"Who my father was matters less than my memory of him."
ACE OF HEARTS: ENTWINED FATES
EPISODE I: CHAPTER III
THE PRICE OF PEACE
War continues. The OSEAN FEDERATION and loyal ERUSEAN forces have united in a desperate bid to crush the sinister ERUSEAN RADICALS. Fuelled by their hatred of peace, the radicals, in league with the dreaded terrorist group FREE ERUSEA, sow chaos across the land.
In their most treacherous act yet, the radicals have set a trap to eliminate PRINCESS ROSA COSSETTE D'ELISE, the last hope for a united Erusea. Her aircraft, lured into the dangerous skies above TYLER ISLAND, now lies isolated and vulnerable amidst the dense forest below.
Erusean loyalist forces led by ÉDOUARD ROUSSEAU come under siege whilst protecting the Princess while Osean support scrambles to respond. Their only hope lies with STRIDER SQUADRON, led by the legendary ace ALEXANDER "TRIGGER" KRIEGER. They take to the skies in a daring mission to rescue the Princess and strike a decisive blow against the forces of darkness….
Cape Rainy Airbase, Erusea. September 20, 0130
The briefing room buzzed with muted conversation and the sound of chairs scraping the floor as the pilots of Strider Squadron waited for whatever came next. There had barely been any time to relax. Trigger leaned back lazily in his chair, one boot propped up on the edge of the table, and there was a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Across from him, Count gestured animatedly with a pen, mid-rant about the "godawful" coffee on base.
"Listen, I'm not saying the coffee's trying to kill us," Count said, waving the pen dramatically, "but I'm also not not saying it. I swear it's some chemical experiment."
"You're just mad because you can't figure out how to work the machine," Huxian quipped, earning a round of laughter.
Trigger shook his head, chuckling. "You know, Count, if the coffee's your biggest enemy, I think you're doing alright."
Before Count could retort, the door swung open with purpose, and Colonel Laramie strode in, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. Long Caster followed close behind, looking distinctly irritated.
Trigger sighed theatrically, not even bothering to sit up yet. "Alright, what's going on here? Laramie, you're moving like we've got a crisis. And Long Caster's fuming because he didn't get his cheeseburger. So whatever this is, it better be good—oh…"
His voice trailed off the moment his eyes flicked to the screen at the front of the room. The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by something far more serious. Staring back at him was a photo of Princess Rosa, frozen on the screen in sharp resolution.
The room fell silent, the weight of the moment crashing down like a storm. Trigger straightened in his seat, his arms unfolding as a knot formed in his chest. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this.
"Listen up," Laramie began, scanning the room to ensure he had everyone's attention. "Moments ago, we received critical intel from Erusean General Labarthe. He's been working with our intelligence division for some time now and has come forward with something significant."
The lights dimmed, and the screen at the front of the room flickered to life, illuminating the image of the Princess. Her face stared back at them—that calm, resolute expression tinged with defiance Trigger had come to know. Even frozen on the screen, her presence felt tangible. For a moment, he couldn't look away.
Laramie's voice grew harder. "General Labarthe has informed us of an imminent assassination attempt on the Princess. You all know of the radical faction within the Erusean military, yes? Well they believe she's become a threat to their plans to prolong this war. They intend to silence her permanently and stage the attack as an Osean strike to galvanise what remains of their forces against us."
The room stirred uneasily. Count shook his head in frustration, breaking the silence. "So they're not just trying to kill her, but they're using it to fuel the damn war even further."
Laramie nodded grimly. "Exactly. The Princess was supposed to arrive here at Cape Rainy Airbase, per her father's final orders. He knew the truth—but it was too late. Before his death in Farbanti, he tried to undo the damage. He sent Rosa to us to bring the truth to light and stop the war by any means necessary. But… She never arrived."
Trigger's eyes narrowed, as a feeling of dread clawed at him. She never arrived.
He pointed at a tactical map, the flight path toward Tyler Island highlighted in stark red. "Strider Squadron, you are to sortie immediately and intercept this plot. You'll head to Tyler Island and establish a perimeter. We'll be working to restore communication, but for now, your AWACS will monitor Erusean comms and provide intel as soon as Rosa's location is confirmed. Your orders are to eliminate any hostile presence near her and escort her back safely. Though I must be frank, we might already be too late."
Trigger continued to listen, but his mind was now far away. The thought of Rosa stranded, surrounded by people who wanted her dead, ignited something inside him that he couldn't suppress. Too late? Laramie's words echoed in his head, tightening his chest like a vice. No. That's not possible. Rosa can't be gone—not her, not now. If she's still out there, I'll find her. I have to. The image of her—hurt, scared, or worse—haunted his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. I won't let them take her. Not while I'm still breathing.
His leg bounced restlessly with anxiety while he kept his hands under the table firmly clenched. He could already feel the weight of the controls in his hands and the roar of the engines vibrating through him. Every second spent here felt like another moment wasted—another chance for something to happen to her. When the briefing ended, he stood abruptly, walked out the door and headed straight for the hangar. He was already halfway there when Count caught up to him.
"Trigger, hold up!" He jogged to catch up.
Count planted himself in front of Trigger, forcing him to stop. "Whoa, slow down, you're charging ahead like you've already got her coordinates locked. Take a second."
"Slow down?" Trigger said, as his voice rose. "Slow down?! You heard the briefing Count. She never arrived! She could be out there, surrounded, and God knows what's happening to her. And you're telling me to slow down?"
Count didn't flinch, holding his ground. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm telling you. Because if you go into this half-cocked, you'll make mistakes. And mistakes mean you don't get to save her, or that you don't come back at all."
Trigger's fists clenched as Count's words settled in. "I can't sit here and do nothing," he said quieter but no less strained. "You don't get it."
Count's grin softened into something more genuine. "Look, man, I do get it. I've heard her too. She's got that thing, you know? It makes you believe in something better. But you can't let this get personal."
"It's not personal," Trigger snapped.
Count raised an eyebrow but didn't press the point. "All right, whatever you say. Just… don't lose your head up there, alright? We need you focused. She needs you focused."
Trigger hesitated for a beat, his shoulders still rigid, but the fire in his eyes dimmed just slightly. "Fine. But the second I'm cleared, I'm out of here."
Count smirked faintly, the usual cockiness creeping back. "Wouldn't expect anything less, buddy. Just try not to make me look bad while you're at it."
Trigger shook his head, and he headed for the hangar, Count watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Guy's got it bad and doesn't even know it."
While Trigger made his way toward the hangar, he noticed Long Caster standing by one of the aircraft bays, arms crossed, his trademark half-smirk firmly in place. The way he gestured toward the sleek F-22 Raptor parked at the centre of the hangar suggested he was waiting for a reaction.
"Well, well," Long Caster said as Trigger approached. "There she is, Trigger. Fresh off the line. Brand new F-22 customised just for you. Figured it was about time you got an upgrade—you've certainly earned it." He continued, motioning toward the cockpit with a finger like a salesman pitching to a sceptical buyer. "State-of-the-art systems, enhanced stealth, upgraded radar, faster lock-on capabilities. Oh, and they threw in some of them fancy ECM upgrades to keep those SAMs off your tail. Basically, this thing's designed to keep you alive long enough to be a pain in everyone else's ass."
Trigger let out a low whistle as he stepped closer, running his fingers along the cool, pristine fuselage. "You're pulling out all the stops, huh? What's the catch?"
Long Caster grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. "No catch. Just figured you deserved something that matches your ego—uh, I mean, legendary reputation. Plus, I'll admit, I don't hate the idea of you having something a little less likely to fall apart under fire."
"Sounds like you're trying to butter me up for something."
"Not buttering you up, just making sure you don't take any shortcuts while you're out there," Long Caster said with a shrug. "Also, you're lucky you're getting this. I was promised a cheeseburger tonight, and instead, I'm babysitting a Princess and your jet delivery. So you better appreciate it, hotshot."
"Guess I owe you. Alright, let's see what this thing's got."
He climbed up into the cockpit, sliding into the seat as if it were second nature. As he took it all in, something caught his eye—a few unconventional touches scattered throughout the cockpit. The first was the reinforced HUD, its edges painted with faint markings in Avril's unmistakable handwriting: Don't break this one, dumbass. She'd clearly anticipated his tendency to push his gear too far.
The upgrades didn't stop there. A custom multi-function display caught his attention, offering quick toggles for radar jamming, ECMs, and flare deployment. Another note from Avril was scrawled nearby: Better than that stock crap. The ejection seat handle had been reworked as well, wrapped in soft leather for a better grip. "For a smooth exit, if it ever comes to that," The idea of ejecting wasn't one Trigger liked to entertain—he rarely needed an escape plan—but it was clear Avril had considered every angle.
A small compartment near the cockpit's edge opened to reveal a stash of hard candy. The note inside simply read: For luck. Trigger chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. He'd have to thank her for that one.
Down below Long Caster spoke up over the comms, casual and amused. "So, Trigger… how do you like Scrap Queen's finishing touches? Figured you'd appreciate a little personal flair."
Trigger leaned back, taking it all in, the grin lingering on his face. "It's perfect, better than anything I could've asked for."
"Don't let it go to your head, hotshot. Just try not to get her blown up too soon. There's only so much magic she can work."
Trigger's smile turned into a confident smirk as he gripped the controls, already feeling the jet becoming an extension of himself. "No promises, but I'll keep her in one piece as long as the enemy keeps things interesting."
"Yeah, yeah. Just try not to upstage the rest of us too much, huh? Some of us like to pretend we're useful. Now hurry up, we have a Princess to rescue."
Erusean Royal Bombardier Global 7500, Skies over Tyler Island. September 20, 0500
The transport circled Tyler Island under the cover of a pitch black sky broken by the faint sun breaking over the horizon. Rosa sat in her chair, staring out the window at the jagged silhouette of the island below. The delay had stretched into an uncomfortable eternity, with her unease growing each passing minute. Her escort officers Viktor and Elena from the facility had exchanged glances earlier, their expressions also reflecting her own quiet worry. Something wasn't right.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for a device sitting on the console beside her. Hours ago, it had chimed with a message notification lighting up the screen. It bore the mark of her father's personal seal. At the time she didn't want to open it, anger had simmered beneath her skin, sharp and biting. Her fingers curled into a fist, pulling back from the device as a bitter thought crossed her mind: Why now? Why send this now, when everything is falling apart?
But now, hours later, she relented. When she opened the file, the screen flickered, and then her father's face appeared, his voice was low and steady, laced with utter defeat. The sound of it brought an immediate ache to her chest, and regret hit her—she should have opened it sooner.
"Rosa, my dearest daughter. If you are hearing this, thank God it has reached you.
I recorded this in the hope that, perhaps, there's still a chance. A chance to save Erusea. And a chance to explain myself to you, though… I don't know if you could ever forgive me. Rosa… I love you. I have missed you more than words can ever say. But I can't imagine what you must think of me now. A father who abandoned you to the chaos of this war. A king who sat idle while our country bled.
I have faced some bitter truths, my daughter. Truths I tried to ignore for too long. The radicals—Alistair and his ilk—manipulated us from the very beginning. They preyed on our fears, on our pride, and twisted the world around us until we believed their lies, until we believed that war was our only choice.
I sent you away from Farbanti to keep you safe, Rosa. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. The radicals would have turned on you the moment they realised you were no longer needed. I knew that if I refused to cooperate, if I stood against them openly—or God forbid, took my own life to end this conflict—it would only leave you exposed and vulnerable. And so, I lied. I learned to lie. I played the part of a beaten king, resigned to the sanctuary of his crown, while I watched my country crumble under their control. I allowed them to believe I was defeated, because it was the only way I could protect you.
But you… you are stronger than I ever was. You don't just accept your place; you challenge it. You've shown me the kind of courage I thought I had lost long ago.
I have one final request—one final promise to ask of you, promise me that you will end this war. Use your vision for peace, the one you have carried so fiercely, even when the world tried to silence you. Promise me you'll bring Erusea back from the brink, that you will be the light our people so desperately need."
I'm sorry I never listened to you, Rosa. I'm sorry I wasn't the father you deserved, or the leader Erusea needed. But you are the hope I never had. I believe in you.
I've made arrangements. General Labarthe, one of the few loyal men left, he has been organising a resistance against the radicals and has been in contact with the Oseans. Go to Cape Rainy. They will protect you. I've included the coordinates. Please, trust them. Trust yourself.
Rosa… my little star, my hope. Be brave.
The message cut off abruptly, leaving a heavy, aching silence in its place. Rosa sat frozen, as tears traced silent paths down her cheeks. Her father's words echoed in her mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. For so long, she had yearned to hear this—to be seen and understood. Now, when the moment had finally come, it was too late. He was gone, leaving her with the bittersweet weight of his belief in her and the unbearable void of his absence.
"Your Highness?" Elena asked gently, breaking the silence. Her voice was careful, filled with both concern and quiet deference. "What's the call?"
Rosa swallowed hard, wiping her face quickly as she looked up at her. Her voice, though shaky, held a spark that mirrored her father's belief in her. "We're going to Cape Rainy," she said firmly. "Redirect our course immediately."
Elena nodded, moving quickly to relay the new orders to the cockpit. The transport began to bank, the engines shifting as it redirected. Rosa felt a glimmer of hope rising through her grief. If there was even a chance to fulfill her father's wish, to bring an end to this nightmare, she had to take it. It was a mission—her mission.
Just as the plane levelled on its new course, a thunderous explosion tore through the air, shattering the fragile calm. The transport lurched violently, and Rosa was hurled forward, her head colliding with the bulkhead in a sickening crack. The cabin was instantly consumed by chaos—alarms shrieked, and the aircraft pitched into a sharp dive, sending her officers and attendants sprawling helplessly across the floor.
"Missile strike! We're hit!"
Smoke filled the cabin as the aircraft shuddered, the engines started to sputter and fail. She managed to get back to her seat and buckle up, her mind racing even as the chaos around her threatened to overwhelm her.
"Your Highness, brace for impact!"
Her ears rang, her vision blurred and she gripped the armrests tightly. Her father's words echoed in her mind— "You are the hope I never had."
The ground rushed up to meet them, in those final moments, She closed her eyes, clinging to the belief that somehow, her mission would not end here. That her father's faith in her, her belief in peace, would carry forward—no matter what.
Everything went black.
On the other side of the island, far away from any fighting, an Erusean Colonel, Édouard Rousseau, part of Labarthe's resistance, squinted through the smoky haze as the transport disappeared behind the tree line. A muffled thud followed moments later, confirming the worst. He clenched his jaw. He knew that plane, knew its markings. Her plane. The Princess—here, in this chaos? What in God's name was she doing here? It didn't make sense, but it didn't matter. She needed help, now.
Rousseau's mind raced, recalling Labarthe's final instructions: Protect her at all costs. She's the key to ending this war. That responsibility now fell squarely on him. There was no time to waste.
"Mon Dieu," he muttered under his breath. His instincts flared to life.
"Fall in! Grab what you can and prepare to move. We're heading to the crash site!"
His soldiers, who were sitting around lazily in the makeshift command post sprang into action, gathering their weapons and loading up vehicles with swift efficiency. They didn't need explanations. They all understood: Their Princess, their hope, could still be alive. If she was, they had to reach her. Without her, Erusea's last chance to end the war peacefully would vanish.
But just as the engines roared to life, a cold, commanding voice cut through the noise.
"Stand down, Colonel Rousseau."
The soldiers turned, locking onto the approaching convoy. Armoured vehicles rolled into view, while their silhouettes cut through the haze. At the front stood Colonel Matthieu Girard, his was posture rigid, and his uniform immaculate. The sharp angles of his face caught the dim morning light, and his expression was one of smug condescension while he strode toward Rousseau.
Girard's soldiers fanned out, rifles trained on Rousseau's units, though they hadn't yet raised their weapons fully.
"I know where you're headed," Girard said, low and sharp. "To the Princess, yes? The so-called saviour of Erusea as dubbed by traitors like you." He scoffed, shaking his head. "You waste your time chasing a fool's dream, Rousseau. She's nothing more than a naive child, meddling in affairs far beyond her understanding."
"She's Erusea's last hope, Girard. You know that."
Girard's smirk widened as he stepped closer. "But is she really though? That 'Princess' you so foolishly cling to will destroy what little remains of our nation." He leaned in slightly. "It's just such a shame really. To waste such delicate beauty without a proper—"
Rousseau slapped Girard across the face with a sharp, explosive crack, the force of it snapping his head to the side. His polished cap tumbled to the ground as he stumbled back with stunned silence. The entire clearing froze. Girard's soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, while Rousseau's men immediately aimed their weapons at the radicals.
Girard looked around to see Rousseau's soldiers now aiming their weapons squarely on him "Your men, aiming their weapons at fellow Eruseans! Have you lost your mind, Rousseau? We're on the same side!"
Rousseau ignored him and turned to his men. "We're leaving."
"What are you doing! Stop!" *BANG*
The crack of Girard's pistol firing into the air froze everyone in place. He levelled the weapon at Rousseau, and his smirk returned, darker now. "You're not going anywhere. You may have forgotten where your loyalties lie, but I haven't. Step away from your vehicles, or this will end badly for you."
The standoff held, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rousseau's men stood firm, their weapons still trained on the radicals, eyes locked on targets. Girard's soldiers mirrored them, fingers resting lightly on triggers, full of malice. The faint crackle of distant gunfire and the rustling of leaves were the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence.
It was a young Erusean, who shifted nervously under the weight of the moment. His hands trembled as he tightened his grip on his rifle, his wide eyes darting between the menacing figures of Girard's troops. His sergeant, an older, battle-hardened man with lines carved deep into his face, placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hold steady—"
A sharp crack cut him off.
The boy jerked back, a red stain blooming across his chest as he stumbled and dropped his weapon. He cried out in pain, clutching at the wound, his face pale with shock.
"No!" the sergeant roared, immediately lunging forward. He grabbed the boy and dragged him back behind cover, his strong hands steady despite the chaos. "No... stay with me, son!" he barked in desperation.
The deafening crack of gunfire shattered the stillness, and the battle tore through the serene wilderness like a tempest unleashed. Girard's men opened fire and unleashed a brutal volley, cutting down many and Rousseau's returned with ruthless precision.
Bullets sliced through the dense canopy, ripping apart the vibrant green leaves and sending splinters of wood raining down like deadly shards. The trunks of ancient oaks and pines exploded into showers of bark and sawdust, leaving behind gaping scars as rounds chewed through them mercilessly.
Men screamed orders, but they fell on deaf ears, swallowed by the relentless noise of combat. The sharp cries of the wounded rose above, chilling and brief, before being silenced. Soldiers flung themselves behind shattered logs and jagged rocks, faces streaked with sweat, mud, and dark smudges of gunpowder.
Rousseau crouched low, his breath coming in quick, sharp bursts as he barked commands. His eyes darted across the carnage, seeking an opening amidst the frenzy.
"Take cover!" Rousseau barked, ducking behind an overturned jeep as dirt and shrapnel rained down from a nearby grenade blast.
The Eruseans scrambled to comply, sharp but frantic. A young soldier let out a sharp yelp as a bullet skimmed his leg, sending him sprawling into the mud. His comrade grabbed him by the collar, dragging him into cover. "On your feet, trooper! You're not checking out on my watch!"
"Sir! Tanks cresting the ridge!" a corporal called, slamming a fresh mag into his rifle with shaking hands. "We can't hold this line much longer!"
Rousseau peeked from cover, his pistol spitting precise shots. "RPG teams, now! Get that armour off our backs, or we're done here!"
A shrill whistle cut through, followed by a thunderous explosion that rattled the forest. An anti-tank missile screamed through the trees, slamming into a rebel APC. The vehicle burst into a fireball, scattering metal and debris like confetti, while radical infantry poured out shrieking and flailing around on fire.
"Boom! Scratch one!" a soldier roared. "That one's for her!"
But the moment of triumph was short-lived. The enemy returned fire with ruthless precision, mowing down anything in their path. A sergeant nearby grunted as a burst of bullets tore through his chest, sending him collapsing backward, still clutching his weapon.
Rousseau, sensing the battle was starting to shift, discarded his empty pistol and picked up a small entrenching tool right as a radical ran straight towards him. Meeting the attacker head-on, Rousseau deflected a bayonet thrust and drove his makeshift weapon into the man's side with a shout. Blood sprayed across his uniform as the soldier crumpled, but another was already on him, swinging a rifle butt.
The blow caught Rousseau's shoulder, spinning him sideways. Gritting his teeth, he spun back, bashing his attacker repeatedly in the head and neck. The man dropped his weapon, clutching the cuts on his throat. Rousseau followed with a flurry of stabbing strikes from his combat knife to finish him off and make sure he was dead.
Nearby, someone shouted over the chaos. "We're losing too many!" He parried a knife attack with his rifle and retaliated with a butt strike that shattered his attacker's jaw. Rousseau, hearing the desperation, grabbed a grenade from his belt and hurled it into a cluster of enemies. The explosion ripped through their ranks, scattering bodies and sending debris flying.
The fighting only grew more and more desperate as the radicals pressed their numerical advantage. An Erusean soldier grappled with an attacker, smashing a rock into his foe's face repeatedly until the man went limp. Staggering to his feet, he was cut down by stray gunfire moments later.
Rousseau could see the exhaustion in his men's faces—their strikes were slowing, and their movements became sluggish. "There's too many of 'em!" A man yelled, driving his bayonet into an enemy's gut and kicking him away. "We can't hold this position any longer!"
Rousseau punched another radical in the face, then barked the inevitable order. "Fall back! Fall back to the crash site!"
The Eruseans began their retreat, dragging the wounded as they were pursued relentlessly. Gunfire tore into the stragglers, cutting them down as they stumbled through the forest. One soldier fell shielding a wounded comrade, collapsing over his friend.
"Go! Keep moving!"
Rousseau grabbed a fallen soldier's rifle and fired until the weapon clicked empty. He threw it aside and joined the retreat, pushing his men forward as the screams of the injured and dying echoed through the trees. The forest closed in around them, offering fleeting cover as they raced toward their fallback point, they had to safeguard the Princess at all costs.
From his vantage point on the battlefield, Osean Commander Mozzie had been enjoying the rare moment of quiet. The command post smelled of damp earth, grease, and the faint but unmistakable tang of burnt-out ammo. A couple of Coopers cans rolled lazily across the uneven ground, clinking softly as a light breeze rustled the canopy above. Mozzie's men lounged nearby, sprawled out on camp chairs or leaning against their vehicles, boots kicked up, rifles within arm's reach but far from ready. One had a cigg dangling from his lips, while another absently flipped a knife in his hand.
They'd been waiting too long for word—too long without knowing. Their mission was clear: protect the Princess at all costs. Without her, there'd be no end to the war, and everyone knew it. But the silence was eating at them, the weight of uncertainty grew heavier with each passing minute.
Mozzie exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow as he lifted his binoculars to scan the horizon for the hundredth time. The stillness shattered as his view snapped into sharp focus: a plume of black smoke rising from the crash site, flames licking hungrily at the treetops. His grip on the binoculars tightened as he spotted a frantic group of Erusean soldiers legging it through the forest, desperately retreating toward the downed aircraft.
"Aw fuck me." Mozzie muttered, lowering his binoculars. "They're leggin' it straight for the bloody Princess no doubt."
Around him, the relaxed chatter stopped dead. His men straightened, exchanging uncertain glances. The lazy atmosphere evaporated in an instant, replaced by a simmering tension. One of the soldiers finally broke the silence. "Moz, how d'you know they're not radicals? Could be leadin' us straight into a trap."
Mozzie let out a sharp snort, tossing the binoculars onto a crate. "Use ya fuckin' melon, mate. If they were radicals, they'd be rushin' her, guns blazing. Look at 'em—they're copping more lead than a dartboard at the pub. Nah, they're loyalists alright."
"What's the play, Mozz? Do we hit 'em or—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Mozzie snapped, shooting him a glare. "Hit 'em? What, you want us to go full Rambo and fuck this whole mission sideways? Nah. If those poor bastards are tryna to save her, we're making sure they can. She's our fuckin' ticket out of this shitshow too."
"I don't understand what this mission is all about, she's Erusean. Why should we—"
"Why the fuck should we?" Mozzie spun on him. "Because if we don't, we'll be stuck fighting this bloody war till we're all six feet under, that's why. If she dies, every last Erusean left standing is gonna throw in with the radicals. You wanna fight that war? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't."
He turned to his men. "Mount up, ya cunts! We're not sitting here scratching our balls while the Princess gets turned into a fuckin' meat pie martyr. Move it!"
The lazy ease of the camp snapped into sharp focus. The soldiers scrambled to their vehicles, tossing aside crushed cans and stamping out smokes. Engines roared to life, shattering the forest's uneasy calm as the convoy kicked up a thick cloud of dust. Mozzie climbed into his own vehicle, gripping the radio tightly.
As they neared the site, the sounds of battle grew louder. Through the haze, Mozzie spotted the Eruseans pinned down by a makeshift barricade, crumbling under the relentless assault of Girard's radicals. Trees splintered under machine gun fire, and grenades sent showers of dirt and shrapnel into the air.
Mozzie grabbed his radio. "Oi, listen up! No cunt fires unless I give the nod. Those Eruseans? They're loyalists, not our bloody targets. Don't go sprayin' lead like a dickhead unless I say so."
"Mozz!" one of his men shouted. "They're gettin' smashed down there!"
Mozzie nodded grimly. "Right, then. Let's flip the bloody script. On my mark, open fire and tear those fuckers apart—but keep it clean. No friendly fire, or I'll be shovin' your heads so far up your arses you'll be seein' daylight through your teeth."
"Got it, sir,"
"Alright, boys. Let's give 'em hell."
The Osean convoy opened fire, machine guns roaring as they targeted Girard's forces. Explosions ripped through the radicals' lines, as the Eruseans seized the opportunity to regroup.
Mozzie's voice rang out over the comms. "Erusean forces, this is Commander Mozzie of the Osean Armed Forces. We've got your backs—get the Princess outta there, and we'll cover your sorry arses!"
From the ground, Rousseau looked up completely stunned, when he spotted the convoy, he gave a sharp nod.
Skies over Tyler Island, 0700
Trigger maneuvered his fighter through scattered clouds as condensation collected on the canopy. He impatiently scanned the ground below and sky above for any signs of Rosa. His focus and trance like state could only be broken only by the sharp crackle of Long Caster's voice over the comms updating him on the situation.
"Strider One, Long Caster," the calm, measured voice crackled through his comm. "We've intercepted Erusean chatter… they've turning on each other. And…" There was a pause, and Trigger's fingers twitched as a knot of unease coiled in his stomach.
"And?"
"She's been shot down. Reports are coming in… Princess Cossette is gone."
Trigger's heart stopped.
Gone.
The word struck like a missile to the cockpit. Rosa—her fire, her defiance, her conviction—snuffed out? The transmission barely made sense. It couldn't be true. His mind rebelled against the reality Long Caster had just spoken.
"No… no, no, no." His voice came out hoarse, disbelieving. His fingers clenched around the stick, white-knuckled, as if tightening his grip on the controls could somehow keep reality from slipping away. This can't be real. Rosa can't be—
"Trigger, you good?" Count's voice cut through the fog. "Say something, man. Don't leave me hanging here."
Trigger didn't answer. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the cockpit alarms. His mind was racing, torn between shock and a growing, burning determination.
She's not gone.
She can't be.
I'd know.
"Trigger," Huxian's voice came through, sharper than usual, laced with something rare—concern. "Seriously, dude. Talk to us. This is freaking me out."
"She's alive," Trigger said, his voice steady, final—like a vow. Saying it made it real.
A pause. Then Long Caster, carefully: "Trigger, you need to—"
"There's still a chance," Trigger snapped. "And I'm going to find her."
A heavy sigh from Count. "Here we go."
"What?"
"Oh, I just know you're about to pull some batshit stunt," Count groaned. "I can feel it."
Jaeger immediately shut him down. "Shut up, Count. She could still be out there. And if Trigger says she is, I'm betting on him."
"You're betting on the guy who ditches us in the middle of a dogfight? Smart. Real smart."
"I've seen him pull crazier moves," Huxian cut in, defensive now. "Remember that canyon run? We were at least five minutes behind him. Guy's like a freakin' hawk."
Long Caster exhaled sharply. "Trigger, if you're about to do what I think you're about to do—at least don't make it look—"
Before he could finish, Trigger yanked the stick hard to the left—his fighter banked into a violent, stomach-lurching dive.
The comms exploded.
"GODDAMN IT, TRIGGER!" Count's voice nearly blew out the channel. "You could've warned me! I almost spilled my damn coffee!"
"You're drinking coffee?!" Huxian barked. "In the middle of a mission?!"
"It's called multi-tasking!"
"Cut the chatter," Jaeger interjected. "Trigger's on a mission. Let him do his thing."
Count sighed dramatically. "Screw it, I'm in. You've got good instincts, man. Let's go find your girlfriend."
"Just don't get shot down," Long Caster added dryly. "I'm not explaining that to HQ."
Crash Site, Somewhere On Tyler Island. September 20, 2019. 0700
Rosa blinked her eyes open, her body screaming in protest as sharp pain radiated through her limbs. The acrid stench of smoke and fuel filled her lungs, as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. The wreckage of the royal jet was scattered around her, jagged pieces of metal jutted up from the dirt, and flames flickered ominously in the dim morning light.
She pushed herself up with trembling arms and sat upright, coughing as the thick smoke scratched at her throat. Her vision swam, but when it cleared, she saw them—a group of figures huddled near the twisted remains of the jet. They were Erusean soldiers, scorched and muddied, with faces streaked with soot and blood.
"Your Highness!" one of them exclaimed, rushing toward her. It was Viktor, he along with Elena had survived the crash. He dropped to one knee, "you're alive. Thank God." Behind him stood a handful of the Osean soldiers from before.
Rousseau approached Rosa, hunched under the weight of the moment. "Your Highness," he said, "I am Colonel Rousseau, we've secured the perimeter as best we can. The radicals are pressing hard, we're outnumbered, outgunned and low on ammo." He gestured toward the barricade, where Erusean and Osean soldiers were exchanging fire with the advancing enemy. "We've bought some time, but it won't last. You need to stay down."
She shook her head and she felt a surge of adrenaline shoot through her veins. She pushed herself to her feet with movements that were unsteady yet determined. Her torn royal uniform was streaked with blood, but the fire in her eyes remained undiminished.
"I can't stay down, Colonel," she said, trembling but resolute. "Not now. If I'm alive, then I can fight too, there's still hope."
The soldiers around her straightened at her words. Their exhaustion was momentarily forgotten and even the Oseans paused, betraying a flicker of admiration.
Viktor glanced at his comrades, and clutched his rifle tightly in his hands. "You heard her! Battle positions, now!"
Mozzie, who was standing casually nearby raised an eyebrow, then barked to his men, "Cover the left flank. Let's give these cunts hell!"
"Yeah!"
"Come on!"
"Let's go!"
"Get them!"
"Here they come! Incoming!"
"AHHHHHH!"
"Man down!"
Colonel Rousseau placed a steadying hand on Rosa's shoulder as she watched them all run into the fight. "Your Highness, your courage is remarkable. But bravery alone won't keep you alive. We need to get you out of here."
Before Rosa could respond, a loud explosion rocked the barricade, sending chunks of debris flying into the air. One of the trucks flipped onto its side, and an Osean soldier screamed as shrapnel tore into his leg.
The radicals continued their advance through the smoke, looming like spectres in the darkness. The rattle of gunfire grew louder, tearing through the barricade as the defenders scrambled to return fire.
Rosa, however, was already scanning the chaos for the wounded. Her eyes locked onto the Osean soldier writhing in the dirt, clutching his leg where a jagged shard of shrapnel had torn through muscle and sinew. Blood pooled rapidly beneath him.
She rushed toward him, ignoring the burning protest of Rousseau and her own body. Kneeling beside him, she pressed her hands against the wound with a torn cloth. The soldier groaned, his face twisted in pain.
"Huh?... your Highness?"
"Help him up!" she called.
Nearby, one of Rousseau's men heard. He didn't hesitate, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled the Osean to his feet. "Lean on me, trooper. You're not dying here."
Another explosion rocked the ground, this time closer, sending a deafening shockwave through the air. Dust and smoke clouded the battlefield as chunks of metal and wood rained down.
Rousseau winced but didn't flinch. "It's no good, the radicals are splitting up, Mozzie, focus your fire on that tank! Your highness! See if you can call for help!"
Rosa dropped to her knees and began working on a damaged field radio she had scavenged from the wreck. Her hands trembled, slick with sweat and grime, but her focus remained unshaken. Determination burned in her eyes as she frantically twisted wires and adjusted dials, her courage a steady light amidst the storm. With a final twist of the dial, the static cleared. She snatched the receiver and spoke into it.
"This is Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise," she said, her tone carrying both urgency and a regal strength that refused to falter. "We are under heavy fire. Can anyone hear me?"
Finally, the static broke, and a calm, steady voice crackled over the airwaves.
"Princess Cossette, this is AWACS Long Caster," the voice replied. "We copy loud and clear. Help is on the way. Strider Squadron, be advised, we have confirmation of Princess Cossette's survival. She is requesting immediate support. I've pinged her location to the wreckage."
High above, Trigger heard the transmission. His hands froze for just a moment. She's alive. I knew it. A surge of relief crashed into him, but it was quickly swallowed by a gnawing urgency. Rosa was down there, vulnerable, and every second wasted was another second she was at risk.
"Trigger, you copy?" Long Caster snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Copy, Long Caster," Trigger replied. "Strider Squadron, form up on me. Let's go."
"Copy that," Count chimed back. "Right behind you, boss."
Trigger shoved the throttle forward, the roar of his F-22's engines tore through the sky as he peeled away from his squadron in a blistering dive toward Rosa's location. The battlefield stretched out beneath him like a chaotic mosaic of smoke and fire, but all he saw was her. Every instinct, every ounce of his focus burned with reckless determination to reach her.
"Trigger, you maniac," Long Caster cut through. "I know you like to play hero, but let's not burn out the engines before the encore, alright? I didn't sign up to narrate your highlight reel."
"Relax, Long Caster," Trigger shot back grinning. "I've got this. You can call it 'flashy' all you want. I call it getting the job done."
"Oh, sure, because last time I checked, ditching your squadron and dive-bombing into an active warzone screams professionalism."
Trigger's grin widened, but his eyes were locked ahead, sharp as a blade. "If you've got a better way to save the princess, I'm all ears. Otherwise, keep the commentary coming—it's great background noise."
Long Caster exhaled. "Alright, just don't turn yourself into a smouldering crater."
"Keep firing"
"Retreat! Retreat!''
"Go! Go! Gogogo!"
"We can't hold!"
A machine gun nest set up hastily came to life. The Erusean gunner shouted over his shoulder. "Hold steady! There they are!" While his spotter crouched beside him, calling out targets with quick, precise motions.
The next moment, a stray round pierced the gunner's helmet, snapping his head back violently. He slumped forward onto the gun, and blood tricked down his lifeless face.
"Man down!" someone shouted raw with urgency. Without hesitation, another soldier vaulted over the debris and seized the weapon, yanking back the charging handle. He immediately unleashed a fresh torrent of fire. "Get some! Come on, you fuckers!"
A grenade arced through the smoke, landing right beside the gunner. The gunner looked it in stunned silence, unable to react before the blast tore through the group, sending their bodies flying like ragdolls.
When the dust settled, the gun was silent, its barrel warped and twisted from the blast. The surviving soldiers staggered back, firing blindly into the haze as the enemy pressed closer. They moved as one, retreating step by step, covering one another as they were pushed only metres away from where Rosa was. She was still behind cover with the radio trembling in her grasp. Each shallow and uneven breath escaped her lips like a whispered prayer that fogged the cold air in front of her.
Her other hand gripped a pistol, one that Rousseau had given her should it come to that. She had never held one before, never needed to—but now, she had to. Her fingers tightened around the weapon, steadying it even as her hand trembled. She squinted through the haze, tracking the shadowy figures moving through the smoke.
There was no escape, no rescue, and no miracles waiting for her beyond this—only the grim finality of her fate. The faint flicker of hope she had desperately clung to had long since died, leaving only the suffocating weight of certainty: this was her end. The inevitability of it loomed over her, heavy and unrelenting. She was alone, yet even as the shadows closed in, she resolved to meet her doom standing. Defiant. Broken in body, perhaps, but never in spirit.
A radical emerged from the haze with his rifle aimed directly at her and an Osean standing just in front of her. She exhaled slowly while time slowed. A single shot rang out, sharp and definitive. Her shot struck the assailant squarely in the head and he collapsed with a lifeless thud. The gun trembled in her hand while she stared down at him, struggling to catch up with what she had just done.
"She's fighting!"
"Give 'em all you got!"
"Make every shot count!"
"They're breaking through! Fall back—aaagh!"
"Reinforcements!" one of the Osean soldiers shouted suddenly, cutting through the chaos like a lightning bolt. "Reinforcements are here!"
Above, Trigger's targeting locked onto enemy tanks moving toward the wreckage. After dropping his first two of eight guided bombs, he switched to guns and pulse lasers. The lead tank disintegrated in a fiery explosion, sending debris and shockwaves rippling through the advancing forces. The vehicles behind it slammed to a halt, and panic spread amongst the enemy ranks.
Soldiers—both Osean and Erusean—looked up, shielding their eyes from the sunlight while they traced the sleek fighter's path. Confusion flickered through the Eruseans, their voices rising in a mix of disbelief and awe.
"Wait," one of them murmured. "That's him… That's Three Strikes."
"The Osean ace? What's he doing here?"
"It doesn't make sense, why would he be fighting for us?"
Their confusion quickly gave way to stunned silence as the jet looped around, banking sharply for another attack run. The sound of its engines filled the air, and a thunderous roar shook the earth right as he made another pass. A cheer broke out, then another, and soon a tidal wave of jubilant cries erupted.
"Three Strikes is on our side!"
"He's fighting for Erusea!"
"I don't believe it!"
"He's coming back for another run!"
"Alright, Trigger, you're officially everyone's favourite ace again. Let's give 'em all a show, shall we?"
On the ground, Rosa clutched a red targeting flare she had found among the wreckage. Her heart thundered in her chest and she broke into a desperate sprint toward the advancing tanks.
"Your Highness!" Rousseau shouted after her. "What are you doing?! Get back!"
"We have to help him!" She shouted back. Her mind was set, her courage burning brighter than her fear. She lit the flare and hurled it toward the advancing tanks. It landed perfectly, marking the target with vivid crimson while Rosa stumbled clumsily back toward cover.
Long Caster immediately picked up on the flare through the onboard camera attached to Trigger's aircraft. "Trigger, confirming hostiles near the Princess's position, marking now."
Trigger's HUD lit up in response and enemy markers flooded the display around her position revealing just how many were surrounding her. A surge of adrenaline shot through him, sharpening his focus. "Copy Long Caster, tally multiple hostile ground units. Strider One engaging," he called.
He pulled into a sharp descent and dropped altitude rapidly. The move brought him perilously close to the ground, but it allowed him to close the distance to the enemy forces below. Tracers zipped past his canopy, but he focused on mobile ground units now squarely in his crosshairs. He dropped a guided bomb, pulling up at the last second as the weapon impacted, obliterating the formation in a bright flash.
A burst of machine-gun fire from a nearby emplacement ripped through the air, grazing his wing. Trigger yanked his jet upward, climbing steeply to gain altitude before arcing back down at a sharp angle. The maneuver allowed him to strafe the emplacement with his cannons, sending the operators scattering before their weapon was reduced to smoking rubble. He looped back and lined up his next target, releasing a quick burst of flares to confuse an incoming missile.
"Trigger, watch yourself down there, that things still new." Long Caster warned. "We still need you in one piece."
The words went unheard. Trigger's focus was absolute. His eyes were only locked on the battlefield below and burned with a fierce singular focus.
He dove low again, going for another, final run, and unleashed the last of his payload. More flashes rippled across the ground, lighting up the twisted remnants of gutted tanks and scattered bodies. The battlefield now resembled a lunar wasteland, cratered and lifeless, with the remaining radicals clearly wanting to surrender.
"Outstanding work, Trigger," Long Caster said. "Rescue team is inbound. They'll airlift the Princess and the survivors to safety. Nice shooting, hotshot."
"Copy Long Caster," Trigger replied, banking his jet sharply as he made one more pass over Rosa. He lowered his altitude, slowing just enough so that he could see her.
She stood amidst the wreckage, her uniform was in tatters, and her face streaked with soot and grime. The silence that settled over the battlefield was almost surreal, broken only by the distant call of birds where moments ago gunfire and the deafening sounds of battle had reigned. She shielded her eyes against the lingering smoke, scanning the sky for him. Then, through the haze, their gazes met.
His keen, restless gaze was sharp yet soothing, as if it had been searching for her all along, and now that it had found her, it wouldn't waver. The tremors in her hands began to still, and her fear melted away under the weight of his presence, even in the sky.
There was something else however, beyond the worry, and beyond the urgency that reached out to her. It was a promise safety in a world that had offered her none. It made her feel as though she was someone who had been found, someone who mattered to him more than duty. She didn't understand why or how, but she trusted him, and she clung to that feeling. She let it fill her with hope. It's him, it's really him.
The stillness shattered as his voice crackled over the radio, laced with urgency and something warmer—concern. "Rosa," he said, abandoning all formality. "This is Strider One. Are you hurt? Please—tell me you're okay. Rescue's on the way."
The silence that followed felt like a thread connecting them across the battlefield. She searched for the right words, something that could capture the overwhelming gratitude and the strange, inexplicable comfort his voice brought. When she finally spoke again, her voice softened, raw with vulnerability. ""I'm okay, Alex… I don't know how to thank you. You… You saved me, you saved all of us."
His response was immediate, filled with relief. "You don't have to. You're safe now, that's all that matters. We'll get you out of this. I promise."
Helicopters eventually touched down, kicking up clouds of dust and ash. Osean and Erusean reinforcements moved with calm precision, disembarking in a tight formation and immediately taking up defensive positions. Their cover fire was sharp and methodical, with each shot finding its mark with clinical efficiency.
Rousseau and Viktor helped Rosa, who was struggling to remain on her feet, weakened from exhaustion and injury. "We've got you," Rousseau said firmly, looping her arm over his shoulder.
"It's not over just yet, Your Highness," Viktor added, he supported her other side. Together, they guided her toward the nearest chopper, shielding her from stray rounds as the fresh Osean troops laid down a wall of suppressive fire. Rosa's legs threatened to give out, but the two held her upright, practically lifting her over the threshold of the helicopter.
Colonel Girard, the man who had orchestrated the attack, was pulled roughly from a pile of debris. His glare was still one of defiance despite the blood trickling from a cut above his eye. The Eruseans dragged him toward another helicopter, his head snapping back as one soldier delivered a vicious blow with his rifle butt.
As the rescue helicopter lifted off from the scorched clearing, Rosa finally let herself exhale. The adrenaline that had kept her going through the chaos ebbed away, leaving her body feeling heavy and worn. A sharp, throbbing pain flared along her side, drawing her attention. Slowly, she glanced down and saw her hand come away from her waist smeared with blood. The sight startled her, but it took a moment to register. She had been so focused on survival, that she hadn't even noticed the injury.
A medic onboard quickly moved to her side, his sharp eyes catching her pale face. "Princess, you're hurt, let me see."
Rosa nodded weakly, lifting her hand away with a wince. The medic worked with practiced efficiency, cutting away the torn fabric and cleaning the wound while she tried not to flinch.
"It's a little deep," he said after a moment. "We'll need to get you checked properly at the base, but for now, this should hold." He finished wrapping the bandage snugly around her side and gave her a small smile.
Rosa managed a faint smile in return, though her exhaustion and pain were settling in fast. "Thank you," she murmured as she leaned back against the cold wall of the helicopter.
Her gaze drifted to the window. Her eyes rose toward the sky, searching. A tear slipped down her cheek and she whispered a silent prayer. "I hope… I hope I get to meet you, Alex. Wherever we're going, I hope I'll see you."
The sky above was an endless canvas of long golden streaks across the shimmering surface of the ocean far below, broken only by the occasional ripples that danced in the gentle breeze. The mission was finally over, at least on paper, but Trigger's mind was far from settled. He wasn't thinking about the debrief, the squadron, or the chaotic echoes of the day's battle. His focus had drifted entirely to her. Rosa. The memory of her standing amidst the wreckage, surrounded by tanks, holding that flare high with that desperate determination burned in his mind. That moment had changed everything.
Every instinct he'd had during the mission had driven him toward her. He'd flown harder, faster, pushing his jet to the edge of its limits because she'd needed him. And now, as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving him alone to think about what he did, he realised there was no turning back. She had taken part of him with her on that battlefield. He had always tried to compartmentalise, to keep his emotions in check. But with Rosa, it wasn't that simple. He cared about her. Even though he wasn't willing to admit it. It was personal now.
He shook his head sharply, trying to banish the thought, but it lingered, persistent and unyielding. A small part of him wanted to laugh it off. Was this what it felt like to have a crush? The notion was absurd. He was Trigger—reckless, bold, untouchable. He didn't get crushes, didn't let anyone get close enough to matter. He tried to tell himself that it was just admiration for her courage and bravery.
But admiration wasn't enough to explain the way he almost had a heart attack when he thought he'd lost her, the way relief had flooded through him when she called out to him over the radio, or the way her voice saying his name made something inside him settle and stir all at once. He strangely didn't feel weighed down by the connection anymore. He was starting to accept it—he felt free.
Radical High Command, ISEV. September 20, 2019
Alistair's control room thrummed with electric tension, a nerve center of anticipation. The hum of machinery and the rhythmic tap of keyboards created a steady undercurrent, while rows of flickering monitors cast shifting shadows across the dimly lit space. Through his prized spy drone, he had a perfect view of Tyler Island, where his master plan was supposed to unfold like the crescendo of an epic symphony.
"AHHHHHHHH! GIVE ME A BIG! FAT! BREAK!"
General Beauregard, who had been quietly sipping tea in the corner, perked up at the outburst. "Those two really are survivors, aren't they, sir?" he offered in his usual sycophantic tone.
Alistair froze, while his entire body trembled with barely contained rage. His eyes didn't leave the screen, but they slowly shifted sideways toward Beauregard like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Beauregard…" Alistair said softly while raising a finger. "Can we have a moment?"
The general hesitated, his teacup shaking slightly. "Y-Yes, sir."
Alistair turned to face him fully. "Did you just say… survivors? Survivors?! Beauregard, my darling, my sweet summer idiot, those two aren't just survivors. They're a marketing campaign for invincibility! Do you see this?" He pointed furiously at the screen showing a replay of Trigger's jet dumping bombs. "That man has infinite ammo! Infinite! Missiles, bombs, bullets—hell, for all we know, he's got a coupon for unlimited Starbucks in there too!"
He spun back toward the screen, jabbing a finger at Rosa's tiny, retreating figure. "And her! Ohhhh, Princess Rosa. Miss I'm so special!" His voice rose into a high-pitched mockery as he clutched an imaginary skirt and pranced dramatically. "'Oh no, a tank! Whatever shall I do? Oh, I know, I'll just wave this sparkler at it and let my dreamy knight blow it up for me. Tee-hee!'" He snapped out of the pose. "And guess what? IT WORKED!"
Beauregard chuckled nervously. "She does seem to have a flair for the dramatic."
"Flair?!" Alistair screamed, slamming his hands on the console. "That wasn't flair; that was a war crime in heels! She practically skipped toward that tank, marked it with her stupid little flare, and pranced away unscathed! Meanwhile, my men are out there getting spattered into abstract art by her new boyfriend!
He threw himself into his chair with a dramatic huff, massaging his temples like a man on the verge of an aneurysm. "Human beings, Beauregard. They're weak, unreliable and stupid. I care very little for them."
Beauregard frowned. "What about me, sir?"
Alistair waved him off dismissively. "Ooooh, I won't miss you when you're gone. But my machines? My glorious, tireless, perfect machines!" He shot to his feet, spreading his arms theatrically. "They are everything to me! They don't miss a target standing right in front of them. They don't spill tea on the console. And they— …—don't run toward a tank wearing heels."
Beauregard clasped his hands together. "Poetic sir, truly inspiring"
"Of course it's inspiring, Beauregard! I am nothing if not eloquent!" Alistair flipped his voice back to imitating Rosa. "Oh, save me, Trigger! You're my hero! Your jawline could carve diamonds, and your abs probably have their own weather system!"
He stormed back to his console, glaring at the screen. "This isn't over. Oh, no. They may have their victory, their infinite missiles, and their nauseating but adorable 'rescuer syndrome' chemistry, but guess what, Beauregard?"
The general leaned forward eagerly. "What, sir?"
Alistair turned, his eyes gleaming with manic energy. "Every princess needs a villain. And this villain?" He paused dramatically, a crazed grin spreading across his face. "This villain gets the best one-liners."
"Brilliant, sir! Absolutely brilliant!"
"Of course it's brilliant! I said it!"
Suddenly, one of the monitors lit up with a notification. A bold message flashed across the screen: MIHALY'S FLIGHT DATA: COMPLETE.
Alistair froze, his manic energy coiling into something darker, more calculating. Slowly, he plucked a sleek data drive from the terminal, holding it up to the light like a sacred artifact.
"Interesting," he murmured, as a grin spread across his face. He turned to Beauregard, holding the drive out as if offering a prized delicacy. "Care for a taste of evolution, my dear Beauregard?"
Beauregard leaned forward, eyes wide. "Oh, yes, sir. Very much."
A/N
Written by AaceCombatFan
Special Thanks:
aditucoicheci
egiegascon07
neo117ifuckinghatentr
Reaper VF6
Ratty13
PhantomOfBooba1975
Marader439
Luanr1
Deathenglegamers1144
Asriel2OI5
AWorldWithNoBoundaries
21salvatore2
Starring:
Alex "Trigger" Krieger (Hayden Christensen 2005)
Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise (Thomasin McKenzie)
Count (Glenn Powell)
Jaeger (Pedro Pascal)
Huxian (Awkwafina)
Long Caster (Jon Hamm)
Alistair, Leader of the Radicals (Jim Carrey)
Beauregard (Lee Majdoub)
King Dreaud (Jude Law)
Mozzie (Martin Copping)
Viktor Moreau (Temuera Morrison)
Edouard Rousseau (Vincent Cassel)
Colonel Girard (Dan Stevens)
General Edouard Labarthe (James Marsden)
Colonel Laramie (Ralph Fiennes)
The people of Farbanti
The Erusean and Osean Alliance Forces