Chapter 2: Battle for Farbanti

Erusean Royal C1 Transport plane, Somewhere over Erusea.

Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise took off on her royal jet. As the engines roared, she could feel the floor beneath her feet trembling. The cabin was spacious and elegantly designed, adorned with rich, dark oak accents and deep blue upholstery that whispered of comfort.

As the jet began its ascent, the sensation of acceleration pressed against Rosa's chest, a reminder of the vastness below. The seat pillows cradled her, enveloping her in warmth as she settled in. Outside the windows, the ground disappeared behind the whiteness of the clouds. The world below becoming a distant memory. She could see the golden rays of the sun breaking through the clouds as the sun began to set.

The plane levelled off and reached cruising altitude, Rosa took a moment to savor the experience. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The air was cool and crisp, filled with a sense of freedom that contrasted sharply with the weight of her responsibilities as a princess. When she opened her eyes, the view outside had transformed. Below, a sea of clouds stretched endlessly, cotton-like and inviting, shimmering in hues of white, orange and red as the sun went down. In this moment, time seemed to stand still. She felt a rush of exhilaration, a thrill that tingled down her spine as she realized she was soaring above the chaos of the world, a fleeting sense of escape that filled her heart with hope.

Suddenly, a soft chime signalled the arrival of the in-flight service. The flight attendant approached, her smile warm and welcoming. "Your Royal Highness, would you like some refreshments?"

Rosa nodded, grateful for the small comforts that made the journey more bearable. As she sipped a glass of sparkling water, it tingled on her tongue, a refreshing burst that enlivened her senses. The cool liquid was a stark contrast to the warm sunlight streaming through the windows, and she felt the gentle weight of the glass, cool and smooth, in her hand.

This moment inside the royal jet felt surreal, a blend of luxury and danger, comfort and uncertainty. The engines thrummed steadily, a constant reminder of the distance she was covering, both from the ground below and the perils of the war that awaited her return. Yet, as she gazed out at the endless sky, she felt a sense of peace envelop her, a fleeting moment of freedom that made the journey worthwhile.

The hours ticked by, evening came and darkness fell upon the sky, the sound of the engines gentle hum became a lullaby, coaxing Rosa into a state of blissful drowsiness. She rested her head against a soft pillow in her seat, her eyes growing heavy as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Her imagination painted vivid scenes that felt almost real.

In her half-dreaming state, she saw Three Strikes' fighter jet slicing through the clouds. The infamous Three Strikes on the tail fins only illuminated by the flashing beacons at the end. She could see him clearly, though only his flight helmet and mask he still looked focused and determined, something that inspired her greatly. His hands maneuvering the controls with great precision and skill. Warmth washed over her as she saw him soaring above, untethered and free, something she wished she felt. The scenes she saw certainly felt alive, she could hear the roar of the jet's engine, mingling with the distant sounds of battle.

She then found herself in a sun drenched meadow, the fragrant wildflowers swaying gently in the warm breeze. The sky was bright, dotted with fluffy white clouds that dangled lazily overhead. Rosa could hear distant laughter of her friends. She twisted and twirled, dancing to a song her mother had taught her called "Pensées". She wasn't a princess anymore, she was just Rosa, a girl full of dreams and aspirations. It was a time where her biggest worries were about school and friendships, not the fate of a nation. She then found herself in the cozy warmth of her family's home. The aroma of freshly baked cookies diffused through the air, mixing with the sweet smell of the apple pie sitting on the kitchen top. Rosa watched as her parents made dinner, the love between them contagious. They laughed and held each other in their arms, their voices soft and soothing against the chaos she was facing. In this dreamy state, Rosa felt at home, reminded of a life she once lived - full of joy, and laughter that had been stolen away.

Then, reality tugged at her, pulling back to the confines of her Royal jet, her heart still racing from her dream. She quickly turned and looked out the window, half expecting to see Trigger's plane gliding beside her, only to be met with the vast darkness of night. She turned again, hoping to still be in her old family home, hoping it was all just a bad dream, only to then hear the roar of the plane's engines, this time echoing through her head. She sighed softly, reality fully setting in now. She felt a mix of sadness and a little sorrow, missing the comforting embrace of her dreams. In this liminal space, she held onto the hope that one day, things would return to what they once were.

Rosa remembered something. An interesting folder she had taken off Dr. Schroader's desk when he wasn't looking labelled "Three Strikes". Her own research on him had turned up nothing but pictures of planes and mission reports and aftermath reports. She held it close and began to read.

Rosa POV:

I was holding a folder I had taken off Dr. Schroeder's desk labelled "Three Strikes". I had taken it out of curiosity after saying goodbye to him and Mihaly before my departure. My fingers hovered over the cover, and I opened it. Inside was a thick stack of papers – classified documents. My eyes widened as I read the name printed at the top. "Trigger", or rather his real name: Captain Alex Krieger. My mind was racing with questions. Why did Dr. Schroeder have this? Why there? At an experimental facility?

The more I read, the more the pieces of his life fell into place. His date of birth was printed neatly, revealing he was barely two years older than I was, - just twenty, turning twenty-one in about a month. I let that sink in, I knew he might have been young, but to see an exact number, to realise he wasn't much older than me felt oddly grounding. I didn't know Osea allowed pilots that young to fight. We had both been dragged into this conflict, both forced into roles greater than anyone else their age should ever have to bear. Trigger, or Alex as I now knew, a pilot, so young with a reputation that stretched far across the continent. For so long, he had been the faceless enemy, the ace pilot with the three strikes. Someone I'd once seen as a symbol of Osea's aggression.

I whispered his name, seeing how it sounded aloud. It felt strange, almost too personal. This man had fought against Erusea. We are so close in age; he could have been me, and I could have been him. He had shaped so much of the war, and yet here I was, knowing things about him that few others did. His victories in the air weren't just maneuvers or missions on paper anymore. Seeing his real name, his birth date and pieces of his life documented, he felt real.

I flipped through the lines outlining his military record. I felt heavy, as though only just realising, I had been responsible for the burden he carried. Alex Krieger, an anonymous figure soaring above me, was now someone I understood more than I could have ever imagined.

I wondered in that moment if he had any thoughts of me? Did he know my name? The person behind the title of princess? Did he see me as anything more than a puppet for the country that made him its enemy? More than that, I wondered if he ever questioned the war the way I did now. If he ever felt trapped by the choices he had to make, by the destruction he was part of. I wanted to believe that somewhere, deep down, we were both just trying to survive this nightmare, two people who never asked to be symbols of anything, caught in a storm that wasn't of our making. Maybe it was foolish and stupid to feel this way. To feel connected to someone who had been fighting on the other side of the war. But in this moment, it was the only thing keeping me sane. That despite everything, we were more alike than we both had realised.

My fingers trembled slightly as I flipped through page after page, and then I saw it, his photo. A simple headshot, probably taken for his military records, seeing his face after so long stopped me in my tracks. He looked younger than I had imagined. His face was striking, he had angular features softened by an expression of quiet intensity. His short, dark hair was neat, a typical military cut, but it framed his face in a way that emphasized the sharpness of his jawline. His brows were slightly furrowed, though not out of anger or determination, but as if deep in thought, reflecting the weight of what he had seen and done. His eyes were a cool shade of blue, and they seemed to tell a story all their own. There was something about those eyes that drew me in, the intensity, maybe, but also a kind of tiredness, as if they had seen too much in too little time. His gaze, direct but distant, carried the burden of someone who had been through immense stress, not just in the skies, but within himself. His lips were pressed in a firm line, neither a smile nor a frown, just the kind of restrained calmness I imagined he always carried with him.

He was also handsome, though in a rugged, understated way, the kind of appearance that wasn't about perfection. There was no arrogance, no cockiness in the way he presented himself. Just… quiet strength. There was a sadness there, in his face. I couldn't tell if it was from the weight of the war, or from something else, something deeper. But whatever it was, it resonated with me, and I found myself wanting to know more. About him, about who he really was beneath the callsign and the legend.

I realised that he wasn't the monster the propaganda had made him out to be. He wasn't the cold, unfeeling pilot they described. He was human. And that, more than anything else, made me hold on to the photo a little tighter, tucking it into my pocket as if it could offer me strength. As I continued to sift through the folder, something caught my eye, an official report that seemed out of place among the details of his missions. My brow furrowed as I pulled the papers closer, skimming through the tightly packed text. And then I saw it: Trigger, Alex Krieger, had been imprisoned.

My heart skipped a beat as I read on.

He had been wrongfully imprisoned for the death of Vincent Harling, the former Osean president, the very man I had once been led to believe was a threat to Erusea. According to the report, Harling had been killed during a critical evacuation mission just outside of the space elevator, but the details were murky, the circumstances suspicious. Alex Krieger had been framed, blamed for the death of the Osean leader, even though he hadn't fired the missile that caused the disaster. I stared at the page, my pulse picking up speed. Trigger, the man who had fought so skillfully, and so honourably in the skies, had been imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. He had been made a scapegoat, punished for something beyond his control.

The more I read, the clearer it became that his imprisonment had been a political move, a convenient way to blame someone for Harling's death and to keep the war momentum going. And now, knowing that the Defence Minister and his political faction had convinced me that Osea was the aggressor, I couldn't help but wonder if they had been involved in this plot as well.

Anger flared in my chest, hot and sudden. I felt the weight of it settle over me like a thick blanket of guilt. While I had been safely tucked away in the palace, Alex had been suffering in prison for something he hadn't done. He had been betrayed by his own people. A strange feeling stirred in me. It wasn't just anger; it was something deeper. Solidarity. For the first time, I felt a connection to him that went beyond the tension of war, beyond the strange, unspoken bond I had felt growing between us. We were both victims of a system that had torn us apart, used us for its own purposes, and thrown us aside when it was convenient.

More and more details about Alex Krieger's past came to light, his early missions, his accomplishments in the skies. But then, something far more disturbing emerged. I stumbled upon a series of reports detailing his time with Spare Squadron, the penal unit where pilots were sent to fly suicide missions. My heart clenched as I read further. Alex Krieger, Trigger, had been exiled to Zapland 444th penal battalion after his wrongful imprisonment. And then, to make matters worse, he had been placed in Spare Squadron, where pilots weren't expected to survive. They were given the most dangerous, near-impossible missions, designed to break them and treat them as expendable cannon fodder. The military had essentially condemned him to death, all for the sake of erasing the embarrassment of losing their former president. My breath caught in my throat as I read the chilling accounts. The missions Alex had flown in Spare Squadron weren't just dangerous, they were brutal. They sent him out with minimal support, little intel, and under conditions no sane pilot would have willingly accepted. They didn't care if he lived or died. In fact, they probably expected him not to come back.

But he had survived.

Time and time again, Alex Krieger had defied the odds, returning from missions that were supposed to be death sentences. As I read about those dark days, I felt my anger mingling with something like admiration. They had tried to break him, to crush him under the weight of impossible tasks, and yet… he had endured. I couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him. How had he kept going? How had he stayed strong, knowing that every time he took off, it might be the end?

As I continued to read through the documents in the folder, something else caught my attention, details about Trigger's combat record. It wasn't just a list of victories and kills. It was a thorough account of his actions in battle, carefully and accurately recorded by military analysts, and something in those reports stood out. Trigger had never targeted civilians. He had never attacked retreating soldiers, and he had spared those who surrendered.

My heart pounded as I absorbed the information. He had been in the thick of countless battles, with the power to rain destruction from the skies, but he had always been deliberate, choosing only the necessary targets, hitting only what needed to be hit. Even as the war intensified, he held himself to a different standard, one that set him apart from the brutality that had consumed so many others. He had every opportunity to destroy, to let rage or vengeance dictate his actions, and yet he hadn't. He had shown restraint, compassion even, in the face of war's worst impulses. He didn't kill for the sake of killing. He didn't seek revenge or relish in the chaos. Alex Krieger, the pilot they called Trigger, was different.

I read through the reports, my eyes widening as I saw the patterns emerge. Time and again, Trigger had pulled back when he could have pressed forward. He had let retreating soldiers go, refused to fire on those who posed no threat, even if it meant risking the mission or his own life. He hadn't been a mindless instrument of war. He had acted with precision, with control, and, more than that, with humanity.

It made me think of my own situation, of how I had been manipulated into believing Osea was a cruel, ruthless aggressor. But here was the truth, staring me in the face. Trigger had flown for Osea, yet he had refused to be a monster. While the warmonger political factions of Erusea had pushed me toward war, fueling my fear and hatred, Trigger had done the opposite. He had been the counterbalance to everything I had been led to believe about the enemy. He had been the exact opposite of what I had feared. He hadn't been driven by blind loyalty or bloodlust. He had fought because he had to, but he had done so with honour. He had fought to protect, not to destroy.

A memory flashed through my mind of when I had first heard about him, the rumours, the stories. Trigger was spoken of as a force of nature, someone to be feared, a pilot with a reputation for devastation. But now, looking at these reports, I knew that reputation had been twisted by those who wanted the war to continue. Alex had been a symbol used by both sides, but few understood the man behind it.

My fingers grazed the edge of the photo now tucked safely in my pocket, and I felt an overwhelming sense of clarity. I had been wrong about him, about so much. And it wasn't just that Alex had been wrongfully imprisoned for Harling's death; it was that he had stood for something far greater than anyone had given him credit for.

That realization hit me harder than anything else.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the scattered papers before me. If I had been wrong about Alex, what else had I misunderstood? My whole worldview, shaped by certain members of the Erusean government that had manipulated me, was crumbling. Osea wasn't the enemy I had been led to believe. At least not in the way I had been taught. And if Alex Krieger, Trigger, could navigate this war with honour, then maybe there was still hope. Maybe we could still stop this madness before it consumed us all. He had spared lives where others would have taken them. And now, more than ever, I realised: I needed to do the same. Not in the skies, but on the ground, in the halls of power.

The war wasn't over, but neither was the fight for peace. And if Alex could keep his humanity in the middle of all this chaos, then I would hold onto mine as well.

With his photo still in my pocket, I made a silent promise. For Alex. For me. For peace.

My phone buzzed sharply, jolting me from my trance like state. My heart was still racing, not from the revelations, but from the unease that seemed to seep into every waking moment. I groggily repositioned myself upright and glanced down at the screen – Alistair: Minister for Defence.

I hesitated, something about this felt wrong, as I was now only about an hour out from Farbanti, so close to home.

I slid the answer tab and pressed the phone to my ear. His voice was harsh, no pleasantries, just straight to the point. "Your Highness, you need to turn on the television. Now"

A chill settled over me, driving the last remnants of the warmth of my discoveries as I reached for the remote. The TV came to life, the screen filling with scenes that made my blood run cold.

My city.

My Home.

Smoke billowed into the sky like shadows, devouring the skyline. Buildings, once strong and proud, crumbled from the wake of explosions. The news anchor's voice was drowned out by the sounds of the ensuing battle, the sounds of gunfire, people screaming and the chaos all round.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. I could feel my pulse ripping through my ears, a thud that echoed what I was witnessing. The city I had grown up in, dreamt about, the one that I called home and held so dear, was being torn apart.

"Your Highness, you need to divert the jet somewhere else." The Alistair's voice, once again sharp, pulled me from the trance the screen had me under. "Osean forces are advancing on the outskirts of the city. You will be in grave danger if you try to land."

"But there's nowhere else to go." I responded almost shouting. "My people are under attack, and you want me to turn away?" I said, trying to keep a steady voice. "I should be there, minister. They need me now more than ever."

"Your safety is paramount," he replied, almost too quickly. "If you're caught in the crossfire, we will lose everything. You need to be strategic about this."

As I stared at the devastation unfolding on the screen, I felt something cold and heavy settle in my chest. My head was spinning, trying to make sense of everything. Then the ministers voice cut through again. This time there was something much darker in his tone.

"Your Highness… there's more." He paused. "I regret to inform you… your father, King D'Elise… was amongst the casualties in the initial strikes." I froze. The words barely registered at first, as if they belonged to another alternate reality, another world. My father, dead? No. That couldn't be. I stared at the screen, the images of chaos blurring into the background as Alistair's words echoed again and again. My heart felt as if it had been ripped from my chest. A fresh wave of disbelief surged through me. The man who had guided me through life, dedicated to rebuilding Erusea, to securing a future for our nation, was gone.

The minister continued. "He was inspecting a military compound just outside the city when Osean forces struck. There was no warning, we couldn't save him." His voice devoid of any sincerity. "I think for the time being you should make a break for… uhhh… Tyler Island. It is currently being held and is defended well, you'll be safe there," He added.

My gut twisted. Why was he so eager to get me away from the city? Where on earth is Tyler Island? Where the mass driver is, but why there? It made no sense. My place was with my people, and yet, something in his tone, it felt rehearsed, calculated.

"And peace?" I asked, almost as if testing him. "What about the peace I've been working for? If I go now, I can call for a ceasefire, negotiate…"

"Peace?" His voice cracked through the phone, tight with an emotion I couldn't place. "Your Highness, there's no peace to be had if they're bombing our cities. We need to defend ourselves first. Tyler Island is where you need to be."

"Your Highness," Alistair continued, his tone shifting to something softer, more dangerous. "We can't afford to lose you. The future of Erusea rests on your survival. Without you the people have no hope"

For the briefest moment, my thoughts drifted to Trigger, his face flashing in my mind like a distant memory. He would have seen through this. He would've told me to trust my instincts, and yet I did nothing.

Tyler Island was far from here, far from any chance to negotiate peace. Rosa clenched her teeth, staring at the clouds as their plane turned, redirected to a place she only heard of once or twice. Her mind was buzzing with memories of her father, and the images she saw on the news. Her mind flashed back to how this all begun, to how the militaristic, radical members of government, backed by corporate lobbyists within the Erusean government had subtly convinced her father, who she trusted to make the right decision, to start the war to begin with. They had also preyed on her desire to protect Erusea. They had whispered seeds of doubt, telling her the International Space Elevator, (ISEV) – the towering symbol of international cooperation and technological advancement, was a violation of Erusea's sovereignty. They had painted Osea as an imperialist power bent on ruling the Usean continent, its leaders determined to strip Erusea of its pride and independence. Rosa had believed them. At first. She had thought that defending Erusea meant defending its sovereignty at any cost, even if that cost was war. But as the war dragged on and the devastation mounted, she began to see the truth, the radical factions didn't want peace, they didn't want to protect Erusea, her home, like she had believed, they wanted power. They wanted to expand their influence, to fight until every shred of opposition had been crushed. They wanted to use the war to cement their dominance over the continent and over her.

Location: Erusean High Command, Undisclosed Location

The room was dimly lit, the buzz of the temporary lighting obvious. The harsh glow casting shadows over the old map table in the centre. Several men gathered around it, their expressions tense, then their voices hushed. Alistair, one of the leaders of the Erusean radical faction and the minister for defence, stood at the head, his eyes cold as he surveyed the others.

Slamming his hand on the table, Alistair spoke up. "The princess is becoming a liability. She's speaking out against us, trying to derail everything we've worked for. She wants to come here to force a settlement between us and Osea. There are already whispers within our military about the potential for peace."

The officer sitting across from Alistair nodded in agreement. "She's pushing for an immediate ceasefire, wanting the troops pull back. The recent military blunders have made many soldiers question the war, and they're starting to rally behind her, and if Farbanti is lost, I fear she will only gain more traction and actively speak out against us and the war."

A second officer spoke up in a scowling voice. "We can't afford a peace settlement now. It would mean capitulation to Osea, an outright surrender. And with the military already demoralized, her influence could fracture our entire chain of command."

"Exactly. We can't allow that to happen. She's no longer just a figurehead. She's a threat. a traitor to Erusea, undermining everything we've sacrificed to achieve." Alistair replied through his gritted teeth.

"We have to tread carefully, Alistair." The first officer spoke up again cautiously. "The princess has significant support within the ranks. Many of our soldiers still see her as the rightful leader, they have all sworn oaths to serve the royal family. If we make a move against her, it could spark a civil war."

"There are soldiers who would follow her over us, especially after losing Farbanti. They're tired of the fighting, and they see her as their way out. If we take her out, we risk a rebellion, soldiers turning on each other, and the entire military collapsing." The second officer said worryingly.

Alistair sat calm and calculating, his fingers on his lips. "That's why we need to act decisively. If we allow her to continue, she'll undermine our position, and we'll lose everything we've fought for. We must make sure she does not compromise our efforts in any way."

There was silence in the room until a third man spoke. "And what do you suggest? She's been redirected to Tyler Island, a backwater holdout for now being used as a resupply base for our one remaining Arsenal Bird. That area is still under our control, but it's also vulnerable."

Alistair had an idea; one so treasonous it could change the course of everything. "We make our move there. We'll have her plane shot down over Tyler Island. We can make it look like an Osean attack, an ambush. The people will see her as a martyr, a victim of the enemy, and we can use that to rally them behind our cause. With her gone, the sentiment for peace will lose momentum. Many stationed there are still loyal to us, I think with a little convincing, and money, we can get them to follow through with it."

The room felt uneasy "But what about the risk of backlash? There are still those loyal to her, and if they suspect we had a hand in this, it could tear the military apart. We could face open conflict between us and her loyalists." Another replied.

Alistair gave a smile, a sinister one. "We'll control the narrative. The people will believe what we tell them, especially if we act swiftly. We frame Osea for the assassination, and the soldiers will be too focused on revenge to question it. We must show strength, any sign of weakness, and everything crumbles."

Another officer interrupted "And what about her escorts? They're loyal, and they might not just follow orders if we target her."

"They're expendable. If they get in the way, we take them out too. The mission is to eliminate the princess, nothing else matters. We'll ensure there are no witnesses, and no survivors. This is the only way to secure our vision for Erusea." Alistair added.

The room fell silent, the weight of the decision hanging heavily between them. The officers exchanged uneasy glances, the knowledge of the risks evident in their eyes.

The most senior of them General LeBarthe, spoke up. "We'll make the arrangements. The operation will take place over Tyler Island, away from prying eyes."

"Good. We have no other choice. The princess has become a danger to us all. Her idealism will lead us to ruin, and we cannot allow that. We will do whatever it takes to preserve Erusea's future." Alistair concluded. "We have plenty of time, we redirected her plane to land in a small base for resupply, so she shouldn't arrive for at least another day or so.

The men stood there; their expressions hardened with determination. They were playing a dangerous game, one that could easily spiral out of control. But to Alistair, Rosa was no longer an asset; she was a threat that had to be eliminated. Her hope for peace was a weakness that needed to be eradicated, even if it meant plunging their own ranks into chaos.

LRSSG Formation, En Route to Farbanti.

The night sky spread endlessly around Trigger. The cockpit of his F15C was enveloped by darkness, lit only by the dim screens on the controls glowing a bright green as he and the rest of Strider and Cyclops squadrons cruised towards Farbanti. The slow grumble of the engines vibrated throughout the aircraft, a familiar comfort as lights from down below from small towns and villages glimmered faintly.

In front of him, the HUD projected crucial information onto the transparent screen. Airspeed, altitude, and targeting data, all visible without having to look down. The soft glow against the black darkness outside was reassuring, he had his tools and training to rely on.

The seat beneath was firm, molded to support him through the stresses of high G-forces in combat. His harness straps were cold, holding him firmly in place. Trigger checked the ejection seat lever, making sure it was functional and positioning himself so it would be in reach at a moments notice. It was a constant reminder of the risks he had to face with every mission. Trigger hoped he would never have to use it, but knowing it was there brought a small amount of comfort.

The air inside the cockpit was cool but dry. It had a faint metallic scent that always lingered along with the smell of jet fuel. The oxygen mask strapped to his face made him feel claustrophobic, the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat filling the small space.

The night sky seemed to go on and on, the hum of the aircraft a steady companion as he flew toward the horizon and beyond. It was no means comfortable or peaceful. But it was his, and up here, surrounded by cold metal and various instruments that beeped and flickered endlessly, Trigger felt a sense of purpose. A mission that mattered, and a future that was still worth fighting for.

Trigger's thoughts were elsewhere, drawn once more to Rosa. He knew the stories about her, the ones that pointed her as a figurehead. The daughter of a leader meant to inspire hope for her people in the midst of war. But Trigger had slowly, and maybe a little unwillingly, with a hint of denial, come to understand that she was more than that. Rosa wasn't just a symbol, and she wasn't content to play the role others had assigned to her.

His thoughts drifted to those long days in the penal squadron, Spare Squadron, when he served time as part of the 444th at Zapland. It was a harsh place, filled with men and women who had been thrown away effectively. Discarded by their nation and left to prove themselves or die trying. It was a place where hope was rare, and everyone kept their heads down. But for Trigger, there had been something else that had cut through the monotony. Something had given him a glimpse of hope, even when everything else felt hopeless.

It was the speeches. Rosa Cossette D'Elise, the princess of Erusea, speaking to her country. Her face appearing on the old tv screen and voice crackling through the worn out speakers. Most of the others in the mess hall paid no attention; they were exhausted. Focused on their own survival to give a damn about what she had to say. To them, she was just another puppet repeating whatever the government had to say. At first, he had dismissed it. She was the enemy, someone who stood on the other side of the conflict. But Trigger listened. He wasn't sure why, at first. Maybe because amidst all the noise, her voice was different. It wasn't the same kind of fiery rhetoric he had heard from generals or politicians. There was something else in her voice, genuineness. He remembered one of the first speeches he watched. She spoke of the war and the sacrifices being made, and the need for unity among her people. Her words were careful and measured, expected from someone in her position. But as time went on, Trigger began to notice a shift, a change in her demeanour that no one else seemed to see.

Her speeches began to be less about victory and more about the cost and toll the war was taking on people. The families who had lost everything, the children who were growing up without knowing peace. There was a vulnerability and desperation in her eyes that hadn't been seen before, a kind of sadness that seemed to make its way into her words. She spoke of a united nation that could stand proud without needing to conquer others. It was a message of peace, of hope for something better, and it resonated with Trigger in a way he hadn't expected. Even though she was supposed to be the enemy, her words cut through him.

Trigger chuckled to himself, looking down at the photograph resting beside the console. He had found it during his time in the penal squadron. It was tucked away in an old magazine that had been left in the mess hall. It was a candid shot of Rosa, her eyes determined but her expression calm and collected. On a whim, he had torn the page out, folding it up and keeping it with him. He had shown it to Count, his new good luck charm, laughing it off as something to keep the bad luck away. But as the days dragged on, the photograph became something more than just that. It became a reminder of the hope she spoke of the future she wanted to build. She was fighting, in her own way, against the forces that wanted to use her, just as he was fighting to prove himself, to find a way out of the darkness.

Since those days, everything had changed. He had been proven innocent cleared of the charges that brought him into that situation in the first place. He was Strider One now, the feared "Three Strikes", or Trigger. He was an ace, a leader. Even as everything changed, that photograph still remained with him, tucked safely in his pocket or on the console. It reminded him of how far he had come, of the darkness he rose up against, and the hope he carried through it all.

Trigger POV:

I was exhausted from the past few weeks. My eyes were still glued to the old magazine cutout I had of her, Rosa, sitting on the side of the console. Her hair framed her face, catching the light in a way that made her seem almost angelic. He looked so human, I wondered what she was thinking in that moment, what thoughts she was thinking while trying to be a symbol of her people.

I noticed her confidence, her eyes looking off into space, as if lost in thought. Her hair was placed carefully into place. Her eyes were deep, expressive holding both determination and a hint of vulnerability. She was beautiful—truly beautiful. Not just in the way that she carried herself, but in her expression, the depth I saw in her eyes. Her beauty was a mixture of grace and strength, of someone who was trying to be more than what others expected of her. The softness of her features contrasted with the hardness of her gaze, she had a look that held all the burdens she carried, yet refused to be weighed down by them. I admired her for more than just her looks. It was the combination of her beauty and the strength I saw that made me keep this photo, that made it more than just a picture.

My eyes grew a little heavy. I blinked, looked to my right to see Count giving a thumbs up and left to see Huxian doing the "OK" sign. I tried to shake my drowsiness off, but with the darkness around me, and the endless engine rumble I found it harder to stay alert. I felt myself start to drift against my will, the edges of my vision blurring. I saw her, Rosa, flying beside me in her own plane, the royal jet I had seen in her broadcasts. Her eyes were focused on me, her expression just like the photo I had of her. She was sitting there, looking at me through her window, her presence was calming. I could almost hear her voice calling to me through the glass of the cockpit. It was like she was reaching out, wanting to say something, but the words never came.

My thoughts drifted further, slipping into the past, into memories from another time. I was a child again, running through the tall grass in a wide open field. The sun was warm on my skin and the air hot, signaling the start of summer break. I could hear my fathers voice laughing and telling me it was time to head home. As we headed home, I entered my garage, I remember it like it was yesterday. The old, dusty place where my father spent hours tinkering with engines and cars. I watched him work, fascinated by the way he could bring machines to life. Sometimes I could help too, bringing him tools, pretending to know what I was doing. The smell of oil and metal lingered in the air.

I saw her again. She seemed out of place in my childhood memories, like she didn't belong there, but somehow she did. Her gaze was filled with longing for something more, something better than we had. I could feel her presence once again, a sense of connection that seemed almost otherworldly. Like we were entwined somehow. Why was she in my head all the time now.

The radio cackled and Long Caster's voice broke through, pulling me back to the present.

"Strider One, stay sharp. We are approaching the AO. We'll have a lot to handle soon, so no time for daydreaming." He had noticed I had veered a little off course during my trip down memory lane. "And hey, if you keep it together, I've heard they're doing a BBQ back at base so I'll make sure to save you a plate when we get back out of the goodness of my heart."

"Roger that, Long Caster," I replied smiling.

The tension in the air was obvious as we approached and I desperately looked for something to ease the nerves before entering the hell that was waiting for us.

"Hey Cyclops One, Wiseman, do you guys bring the good coffee with you, or are we all just stuck with the sludge left at base?" I called over the comms.

"Good coffee?" Wiseman responded with a hint of humour.

Count chimed in. "Sorry Trigger, we're running on the good stuff these days, but I tell you what, if we make it back without getting shot down, I might share our secret stash."

"Secret stash, huh? What do you got in there, Wise? Fancy beans from Usea?" Lanza, Strider Four added.

Wiseman laughed. "I wish, more like something I smuggled before we left mainland Osea, it's not the best but trust me, its better than whatever is back at base."

"Honestly, anything's better than what they have at base." I added with a smile. "Count had complained about it for days until he found Long Caster's secret stash.

"Yeah, well some of us have standards." Count shot back.

The horizon of Farbanti fast approached by now, ablaze with lights. The initial attack had commenced. Searchlights and streaks of SAM missile trails filled the night sky. Trigger gripped the control stick as the radar warning receiver lit up

"Strider Squadron, this is Long Caster. We've got multiple SAM sites going hot. Watch your six! They're painting you!" Long Caster's voice cut through the chatter.

"Copy that, Long Caster, Strider Squadron, engaging." Trigger confirmed. Eyes scanning the HUD, watching as the lock-on warnings flashed insistently. It was about to get dicey.

Count called out; voice edged with tension. "Heads up! SAM launch from the city, three o'clock high! Radar lock!"

"Strider One, defending!" Trigger barked, his jet rolling into a steep defensive turn, G-forces pushing against him as he moved to evade. His eyes flicked to the missile warning, distance closing fast.

"Deploying countermeasures" Trigger called, his fingers quickly flicking the switches. Bright flares and chaff sprinkles shot out from his jet, glowing hot against the cold night air, leaving a deceptive trail behind him.

Feeling the weight of the G-forces pressing Trigger into his seat. The SAM missile tracked the chaff, veering away and detonating in a burst of light behind him.

"Missile defeated! Strider One, clear," Trigger confirmed, his heart still pounding in his chest.

"Here comes another one! We're still getting spikes from those SAM sites!" Huxian, called over the radio, her voice tight but focused. "We need to take those launchers out or we're sitting ducks."

"Copy, Cyclops Four." Trigger scanned the ground, spotting a set of missile launchers glowing against the cityscape. "Strider Squadron, form up! We're taking out those SAMs. Strider Two, Skald, you're on my wing."

"Roger that, Trigger," Skald replied. "Let's light 'em up!"

Trigger pushed the throttle forward, his jet diving toward the city below. The radar warning tone blared again, a new missile launch. His eyes flicked to the warning display.

"Missile launch! Incoming, ten o'clock!" Skald shouted. "Trigger, break right! Defend!"

"Strider One, defending!" Trigger grunted, banking hard to the right, his body straining as the altimeter spun down. He deployed another burst of countermeasures, streaking out behind him.

"Deploying countermeasures!" Trigger kept his eyes on the missile warning, watching as the missile diverted, pulling toward the chaff before exploding harmlessly in a bright burst.

"Missile defeated. I'm still in the fight," Trigger reported, leveling out, his eyes locking back onto the SAM launcher below.

"Jaeger, take the escorts. I'm going for the launcher," Trigger commanded, his F-15C diving in, the city's lights growing larger.

"Roger that. Strider Three, engaging!" Jaeger replied, his jet breaking off to engage the enemy fighters providing cover for the SAM sites.

Trigger selected his AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missile. The tone of the target lock-on sounded, and he fired. "Rifle!" The missile streaked toward the ground, a trail of smoke behind it before slamming into the SAM site in a fireball that lit up the streets.

" Yeah Trigger! Splash one SAM launcher!" Skald called out, pulling back on the stick, his jet climbing away from the explosion.

Cyclops Three, Tailor came over the comms, his voice urgent. "Heads up! Another SAM site, four o'clock! Launch, launch!"

"Cyclops Three, defending!" Tailor called out as the missile icon lit up on his HUD. He pulled into a defensive turn, flares streaking out behind his jet.

"Strider One, I'm moving in on that launcher!" Huxian called, her aircraft diving toward the glowing target. "Cover me!"

"Copy that, Cyclops Four." Trigger rolled in behind her, scanning the sky for threats. He spotted an incoming missile, rapidly closing in on Huxian. "Cyclops Four, missile inbound! Defend now!"

"Cyclops Four, defending!" Huxian replied, pulling into a hard turn, deploying chaff to throw off the radar lock. The missile veered off, exploding harmlessly as she rolled out of the turn, diving in to finish off the launcher.

"Rifle!" Huxian called, releasing her missile. It streaked toward the target, impacting the SAM launcher in a burst of fire.

"Good hit, Cyclops Three," Trigger called out, his focus shifting back to the horizon. "Long Caster, SAM sites are down. We're clearing the airspace."

"Copy that, Strider One," Long Caster responded, relief evident in his voice. Then another call. "All aircraft, this is Long Caster. Be advised, multiple bogeys detected bearing zero-nine-zero at angels twenty-five. Bandits inbound. Radar shows a mix of fast movers and possible stealth aircraft. Time to contact: two minutes. Recommend Strider flow east to engage."

Trigger immediately responded. "Copy that, Long Caster. Strider Squadron, you heard the man. Let's get to work. Climb to angels thirty, heading zero-nine-zero. Throttle up."

"Roger, Strider One," Skald, Strider Two, acknowledged. "Forming up on your wing."

"Cyclops Squadron, let's provide top cover," Wiseman, chimed in. "Climbing to angels thirty-five."

As the squadrons adjusted their altitude, the radar warning receivers began to chirp, indicating they were being painted by enemy radar.

"Strider One, I'm getting spike from multiple targets," Jaeger, reported. "They're locking us up!"

"All units, we have enemy contacts at twelve o'clock high," Long Caster updated. "Bandits are confirmed hostile. You are cleared to engage. Weapons free."

"Copy that. Strider Squadron, weapons hot," Trigger commanded. "Let's keep it tight and watch each other's six."

The threat warning indicators suddenly blared.

"Missile launch! Missile launch!" Count shouted. "Break! Break!"

"Strider One, defending!" Trigger called, pulling his jet into a hard right break and deploying chaff and flares to confuse the incoming missiles.

"Countermeasures!" he announced, feeling the G-forces press him into his seat as he manoeuvres aggressively.

The missiles streaked past harmlessly, detonating in the empty sky.

"Missiles defeated," Trigger confirmed. "Re-engaging."

"Bandits are flanking left!" Wiseman warned. "Cyclops Squadron, split and intercept."

"Copy that," Cyclops Two responded. "Engaging bandits at our nine o'clock."

Trigger scanned the sky, spotting an enemy Su-35 manoeuvring into a firing position.

"Strider One, tally one bandit at ten o'clock low," he reported. "Engaging."

He rolled his F-15C and dived to intercept, the enemy jet growing larger in his HUD.

"Fox Three!" Trigger called, releasing an AIM-120 AMRAAM. The missile streaked away, its onboard radar guiding it toward the target.

The Su-35 attempted to evade, deploying flares and chaff, but the AMRAAM was too close. It struck the aircraft's fuselage, and the bandit exploded in a fiery burst.

"Splash one bandit," Trigger confirmed.

"Good kill, Strider One," Long Caster acknowledged. "Multiple bandits still in the area."

"Count, watch your six! You've got a bandit closing fast!" Jaeger alerted.

"Cyclops Two, defending!" Count called, breaking hard left and deploying flares.

"Trigger, can you assist?" Jaeger requested.

"On it," Trigger replied. "Engaging bandit on Count."

He pulled his jet into a tight turn, lining up behind the pursuing enemy fighter.

"Strider One, Fox Two!" he declared, firing a heat-seeking AIM-9 Sidewinder.

The missile locked onto the enemy's exhaust and closed the distance rapidly. The bandit tried to break away, but the Sidewinder found its mark, detonating on impact.

"Bandit down. You're clear, Count," Trigger confirmed.

"Yeah trigger! Splash two!" Count responded, relief evident in his voice".

"All units, this is Long Caster. Be advised, additional bandits inbound from the east. Bandits are at angels twenty, speed Mach 1.5," the AWACS operator warned.

"Copy, Long Caster," Wiseman replied. "Cyclops Squadron, form up and prepare to engage."

"Strider Squadron, let's intercept," Trigger ordered. "Stay frosty."

As they turned to face the new threat, their radar displays lit up with multiple contacts.

"Multiple bandits at twelve o'clock," Jaeger reported. "Looks like Su-57s."

"Affirmative," Long Caster confirmed. "These are advanced stealth fighters. Their radar cross-section is minimal. Visual identification is critical."

"Understood," Trigger acknowledged. "Eyes open, everyone."

Suddenly, the radar warning receiver screamed a new alert.

"Missile launch! Break right!" Wiseman commanded.

"Strider One, defending!" Trigger called, pulling into a high-G turn.

"Missile defeated," he confirmed moments later.

"Bandit on your tail, Jaeger!" Count shouted.

"Strider Three, defending!" Jaeger responded, diving and rolling to evade.

"Hang on, Jaeger. I'm engaging your bandit," Trigger said, pushing his jet into a steep dive to get behind the enemy fighter.

He lined up the shot. "Strider One, guns, guns, guns!"

The M61 Vulcan cannon roared to life, spewing a stream of 20mm rounds. With no misses, Trigger basically lasered the enemy jet, trailing smoke before erupting into flames.

"Bandit down," Trigger confirmed.

"Much appreciated, Trigger," Jaeger said, leveling out his jet.

"Don't mention it. Stay focused," Trigger replied.

"All units, remaining bandits are retreating," Long Caster announced. "Maintain current position and scan for any additional threats."

"Copy that," Trigger said. "Strider Squadron, hold formation and keep your eyes peeled."

A brief silence settled over the comms as the pilots regrouped and assessed the situation.

"Excellent work out there," Long Caster commended. "You've cleared the airspace of hostiles. Think of something you'd like to eat guys, because I'm buying!"

"Man don't jinx us!" Wiseman said in a humorous tone.

Long Casters voice broke through again. "Uh, you're right." "All units, be advised! New contacts detected bearing zero-eight-five at angels twenty. Multiple fast movers inbound. IFF confirms it's Sol Squadron!"

A chill ran down Trigger's spine. Sol Squadron, the elite of the elite. And leading them was Mister X, the legendary ace known as Mihaly, he had faced him before, so he was more than ready for this. He wasn't about to let some glorified old man ruin the operation.

"Copy that, Long Caster," Trigger responded, his voice steadying. "Strider Squadron, tighten up. We're not done yet."

"Roger, Trigger," Skald acknowledged. "Looks like the real fight's about to begin."

"All units, this is Long Caster. Be advised, Sol Squadron is engaging our ground forces. They're wreaking havoc, we just received emergency orders from mission command, bring down Sol squadron!

"Understood," Trigger replied. "Strider Squadron, we need to protect our troops. Let's move!"

As they turned toward the new threat, the sky lit up with tracer fire and explosions. Mister X and his wingmen were diving aggressively, strafing Osean positions with deadly precision.

"Trigger, I've got eyes on multiple bandits engaging our ground units," Jaeger reported.

"Copy that. Prioritize targets. We need to take them out fast," Trigger ordered.

"Strider One, engaging!" Trigger pushed the throttle to full power, his jet roaring as he dived toward the chaos below.

He locked onto one of the enemy fighters, a Su-30SM, lining up the shot.

"Fox Three!" Trigger called, releasing an AIM-120 AMRAAM. The missile streaked toward the target, but the enemy pilot executed an aggressive break, deploying flares and chaff.

"Damn, he's good," Trigger muttered.

"Trigger, bandit on your six!" Count warned.

"Strider One, defending!" Trigger pulled into a hard left break, deploying flares as the radar warning receiver screamed in his ears.

The enemy fighter overshot, and Trigger seized the opportunity.

"Re-engaging bandit," he declared. "Switching to guns."

He moved behind the enemy jet, the HUD crosshairs aligning over the target.

"Guns, guns, guns!" Trigger squeezed the trigger, the M61 Vulcan cannon unleashing a stream of 20mm rounds. The rounds found their mark, and the enemy aircraft burst into flames.

"Splash another bandit," Trigger confirmed.

"Nice shooting, Trigger! Splash three!" Jaeger exclaimed.

"Don't celebrate yet," Trigger cautioned. "We've still got work to do."

Meanwhile, Wiseman, Cyclops One, was coordinating the defence.

"Cyclops Squadron, focus on supporting the ground units. Keep those bandits off our troops!" Wiseman commanded.

"Roger that," Huxian replied.

Suddenly, Long Caster's voice cut in with urgency. "All units, be advised! Mister X is wreaking havoc. He's targeting our ground forces directly!"

Trigger's eyes narrowed. "We need to stop him."

"I'm on it," Wiseman declared. "I'll draw his attention. You take out the rest of Sol Squadron."

"Wiseman, that's risky," Trigger warned.

"No time to argue," Wiseman retorted. "Our troops are getting hammered. Cyclops Squadron, on me!"

As Wiseman moved to engage Mister X, Trigger focused on the remaining enemy fighters.

"Strider Squadron, engage the rest of Sol Squadron. Let's clear the skies," he ordered.

"Roger!" Skald, Lanza and Jaeger responded in unison.

They split off, each pilot selecting a target. The enemy pilots were skilled, matching them move for move.

Trigger locked onto another Su-30, calling out, "Fox Two!" The Sidewinder missile tracked the enemy jet, which attempted to evade but was struck and destroyed.

"Another bandit down," Trigger confirmed.

"Trigger, watch out! Multiple bandits converging on your position!" Long Caster alerted.

"Understood. Defending!" Trigger rolled his jet, deploying chaff and flares as he evaded incoming missiles.

One by one, they took down the enemy fighters, but the real threat remained.

"Wiseman, what's your status?" Trigger called.

"I'm engaging Mister X," Wiseman replied, his voice strained. "He's... unbelievable."

In the distance, Trigger could see the dance of two aircraft—the nimble moves of Wiseman's jet against the fluid, almost effortless manoeuvres of Mister X.

"Trigger, I can't shake him!" Wiseman exclaimed. "He's locked onto me!"

"Hang on, Wiseman! I'm coming to assist!" Trigger pushed his jet to the limit, the afterburners glowing as he raced toward them.

"Negative, Trigger!" Wiseman barked. "Stay on mission! I'll act as a decoy to buy you time!"

"That's crazy! You won't stand a chance!" Trigger protested.

"Just do it!" Wiseman snapped.

Before Trigger could respond, his radar warning receiver blared—a missile launch directed at Wiseman.

"Wiseman, missile inbound! Break right!" Trigger shouted.

"Controls are sluggish... Something's not right!" Wiseman's voice was edged with alarm.

Trigger watched in horror as Wiseman's jet took a direct hit, smoke trailing from the damaged aircraft.

"Wiseman! You've been hit!" Trigger yelled. "Eject! Punch out now!"

"Attempting ejection!" Wiseman grunted. A pause, then, "Ejection seat malfunction! It's not working!"

"Stay with me, Wiseman!" Trigger urged. "Try again!"

"Systems are unresponsive... Controls are dead..." Wiseman's voice was eerily calm. "Looks like this is it."

"No! There's got to be something you can do!" Trigger's mind raced, desperately searching for a solution.

"Trigger, it's been an honour flying with you," Wiseman said quietly.

Before Trigger could reply, Wiseman's jet descended rapidly, disappearing behind a plume of smoke and flame as it impacted the ground.

"Wiseman!" Trigger screamed, a mix of rage and despair flooding through him.

"All units, Cyclops One is down," Long Caster announced solemnly. "We need to regroup. Disengage and return to base."

"Negative!" Trigger snapped. "I can still engage Mister X!"

"Trigger, stand down!" Long Caster ordered firmly. "We can't afford any more losses."

"Trigger, listen to him," Count interjected. "We need to fall back."

Clenching his teeth, Trigger took a deep breath. The logical part of his mind knew they were right.

Suddenly, the sky above lit up with a series of explosions. Bright flashes streaked across the stars, followed by a cascading blackout of systems.

"Did you see that?" Count asked, astonished.

"What's happening up there?" Jaeger added.

"Long Caster, can you confirm?" Trigger queried.

"All units, this is Long Caster," the AWACS operator's voice was tense. "We're getting reports that the satellite network has been compromised. Those explosions—you just witnessed the satellites going down."

"Satellite network is down?" Trigger echoed. "What does that mean for us?"

"Expect intermittent loss of GPS and comms," Long Caster explained. "Stay focused and rely on onboard systems."

"Copy that," he relented, his voice heavy. "Strider Squadron, form up. We're RTB."

As they turned away, Mister X didn't pursue, seemingly content with the destruction he'd wrought.

"Long Caster, mission update?" Trigger inquired, trying to regain composure.

"Despite the losses, the operation is considered a success, Farbanti is now under Osean control." Long Caster replied. "But we've paid a high price."

"Understood," Trigger said quietly.

The flight back was sombre, each pilot lost in their thoughts. The loss of Wiseman weighed heavily on them all.

"Trigger," Count's voice broke the silence. "We'll make them pay. For Wiseman."

"Yes," Trigger agreed, his resolve hardening. "This isn't over."