come down to King flight, assuming they were given the go-ahead to engage; everyone there would prefer if they not have to wait until after the first aircraft had been destroyed.

"This is Griffon Five, they're a lot closer to me and I don't… I think they're going to overtake me!"

"Ok hang on, we'll double back and help!" the team lead assured him.

"Negative, belay that Snippy! King will take care of it, Griffon flight abort and retire to the bullseye then hold, you copy?"

"Alright, alright copy!"

The F-15EXs were already moving in the bearing of the Nevermore with the two closing on each-other rapidly.

"Come on, just let us off the leash," Ram jockeyed.

"Shit, Saint we're already well in range for them. We keep closing in we'll have to merge for knife fight," Salt warned his lead.

"Baron, you there!?" Saint demanded again.

"King, Baron, warning red confirmed, weapons free on that specific group of contacts! Clear to engage, kill 'em all!"

"King engage! Engage!"

The flight of Eagle broke from their formation and increased speed. Despite the urgent nature of the engagement, they had in fact planned for such an occurrence. It was part of the reason they were out here, to guard against larger attacks. It just happened a little faster and closer than they had hoped, but each still had an easy and clean grasp of the situation.

"Saint engaging, I'm committed!"

"Salt engaging, on your wing lead!"

"Ram engaging."

"Chip engaging!"

"Boozer already engaging, fox three!"

The longer range radar missiles went out fast, with barely any time from launching to their impact. The first two struck dead center, killing the leading giants without much trouble and causing the others to scatter. The fighters chased after them, each Eagle's grey and blue paint reflecting the shine of the sun brilliantly. The roar of engines and explosions started to echo over the water of the ocean and among the scattered clouds above.

The tactics to counter the Nevermore had been developed very quickly and had not changed much over the years. Despite their speed, the Grimm could not hope to match the thrust of a jet engine at high power, and so the easiest tactic was to make hit and run attacks individually. One jet zoomed in, killing a target, and zoomed out before any other could react. If there were several in a flock, as this were the case, then the initial attack would be followed by another to ensure they were kept off guard. It proved to quickly devolve into individual attacks with less coordination as each pilot had to adapt to the change in battle, but the technology and skill would usually suffice.

"Got him, got another one, he's diving! I'm turning into him I got him in a lead turn now!" Saint called out. "Tracking, he's turning left, lock, fox three! Shack, got a kill on that one!"

"Lead, Nine, another one above us, I'm going for him!" Salt shouted, powering up

"Chip, Chip watch it! Watch below you at your ten, he's gonna take a shot at you!" Ram warned.

Farther below one Nevermore tracked one of the F-15EXs and selected it as its prey, leading the target and with a quick swipe of its wing, a long trail of sharp, pitch black feathers were flung upward. These massive flying knives were more than capable of demolishing the fighter, and the pilot was fortunate that his wingman had made the call to him seconds before hand. The jet was yanked upwards and flung sideways in a lazy barrel roll, falling off to the side and well outside the arc of the incoming feathers, which soared past him and farther into the sky, punching through clouds until they were lost in the blue above.

"Oh, Lord have mercy…"

"You good Chip?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm good. Hell that would be embarrassing."

The Eagle fighters continued picking off the Nevermore one by one, and in general having a good time doing so when the razor feathers were not flung at them. It was the first time in what felt like an age that they were able to apply their training in action, to do the job they wanted to do. And is truly came without any mental baggage; unlike human opponents, no one would cry over a soulless Grimm being obliterated.

The birds had by now been scattered, some trying in vain to catch or race after the jets, their engines in a perpetual howl from the high thrust. All around the unfortunate predators, which may have hoped to easily pick off individual lone aircraft, were being cut down. Missile trails arced out in lines across the sky and ending in brilliant, satisfying fireballs, with the remaining carcasses falling and dissolving into clouds of black ash and dust that were scattered by the wind. The final two survivors realized what was happening and dove away to attempt an escape; despite having completed their mission of defending the Phantoms, the pilots of King Flight were still hot-blooded and eager to score a final few kills to their name, as any fighter pilot is, and considering the monsters would only cause trouble for someone else later, no one was going to argue.

Saint and his wingman charged after the first that dove, with Ram and Chip going after the other. The Nevermore could still gain a surprising amount of speed and this one had been smart enough to go quite high up before diving, gaining a hefty burst and opening the distance quickly. The two pilots in turn pushed the throttles forward further, activating the afterburners and dumping fuel directly into the exhaust fire of the engines.

"Saint, going to gate. Closing on bandit. You got nowhere to run ya flying devil!"

It took a few minutes, but the outcome could not be in doubt. With the Nevermore slowly losing speed and the Eagles gaining it rapidly, it was not long before the bird was in range of the radar-guided AMRAAM. Saint calmed himself, realizing he was in a hot chase and did not wish to make any embarrassing mistakes, he held off the trigged and throttled back, slowing down just slightly as the range dropped. The lock-on tone whined in his helmet and observing the red box in his HUD, pulling the trigger with a final call of 'Fox Three' and sending the weapon out to its final destination.

"Tracking, cmooooon… and that's a hit! King Eight, that's another one for me!"

"Shack n' splash, brother," his wingman buoyed him.

With the last two enemies dead, the immediate threat was over and the fighters began to ease themselves. It would take a minute for the pilot's blood to cool off, as it tends to after the adrenaline shot of combat, especially a one-sided hunt like this. Each one leveled off, slowed down, and moved to rendezvous and return to formation with their leader. As they were trained to be on alert, they were conscious that another threat could always appear and force them back to work, but this worry was dashed by the AWACS' report.

"H'alright! Picture's clear as a beer bottle, that's a grand slam! Yeah! All chicks are green! Chomp-n-howl you war dogs! Damn good work!"

"We usually don't get an ABM that's this enthusiastic," Boozer quipped.

"We're blessed with his presence, Five," Salt reminded him.

"Alright, confirm, we're in the clear. Griffon, King, how are you guys?"

"We're ok, all planes accounted for! Thanks you guys. Everyone made it out right? You didn't lose anyone?"

"Yeah, all chicks are chirping," Saint confirmed.

"It's incredible… you know, a few years ago the idea of getting away from a bunch of Nevermore like that was a pipe dream… not to mention killing them all. Jeez… things are really changing fast."

"Life comes at you fast, absolutely. Got to be able to catch it when it does. Now let's meet back up and head home, we're almost back to you guys," Jackson continued before turning to his AWACS operator. "Baron, King, what's the best route home?"

"Green… zero-one-zero. Best lane home without hostile wildlife."

"Zero-one-zero confirmed, thank you Baron."

"Uh, King, Griffon, this is Baron. Y'all didn't happen to see any other aircraft while y'all were out there did ya?"

"Aircraft? Don't tell me there was some airliner flying around out there or something," Saint answered, the slight worry not dampening the ebullience in the aftermath of the action. "No, no joy on any neutral aircraft. Or any aircraft at all, no joy on any that weren't ours."

"Copy, yeah we had picked up something, definitely wasn't no wildlife, had to be an aircraft. We were pickin' up some funky electronic emissions from it, way it was movin' it probably wasn't no civilian jet either that just wandered in," Baron's crewman explained. "Only saw 'em at the edge of the operating area. Was no factor the whole time, high tailed it out once the fighting started to wear down."

"Which direction did he go?" Salt inquired, having a theory.

"West to two-four-four, then straight south one-eight-zero."

"Straight back to Vacuo…"

"Yeah, good point Salt," Jackson realized. "Might have been a recon aircraft? Maybe even a spy plane."

"What would they be spying on out here over the ocean?" asked Boozer.

"Us, genius, us," Ram pointed out tersely.

"Doesn't matter none now, was never any factor to the operation. We wouldn't have gotten permission to chase 'em down anyway," Baron noted. "Best to head back home, think I can hear a dinner bell ringin'. We can bring it to the brass' attention when we land."

"Sounds good. King, we're in formation again, passing bullseye, holding hands with Griffon. Fence out."