-The War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Itallica, Osea/Erusia Forward Operating Base

Corporal Peterson walked onto the main yard, scanning the area where Sergeant Kelly had last been seen. The midday sun beat down, casting long shadows across the concrete, but there was no sign of his sergeant. A knot of unease began to form in his stomach as his eyes swept the yard again, hoping he had just missed something.

"Damn it," Peterson muttered under his breath, quickening his pace as he approached a group of Marines patrolling near the edge of the base. The rhythmic sound of boots on pavement echoed faintly, but still, nothing seemed out of place—except Kelly's absence.

He spotted a Marine standing at attention, rifle slung over his shoulder, and without hesitation, grabbed him by the arm.

"Yo man. Have you seen the Sarge?" Peterson asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

The Marine, barely looking up from his post, shrugged nonchalantly. "Haven't seen him, Corporal," he said, shaking his head. "Not since this morning. Maybe he's in the barracks?"

Peterson's grip tightened for a second before releasing the Marine's arm, his frustration growing. "Yeah, thanks," he muttered, already turning to continue his search.

Where the hell could Kelly have gone? It wasn't like him to vanish without letting someone know where he'd be. Especially not with the tension building up on base after the recent intel leaks. Security was on high alert, and everyone was supposed to stick together, follow protocol.

Peterson felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him as he hurried across the yard. Something wasn't right.

He cut through the narrow path that led toward the barracks, hoping that maybe Kelly had just slipped inside unnoticed. But as he neared the entrance, a voice called out from behind him.

"Corporal!"

Peterson turned sharply to see another Marine jogging toward him—Private Rivers, one of the new recruits who had been stationed on the perimeter earlier that day. Rivers looked winded, his face flushed as if he had run all the way from his post.

"What is it, Rivers?" Peterson asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Rivers stopped, catching his breath before speaking. "I thought I saw Sergeant Kelly heading toward the motor pool about an hour ago. He was moving fast, like he was in a hurry."

"The motor pool?" Peterson frowned. "What the hell would he be doing there?"

Rivers shrugged, still panting. "I don't know, Corporal. Just thought you should know."

Peterson nodded, already shifting his focus. "Alright, thanks. I'll check it out."

He didn't wait for a response before heading toward the motor pool, his pace quickening as his mind raced. Kelly wasn't the type to act suspiciously, but with everything that had been happening lately—the heightened security, the whispered rumors about intel leaks—something felt off.

As he approached the motor pool, Peterson noticed that the usually bustling area was quiet, almost too quiet. A few vehicles were parked haphazardly near the garage, but there was no sign of Kelly. He moved cautiously, his eyes darting around for any movement.

Suddenly, a low noise caught his attention—a faint shuffling sound coming from one of the storage sheds near the far end of the lot. Peterson's hand instinctively went to his sidearm as he approached the shed, his senses on high alert.

"Kelly?" he called out softly, hoping for a response.

Silence.

His hand hovered over the latch of the shed's door, hesitating for a moment. Something wasn't right. He could feel it in the air—the tension, the stillness. Slowly, he pushed the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the otherwise quiet motor pool.

Inside, dim light filtered through the cracks in the walls, illuminating rows of stacked crates and equipment. At first glance, it seemed empty, but as Peterson stepped inside, his eyes adjusted, and he saw it—a boot sticking out from behind a pile of crates.

"Sergeant?" he called out, his voice tense.

No response.

Peterson moved quickly now, rushing around the crates, his heart pounding in his chest. He stopped dead in his tracks as the full scene unfolded before him.

Sergeant Kelly lay slumped on the floor, unconscious—or worse. His face was pale, a trickle of blood staining his uniform near his collar. Peterson dropped to his knees beside him, checking for a pulse. Relief flooded through him when he felt the faint but steady beat under his fingers.

"Kelly, come on, wake up," Peterson whispered, shaking his sergeant's shoulder. Peterson turned around and yelled into the air, "I need a Medic over here. NOW!"

Kelly stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open as he groaned. "Peterson…?"

"What the hell happened?" Peterson asked, his voice low but urgent.

Kelly winced, trying to sit up but failing. "I… I don't know. Something hit me from behind. I was coming out of the barracks and… next thing I knew, I was here."

Peterson's mind raced. Someone had attacked Kelly, but why? And who? He helped Kelly sit up, his eyes scanning the shed for any clues. The attackers couldn't have gone far.

"We need to get you to the medics," Peterson said, pulling Kelly to his feet.

Kelly shook his head weakly. "No. We need to report this… they're after something… someone's trying to cover their tracks…"

Peterson's stomach dropped. The rumors about the leaks, the heightened security, and now this—something much bigger was going on, and Kelly had been caught in the middle of it.

"Who's after what?" Peterson asked, but Kelly was slipping back into unconsciousness.

"I'll find out," Peterson muttered to himself, his grip tightening on Kelly's arm. Whatever was happening, it wasn't just about one attack. This was just the beginning.

As he hauled Kelly out of the shed, Peterson knew one thing for sure—they were in far deeper than they had realized.

Peterson hoisted Kelly over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, his muscles straining under the weight of the unconscious sergeant. Sweat dripped down his face as he marched across the yard, heading toward the medical tents. Every step felt heavier than the last, but Peterson's determination pushed him forward. Kelly's life could depend on how fast they got him to the medics.

His vision blurred slightly from the exertion, but just as he was beginning to falter, a group of Erusian soldiers approached, their sharp uniforms contrasting with the worn fatigues of the base. Peterson recognized a few of them from joint patrols—Erusians brought in as part of the rebuilding efforts, most of them skilled soldiers who had been repurposed to support the remaining Osean forces on the ground.

"Hey! Give me a hand!" Peterson called out, his voice edged with urgency.

The Erusians responded immediately, two of them stepping forward to help. Together, they lifted Kelly off Peterson's shoulders and carried him between them, distributing the weight evenly. One of the soldiers, a tall man with dark eyes and a no-nonsense expression, nodded to Peterson.

"We'll get him there faster together," the soldier said in a thick Erusian accent. "What happened to him?"

"Someone jumped him," Peterson replied, wiping the sweat from his brow as they quickened their pace toward the medical tents. "I found him unconscious in the motor pool. I don't know how long he's been out."

The Erusian soldier's brows furrowed. "Not good. We've heard rumors… something's not right on this base."

Peterson shot him a look but said nothing. He knew the Erusians had been hearing the same whispers the Marines had—rumors of leaks, shady dealings, and mysterious disappearances. Kelly's attack might just be the latest incident in a growing list of unexplainable events, and it made his gut twist to think about what else might be going on.

As they approached the medical tents, the flaps swung open, and a couple of medics rushed out to meet them. "Get him inside," one of them ordered, directing them toward an empty cot.

They gently lowered Kelly onto the cot, and the medics immediately began their work, checking his vitals and looking for signs of head trauma. Peterson stood at the foot of the cot, his hands on his hips, his heart still pounding from the rush of adrenaline.

One of the Erusians, the tall man who had helped carry Kelly, stood next to Peterson, watching the medics work with a keen eye. "Do you think this has anything to do with the intel leaks?" the soldier asked quietly.

"What intel leaks?" Peterson asked, shooting the Erusian a sharp stare, his eyebrow raised in suspicion. He was beginning to realize that things were far worse than he had imagined.

The Erusian soldier—Captain Mikhail Voronin—glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot, before leaning in slightly. "Haven't you heard it? We have a massive information leak on base. Allegedly, one of the CCTV cams caught an unknown figure messing around on one of our consoles. Some kind of covert operation, but nobody's identified the person yet."

Peterson's eyes narrowed as the gravity of the situation sunk in. "And if there's one breach…" he began, already knowing where this was headed.

"There are most likely more," Voronin finished with a grim nod. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "Whoever's behind this, they're playing us. The whole base could be compromised."

Peterson felt a chill creep down his spine. The possibility of multiple breaches explained the heightened tension on base, the strange orders, and now, the attack on Kelly. Whoever was behind the leaks wasn't just here to gather intel—they were up to something bigger. And if they were using the base's own systems against them, it meant the threat could be anywhere, hiding in plain sight.

"We can't afford to sit on this," Peterson said, his voice hardening with resolve. "I want the entire area of Italica in lockdown. Nothing and no one moves without clearance."

Voronin raised an eyebrow but nodded in agreement. "That's a big step, Corporal. You think we'll be able to contain this?"

Peterson didn't hesitate. "We have to. Everything and anything that doesn't look like a local—or doesn't have the Erusian or Osean flag—is to be detained immediately. No questions, no exceptions. You're free to use force if necessary." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. If there was a threat inside the base, it needed to be rooted out, and quickly.

Voronin nodded briskly, understanding the urgency. "Understood. I'll get the message out. My men will assist with the lockdown, and we'll work with your patrols to secure the area."

Without another word, the Erusian soldier bolted off to relay the order, leaving Peterson standing alone for a moment, his mind racing. He stared out over the base, watching as the Marines and Erusians went about their duties, completely unaware of the growing threat that lurked beneath the surface.

Peterson couldn't shake the feeling that they were on borrowed time. Whoever had infiltrated the base knew what they were doing, and if they weren't stopped soon, there could be serious consequences—not just for the base, but for the entire operation. The thought of an enemy agent slipping through their defenses and gathering critical intel made his stomach churn.

He exhaled sharply, turning on his heel and heading toward the motor pool again. If someone had tampered with the consoles, they had to have left a trace, something he and Voronin could use to track them down. But more importantly, he needed to know why Kelly had been targeted. What did Kelly stumble upon that made him a threat?

As he neared the motor pool, Peterson's radio crackled to life. "Corporal Peterson, this is Private Davis. We've got a situation near the eastern perimeter."

Peterson stopped in his tracks, his pulse quickening. "What's going on, Davis?"

"We've detained a suspect, someone who doesn't match any of the IDs on file. No flags, no insignias. Looks like he's trying to pass as a local, but something feels off. Should we bring him in?"

Peterson's heart pounded in his chest. This could be it—the break they needed. "Yes, bring him in. Make sure he's searched and questioned thoroughly. I'll meet you at the holding area in ten."

"Roger that," Davis responded before the radio went silent.

Peterson increased his pace, heading straight for the holding area near the main barracks. Whoever this suspect was, they might have answers—or they might be part of something much bigger. Either way, Peterson was done playing defense. It was time to go on the offensive.

As he reached the holding area, Voronin was already there, standing at the entrance with a few of his Erusian soldiers. The suspect, a man in his mid-thirties with unkempt hair and a disheveled appearance, sat on a bench, his hands cuffed in front of him. He looked nervous, eyes darting around the room as if he were sizing up his chances of escape.

Voronin glanced at Peterson as he arrived. "This him?"

Peterson nodded, stepping closer to the man. "You don't look like you belong here," he said, his voice low and cold.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about," the man stuttered, his voice shaky. His performance was convincing, almost too convincing. Anyone else might have believed the act. But Peterson wasn't anyone else. He knew something was off the moment he laid eyes on the suspect.

Peterson scoffed, crossing his arms as he took a step closer, his gaze dropping to the man's feet. "Oakley boots?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

For a split second, the man froze, his mask of fear slipping. Peterson noticed the subtle change instantly. The nervous expression melted away, replaced by something colder, harder. His eyes narrowed, and his entire posture shifted from scared civilian to someone far more dangerous.

"Nice try," Peterson said, his tone darkening. "Those boots don't exactly scream 'local villager,' do they?"

The man's face hardened, his jaw tightening as he stared up at Peterson with icy resolve. Gone was the nervous stammering and the wide-eyed look of innocence. Now, his eyes were sharp, calculating, as if he were mentally sizing up his options.

Peterson felt the tension shift in the room. This wasn't just some random guy pretending to be a local—this man was trained, and from the looks of it, he was calculating his next move. Whoever he was, he had been operating undercover, and his little act had been his first line of defense.

But now the mask was off.

"Who are you?" Peterson demanded, his voice sharp. "And why are you here? I'm not playing games."

The man's lips twisted into a smirk, but he remained silent. His body language screamed defiance, and Peterson could tell that whoever this guy worked for had trained him well—probably too well to crack under the first round of questioning.

Peterson sighed, letting his hand rest on the strap of his plate carrier. He turned to one of the Osean Marines stationed by the door. "Is the OIA agent still on base?" Peterson asked, his voice tired but focused.

The Marine gave a quick nod before turning to head out the door, moving to retrieve the agent.

-The War-

Japan, December 2nd, 2018

General Hazama

Tokyo, Office of the Prime Minister Seiji Okochi

They all sat at the grand table—Prime Minister Okochi, General Hazama, Defense Minister Akiyama, and the U.S. Lieutenant General Robert Matthews, the officer in charge of all U.S. troops stationed in Japan. This also made him responsible for the recent failed air attack on the Osean-Erusian base, a fact that weighed heavily on the room.

Okochi, seated at the head of the table, glanced at Hazama, his frustration evident. He sighed heavily before speaking. "Don't say it," Okochi warned, his voice firm and his glare directed pointedly at Hazama.

Hazama, ever the tactician, leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "Say what?" he replied, feigning innocence, his tone full of mock confusion.

The tension in the room was palpable, everyone waiting for the inevitable exchange between the two men.

"Come on, Hazama, I know you want to say it," Okochi burst out, frustration lacing his words as he slammed his hand lightly on the table.

Hazama's smirk widened as he leaned forward, fingers steepled. "You're right, Prime Minister. And yes, I am going to say it." He paused, letting the tension in the room build before delivering the inevitable line. "I told you."

Okochi's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as the words hung in the air, thick with the weight of hindsight. General Hazama had been skeptical of the air attack from the start, and now, in the aftermath of its failure, his smugness was undeniable.

Defense Minister Akiyama shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing toward Lieutenant General Matthews, who remained stone-faced, carefully observing the exchange but saying nothing—for now.

Okochi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "This is not the time for 'I told you so,' Hazama," he said, his voice tight with barely contained anger. "We're already in a difficult enough position without your gloating."

"Okay," Hazama said as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes were sharp as he looked at Okochi. "Then tell me, what's your plan? After this attack, Osea won't just let it slide. I'm sure they're planning a counter-offensive as we speak."

Okochi stayed silent, his expression unreadable, but it was U.S. Lieutenant General Matthews who responded. "We've already taken measures. We've sent one of our CIA agents into one of the Osean bases."

The moment the words left Matthews' mouth, Hazama's jaw dropped. His eyes darted toward Defense Minister Akiyama, who looked just as stunned, before he whipped his gaze back to Matthews.

"What?! After what you pulled off, we needed to appease them, not aggravate them further!" Hazama's voice erupted, echoing through the room as he slammed his fist onto the table. The sharp crack of his knuckles on the wood punctuated the rising tension.

Matthews met Hazama's fiery gaze with a steely calm. "The situation is more complicated than that. We can't afford to just sit on our hands. We need to know what they're planning."

"More complicated?" Hazama barked, his voice heavy with disbelief. "You've just dragged us deeper into a conflict we barely had control over! Do you even understand the consequences if they find out about your little infiltration?"

"General Hazama," Matthews said evenly, "we didn't have many options. Osea was never going to just 'let it go.' We needed leverage, and intelligence is the only way to get ahead of them before they retaliate."

Hazama shook his head, his frustration boiling over. "You're playing with fire, Matthews. And it's us who'll get burned."

Prime Minister Okochi, who had been silent throughout the heated exchange, finally spoke. "Enough," he said, his tone grave. "We can't afford internal divisions right now. What's done is done. Now we need to focus on preventing a full-scale conflict."

Hazama remained silent, his fists clenched in frustration, but he knew Okochi was right. The die had been cast, and now they had to deal with the fallout—whether they liked it or not.

Taking a deep breath, Hazama finally spoke, his voice calmer but still laced with fury. "Prime Minister, excuse my outburst, but we're on the brink of a full-scale conflict. You know as well as I do that Japan's defense forces stand no chance in such a war. Even with U.S. support, this conflict will take a heavy toll—not just on our military, but on our economy. And, General," Hazama glared at Matthews, "yours as well."

Matthews remained stoic, but Hazama wasn't finished.

"With tensions between the U.S., Russia, North Korea, and China already escalating, there's no guarantee that when the U.S. becomes more heavily involved inside the Special Region, those nations won't take advantage of the situation. If any of them make a move, especially Russia or China, we won't just be looking at a war in one world—we'll be dragged into a global conflict across both."

Okochi pressed his fingers against his temple, the weight of Hazama's words settling in. He had known the stakes were high, but Hazama's blunt assessment laid it all bare. This wasn't just about Japan's defense or even about Osea. The situation inside the Special Region could become a flashpoint for powers far beyond their immediate theater.

Matthews, calm as ever, leaned forward slightly, meeting Hazama's heated gaze. "General Hazama, I understand your concerns. No one here is under any illusion that this will be easy. But we're not going into this blindly. Every move we make is calculated, and the U.S. has resources ready to mobilize should any other nation try to take advantage."

"Calculated?" Hazama spat, his anger bubbling again. "Sending a CIA agent into an Osean base—that was your calculated move? You've thrown us deeper into the fire, and now we'll all have to live with the consequences."

Okochi raised a hand to calm the growing tension. "Enough," he said, his voice measured. "Hazama, your concerns are valid, but we need to find solutions, not just dwell on the risks."

Hazama exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair but not relaxing. "Solutions…" he muttered. "We'll need more than just a plan. We'll need to prepare for the worst—because it's coming, whether we're ready or not."

-The War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Fort Harling Briefing room

Colonel D. McKinsey

"Alright, everyone, settle down. Settle down!" Colonel McKinsey ordered as he stepped forward, his commanding voice cutting through the low murmurs in the room. The tension in the air was palpable as the officers and pilots seated around the briefing table quieted down.

At the front of the room, the newly delivered holo table booted up, casting a soft blue glow across their faces. Three distinct beeps sounded as McKinsey typed swiftly through the interface, bringing up the mission briefing with a series of precise commands.

"This is the situation," McKinsey began, his tone sharp and direct. "We have to postpone the air operation against the enemy capital. And before you ask why, this comes directly from the top deck."

A murmur of frustration rippled through the room, a few of the pilots exchanging glances. This air operation had been in the planning stages for weeks, and many had been preparing for it, their minds already focused on the target. The sudden delay was sure to upset the delicate timeline they had been working under.

"This order is effective immediately," McKinsey continued, his tone heavy with the weight of the decision. "And it affects not only this operation but every single future and ongoing mission. All aircraft, tanks, and UAVs are grounded until further notice."

A ripple of disbelief spread across the room, but no one dared speak. McKinsey's eyes swept over the group, ensuring they understood the gravity of the situation.

"The reason?" McKinsey paused for emphasis. "Intel from Italica. They've found a spy embedded within our ranks, and the top brass fears there could be one here as well."

The room tensed, pilots and officers exchanging uneasy glances. A spy? The implications were massive, and it explained the sudden halt of operations.

McKinsey continued, his voice firm as he looked at Trigger and his Squadron, "Aether Squadron—your planes are to remain sealed in the hangars. Armed guards will be posted 24/7 to ensure no unauthorized access. As for the rest of you, we are now under standard lockdown protocol. Nothing and no one leaves this base without clearance—clearance that will come directly from me or the President himself."

The room fell into a tense silence, the reality of the situation sinking in. The implications were clear—until they could root out the spy, trust was in short supply.

McKinsey took a breath before delivering the final order. "That's all. Dismissed."

The officers and pilots stood slowly, some exchanging uneasy glances, others silent as they processed what they'd just been told. Grounded. Locked down. And the looming presence of an enemy within.

As they began to file out of the room, McKinsey remained at the holo table, his mind already turning to the next steps. Whoever the spy was, they had just put everyone on edge—and it was only a matter of time before someone cracked.

Trigger walked out of the briefing room, his steps quick and deliberate, Major Friedland close behind him. The weight of the lockdown order still hung in the air, but something else seemed to gnaw at Trigger's mind.

"What do you think?" Trigger asked suddenly, his voice breaking the tense silence between them. His tone was calm, but the question carried an edge that made Friedland straighten up, caught slightly off guard by the directness.

"I don't know…" Friedland began, his brow furrowing as he fell into step beside Trigger. "It seems like we're steering right into another goddamn war."

Trigger's jaw tightened at the words, but he said nothing. He didn't have to. The same thought had been circling in his mind ever since McKinsey had laid out the situation. Grounding the aircraft, locking down the base, sealing up Aether Squadron's planes—it all pointed to something larger brewing beneath the surface.

"And this time," Friedland added, his voice dropping as they passed by a group of guards stationed near the hangars, "we don't even know who the enemy really is. A spy on the inside? Could be anyone."

Trigger grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. The clear skies that had once signaled freedom now felt like a cage, the tension building inside the base pressing down like a weight.

"Feels like we're stuck waiting for a punch we can't see coming," Trigger muttered. "And all we can do is brace for it."

Friedland nodded grimly. "Yeah. And when it comes, we better hope we're ready."

As they kept walking, a comotion formed around the Gate as the two massive gates opened revealing the magical super structure. From inside the Gate suddenly a black Car drove through. It wasn't lika any black car. Judging by the suspension and how deep the car is hanging, it's definetly armored. The windows where blackened and probably armored too.

"We expecting any VIP guests on base today?" Friedland asked, his brow furrowing as they passed a group of personnel moving quickly toward the main gates, their posture tense and alert.

"None that I've heard of," Trigger replied, his gaze still fixed ahead, not bothering to look at Friedland. Something about the atmosphere had shifted in the past few minutes, the air thick with a sense of urgency that neither of them could quite place.

Friedland slowed his pace for a moment, his eyes following the movement of the guards. "Then what the hell is all this about?"

Trigger pushed through the crowd of mostly Erusian soldiers, their cheers and phone cameras capturing the commotion. He was about to step forward for a better look at the mysterious figure everyone seemed so focused on when an all-too-familiar face blocked his path.

"Agent?! Where the hell were you?!" Trigger exclaimed, his eyebrow raised as he locked eyes with the icy gaze of Agent Hudson.

Hudson stood firm, his face as cold as ever. "Classified," he said, his tone short. "Now listen here, Ace. You don't want to be anywhere near that guy right now. Trust me."

Trigger's brow furrowed. "Why? What's the deal with him?"

Hudson's eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. "Goddamnit, Trigger, why do you always have to ask these damn questions? Just fucking listen to me for once!" His frustration was evident, and Trigger could see the urgency in his demeanor.

"Because I need to know what the deal is with this guy!" Trigger shot back, his voice rising slightly. "Especially after you just told me to stay away from him."

Hudson groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to calm himself. After a moment, he looked back up at Trigger, his voice lower but just as intense. "Remember when that Erusian commando spilled the beans about the Princess's arranged marriage?"

Trigger's stomach dropped as Hudson continued.

"Yeah, well, that's the guy she's officially married to. But here's the kicker—since she's carrying your child, he's mildly pissed off. And guess what? He's on the hunt for the father. That means you, dipshit."

Trigger's eyes widened in disbelief. Hudson's words hit like a sledgehammer, and it suddenly all made sense—the soldiers, the commotion, and now, the danger.

"So here's the deal," Hudson continued, his voice now laced with urgency. "You need to get your ass into a plane and fly the hell out of here—anywhere—because that guy isn't going to stop until he finds out who screwed his princess. Do you get it now?"

"I can't just fly out of here, for God's sake!" Trigger hissed, frustration seeping into his voice. "The whole damn base is on lockdown!"

Hudson sighed, clearly not happy with the situation either. "I know, I know," he muttered, glancing around quickly to make sure no one else was listening. "Look, it's not exactly the best time to bolt, but if that guy finds out it's you, lockdown will be the least of your problems."

Trigger shook his head in disbelief, his frustration mounting. "Hudson, this is insane. We're grounded, there's a spy situation, and now I've got some pissed-off Belkan asshole hunting me down. You really think I can just slip away unnoticed? And what about Cossette? He's after her too, isn't he?"

Hudson groaned again, yanking both Friedland and Trigger out of the crowd, his patience clearly running thin. He shot them both a sharp look before speaking in a low, urgent tone.

"Let me make something clear here, just so you can, you know, grasp the situation you're in." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "That guy—he's not just some random pissed-off husband. He's a big guy. And I don't just mean physically. Politically, he's got serious pull. His family owns one of the largest arms manufacturers in Belka. His dad signed a deal with Cossette's father before the whole mess with the Lighthouse War even started."

Trigger frowned, but Hudson pressed on, his tone getting more intense. "The contract said the Ferdinand family would support Erusea, no matter how the war ended. Full backing. In return, they got what they wanted—a place in the Royal family. Thus, the marriage."

Hudson's eyes locked onto Trigger's. "So, to summarize: he's not just a big player in Belka, he's got leverage in Erusea, too. Cossette isn't just some royal figurehead—she's the goddamn Princess. And you?" Hudson gave a sharp, cynical chuckle. "You're just a soldier. A good one, sure, but a soldier."

Trigger's fists clenched, his jaw tightening as he took it all in.

Hudson sighed, lowering his voice. "Turn it, twist it, however you want—it doesn't change the facts. You're playing in a league way above your pay grade, and it's not going to end well. This guy's not just after revenge. He's got the means and the political backing to destroy you—and he's not gonna stop until he gets what he wants."

Friedland, who had been quiet until now, glanced at Trigger, a look of concern flashing across his face. "So what's the play here, Hudson?" he asked. "Because right now, it looks like Trigger's already halfway in the crosshairs."

Hudson nodded grimly. "The play is survival, plain and simple. Trigger needs to disappear before this whole thing blows up in his face—and we need to keep Cossette out of the line of fire. You stick around, and it's going to get messy, fast."

A/N:

Hello peeps. How's it going?!

Yep, new chapter after a really REALLY fucking long time. I hope you all are still here because this is one of the big ones again.

Reviews:

Shashenka- I thank you for your words mate. I really appreciate it. I'm absolutely happy that you liked the fic and by the way, There you go, here's the Japs view of the air raid, there will be more XD