"The winding path to peace is always a worthy one, regardless of how many turns it takes."
ACE OF HEARTS: ENTWINED FATES
EPISODE I: CHAPTER I
PILOT
In 1969, the OADF established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots. Its purpose was to teach the art of aerial combat and to ensure that the handful of men and women who graduated were the best fighter pilots in the world.
They succeeded.
Today the OADF calls it Fighter Weapons School.
The pilots call it...
Project Aces.
Erusean Experimental Testing facility, Erusea. June 09, 2019.
The sun burned down upon the arid sandy landscape. What was once a great Salt Lake had now dried up, leaving a snow white sea of sand and hardened salt. The horizon extended for what looked like forever, only broken by the odd tumble weed blowing in the wind. Stepping outside was like stepping into an oven as the hot air and beating sun engulphed anyone foolish enough to brave the heat, even at the start of Autumn the heat was especially potent. Nighttime was no better; it was as cold as a demon's soul. It could cause even the strongest man to tremble feverishly as numbness spreads from limb to limb. Going out alone, the eerie howls and grunts of various desert critters and beasts fill the ears with an overwhelming sense of feeling like something is watching. The constant extreme heat, cold and the sounds is enough to unhinge the strongest of minds.
One day, a classmate of Mihaly's granddaughter visited. I saw the rose emblem. She certainly laughed like a princess, and I found out later that she was in fact the daughter of Erusea's new leader. She was this connection to the royal bloodline everyone was talking about. The one to restore the monarchy. She was truly a godsend for the Erusean people. If Mihaly's granddaughters were like the moon, she was like the sun, around which everything seemed to orbit. Her face was so expressive. It's no wonder that the people of this war-torn country instantly feel at ease when they listen and watch her speeches.
Subject: Rosa Cossette D'Elise
Basic Information
Full Name: Rosa Cossette D'Elise
Date of Birth: May 31, 2001
Age: 18
Height: 160 cm
Weight: 52 kg
Hair Colour: Light Blonde
Eye Colour: Sky Blue
Title: Princess of Erusea
Current Status: Symbolic leader of Erusea, advocate for peace, targeted by radical factions.
Martial Status: Single
Biographical Overview
Rosa Cossette D'Elise's life changed irrevocably in 2011. At just ten years old, she was thrust into a position she never sought after a catastrophic tragedy struck the royal family. Her uncle, King Philippe D'Elise, along with the rest of the immediate royal lineage, perished in a plane crash that shook Erusea to its core. Overnight, Rosa's father, Dréaud D'Elise, a reserved and reluctant figure, was crowned king, and Rosa became the new princess of Erusea.
Her family's sudden ascension to power brought with it immense pressure. King Dréaud, though intelligent and well-meaning, struggled with the responsibilities of leadership, particularly as political factions began vying for influence. Rosa grew up in the shadow of these challenges, forced to mature quickly as she watched her father navigate the increasingly tense political landscape.
Despite this, Rosa remained grounded. As a child, she formed close bonds with her friends Ionela and Alma Shilage, whose family had long served the royal court since the annexation of their home nation by Erusea. The three were inseparable, and even as the world grew darker, Rosa's friendships provided her with a rare semblance of normalcy.
As she reached her teenage years, Rosa was groomed as the public face of the monarchy, delivering speeches designed to rally national pride and support for the government's actions. Initially, she trusted those around her, believing in the ideals of Erusean sovereignty. However, as war escalated and the truth of the radicals' manipulation came to light, Rosa began to question everything.
Now, at 18, Rosa is determined to use her voice and influence to put an end to the war. She remains a beacon of hope for those who believe in peace, even as she faces threats from within her own government.
Psychological Profile
Personality Traits:
Rosa is empathetic, intelligent, and deeply introspective. Her experiences have shaped her into a thoughtful and compassionate leader, though she occasionally struggles with the immense weight of her responsibilities. Despite moments of self-doubt, she remains committed to her beliefs, demonstrating remarkable resilience in the face of adversity. Rosa's sense of humour, though subtle, often surfaces in her interactions with those around her. She has a sharp wit and a natural ability to connect, which makes her speeches and leadership style highly effective.
Strengths:
Charismatic Leader: Rosa's eloquence and sincerity inspire loyalty and trust among those who follow her.
Emotional Intelligence: Her empathy allows her to understand and navigate the complexities of human relationships, making her an effective negotiator.
Moral Courage: Despite immense pressure, Rosa refuses to compromise her values, even when it puts her in danger.
Weaknesses:
Inexperience: Rosa's youth and lack of life experience leave her vulnerable in high-stakes situations.
Emotional Strain: The loss of her cousins and the demands of her role have left her with lingering grief and occasional feelings of isolation.
Over-Trusting: While her ability to see the good in people is a strength, it can also lead her to underestimate the ruthlessness of her enemies.
Key Relationships
King Dréaud D'Elise (Father): Rosa's relationship with her father is one of deep love and mutual respect, though it has been strained by the pressures of leadership. She admires his intelligence and cautious nature but has often wished he were bolder in standing against the radicals.
Ionela and Alma Shilage (Childhood Friends): The Shilage sisters have been Rosa's closest confidants since childhood. Despite the turbulence of the war, they have remained loyal to her, providing her with emotional support and moments of levity in an otherwise heavy existence. Together, they form a grounding presence in Rosa's life.
Alistair (Minister of Defence): While Rosa is keenly aware of Alistair's true motives and the danger he poses, she can't help but find his over-the-top theatrics and smug arrogance oddly amusing at times. His elaborate monologues and exaggerated mannerisms often remind her of a caricature from one of her childhood stories, though she knows better than to underestimate his cunning.
Diplomatic Skill: Rosa's sharp mind and empathetic nature make her an adept negotiator, often able to de-escalate or escalate delicate situations through her words alone.
Inspirational Presence: Her courage and sincerity resonate deeply with soldiers and civilians alike, earning her the loyalty of those who believe in her vision for peace.
Unyielding Morality: Rosa's strong sense of right and wrong serves as both her guiding light and her greatest strength in the fight against corruption.
Erusean Experimental Testing facility, Erusea. August 25, 2019.
A couple months had passed since the princess arrived. It was later revealed to Dr Schroeder, the head scientist of the facility, that she was sent here by her father, the King of Erusea, reason being, her own safety.
To the world, she was Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise, the beloved symbol of Erusean pride and resilience. Her speeches were broadcast to inspire her people, to assure them that victory was always near, that their sacrifices were not in vain. The weight of their hope rested on her shoulders, but it was a hope she no longer believed in. Each appearance drained her, every word she spoke a betrayed herself.
The past weeks had been harrowing. The news of the Osean counteroffensive had spread like wildfire. The loss of the entire Njord fleet at Snider's Top had shocked her. An entire Erusean armada, reduced to a smouldering wreckage in a single engagement, with its remnants scattered across the sea like ashes. And then came Stonehenge. An Arsenal Bird, Erusea's military might, had been brought down. It was a staggering blow, one that left even the most seasoned generals reeling. Her father however, had remained strangely calm through these events as Rosa sat in silence, absorbing the reality of it all.
But it wasn't the defeats themselves that shook her the most. It was the lives. The countless lives lost in the name of her father's version of "peace." A peace that had always felt brittle to her, more like a loaded gun held to the head of anyone who dared oppose Erusea's rule. She had always harboured quiet doubts about the war, but now those doubts were unshakable. The whispers of discontent in her heart had grown into a roar she could no longer ignore. She hated this war. Hated what it had turned her country into. And hated herself, most of all, for the role she was forced to play in it.
There were, however, faint glimpses of hope, stories whispered—one in particular about an Osean ace feared across the battlefield, a pilot whose skill was as legendary as his mysterious nickname: "Three Strikes." She'd overheard her father, discuss him in hushed tones during late-night meetings with his generals. Though she never saw the official reports, the pallor on his face and the tightness in his voice whenever "Three Strikes" came up told her enough.
She hadn't given it much thought until a chance encounter sparked her curiosity. While organising old wartime documents at the facility, she came across a grainy photograph tucked inside a folder of reconnaissance images. The photo showed the blurred outline of a sleek fighter jet streaking through the sky, its tail fins emblazoned with three bold scratches. A short handwritten note accompanied the image: "F-15C. Codename: Trigger. Avoid at all costs." She couldn't explain why the sight of those three scratches unsettled her. Maybe it was the confidence they seemed to exude, or maybe it was the faint sense of defiance in the simple, almost primal mark. She tucked the image away in her pocket and decided to dig deeper.
Over the next few days, Rosa scoured every file, report, and declassified document she could access. Most of it was useless—a mix of propaganda and second-hand accounts meant to terrify Erusean pilots. Yet, a few consistent details emerged. Trigger piloted an F-15C, an older aircraft by most standards, but in his hands, it became a weapon of terrifying precision. Stories from the frontlines painted him as both ruthless and impossible to pin down, his presence alone, turning the tide of the war.
She even stumbled across an odd connection, something small but strangely personal. One of the few recorded sightings of Trigger came from an Erusean pilot who had been grounded after ejecting from his crippled aircraft. The pilot claimed that, instead of finishing him off, the ace had flown past, slowing just enough to hover in the open sky. And then, in an act that defied everything the pilot had expected, lifted his visor.
It had been a fleeting moment—brief, wordless—but it struck the pilot. The man behind the myth had revealed a piece of himself, if only for an instant. And just as suddenly as he appeared, he banked his aircraft and vanished into the clouds, leaving the stunned pilot in the silence of his parachute descent.
That moment of mercy lingered with her. It was a faint glimmer of humanity in a figure otherwise shrouded in myth, and it made her wonder, why had he chosen mercy when the world around them demanded blood? Not that it was a bad thing.
The more she uncovered, the more she felt herself drawn into his legend. Who was the man behind the scratches? What drove him? She could only imagine what it must be like to face him in the skies, to watch those three marks flash by in an instant before everything went dark.
Her search didn't bring her closer to answers—if anything, it only deepened the mystery. But as she stared at the photo of his plane once more, she realised something: He wasn't just a man to be feared. He was someone who made the world pay attention. And now, for reasons she couldn't quite articulate, she felt inspired to do the same.
Her gaze drifted upward, to the patch of sky visible through the barred window. Somewhere up there, above the clouds, he was there. The thought of him unsettled her, but it also gave her something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope. He was her enemy, yes, but he was also the antithesis of everything her countries regime stood for. A lone pilot, fighting not for conquest but for the lives of his comrades and the hope of a brighter future. He represented freedom. The kind of freedom she had once known, the kind she longed for now. She imagined him soaring through the skies, untethered by the constraints that bound her. She envied him, even as she admired him.
The facility's lead scientist, an older man with sharp features and glasses, approached her quietly. "Your Highness, the team is ready for your inspection,"
Rosa nodded absently, her thoughts still lingering on the skies. "I'll be down shortly," she replied steadily despite the turmoil inside her.
As the engineer walked away, Rosa took one last look at the horizon. Her father would call her thoughts treasonous if he ever knew. So would the generals, and perhaps even the people who adored her. But she couldn't help it. She didn't want to inspire her people to fight anymore. She wanted to inspire them to stop fighting, to dream of a peace that didn't come at the cost of countless lives. And perhaps Three Strikes was the key to that dream. Not as an enemy, but as a reminder that change was possible. That even one person, against insurmountable odds, could make a difference.
For now, she had to keep her thoughts to herself, play the role expected of her. But deep down, something was changing. She would no longer the obedient princess of Erusea. She was a young woman with her own convictions, her own hopes. And as she descended the platform to fulfill her duties, she carried with her the faintest glimmer of resolve: that one day, she would find her own wings to soar above the chaos, free at last.
Later that night, Rosa sat thinking. The more she thought, the more she realised how he had become a symbol—a rallying cry for his countrymen, a beacon for Osea in its struggle against Erusea. In a way, their roles mirrored one another. She, the reluctant Princess of a crumbling kingdom, and he, the faceless ace whose skill in the skies inspired courage among his people. The parallels unnerved her, yet also fascinated her. How strange that two individuals, locked in a war they didn't ask for, could carry such similar burdens for opposing sides.
On nights like these, she would allow herself to imagine what it might be like to meet him once the war was over. Would he be the towering figure she'd built in her mind? Or would he surprise her, his presence quieter, more human? For now, it was nothing more than a fleeting fantasy. They were worlds apart, two souls carrying the weight of their nations on their shoulders, bound by war and yet separated by it.
Still, when she stared out at the stars, she found herself hoping. Not for a meeting, necessarily, but for the chance that they might both survive the storm they'd been thrust into. Because for all his destruction, for all the chaos he'd wrought upon her homeland, Trigger had come to symbolise something greater—a reminder that, even in the darkest moments, courage and skill could still shape the future. And for Rosa, who often felt powerless in the shadow of her father's crumbling empire, that was enough to keep her inspired.
August 30, 2019.
The dim glow of the monitor illuminated Rosa's face as she sat in a quiet room, her posture slouched in defeat. An earlier conversation with the Defence Minister had drained her, leaving her feeling hollow and powerless. She had tried, in her own small way, to challenge the machinery of war that surrounded her, but it was like throwing stones at a rock, hoping it would move. His reaction had been predictable, of course—condescension laced with the unspoken question: What does a girl know of war?
She exhaled sharply, her fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over a keyboard. She needed to stay calm, to appear strong and composed, but it was an impossible task. The truth was, she didn't feel strong or composed. The war wasn't hers to fight, yet she had been thrust into the role of its symbol—a princess draped in the false glory of patriotism, tasked with inspiring a nation that was bleeding itself dry.
But how could she inspire anyone when she didn't even believe in the cause?
Her thoughts drifted back to the minister's words. New drone designs, his "babies", whatever that meant. But he assured her that no more Eruseans would be sent to die. It was a lie, she knew that much. No amount of soulless, unfeeling machines could change the reality of war. People would still suffer. Families would still mourn. Lives would still be destroyed. And all for what? The ambitions of a few, the profits of corporations, the fragile egos of men who sat comfortably far from the front lines.
She rested her head in her hands with a heavy heart, and couldn't stop herself from thinking of the young men and women who had been sent to die for this war, many of them barely older than herself. She thought of the soldiers who had once cheered her name, who had seen her as a light. Where were they now? Buried beneath rubble? Lost at sea? The thought gave her a dull ache of guilt and helplessness she couldn't let go of.
She glanced over at the monitor, reading through the words of another one of her speeches queued up on the screen, waiting for her to give them life. This one wasn't like the others, however. Those had been polished to a mirror sheen, crafted by her advisors to stoke the fires of war. They had been filled with calls for courage, for sacrifice—phrases chosen to turn grief into anger, and anger into hate, to harden resolve against the enemy. She had delivered those words dutifully, steady and regal, because it was expected of her. The crowd had cheered, and for a time, she convinced herself that it was enough. But the more she stood in front of her people, the more she saw—the exhaustion in their faces, the way parents clung to their children at the mere mention of another draft. The cheers grew quieter, and the applause didn't reach their eyes.
She began to change subtly at first—a softer word here, a gentler phrase there, phrases that could relate to her people, to show she understood. "We must endure, together," she had said in one. "Our strength lies in unity, not hatred." And so on. It had been small, careful, almost invisible against the fiery backdrop of her advisors' talking points. But the people only heard what they wanted to hear, and they heard her, and they felt it. Thet listened. As time went on, her words grew bolder. She began to talk not about victory, but about what came after. About ending the suffering and rebuilding. She spoke of a peace worth striving for, worth fighting for. Her inner circle fumed, whispering of disobedience, of dangerous ideas that could fracture morale. But her people—her true people—began to hope again.
And now, this particular speech was completely raw, unvarnished—written late one night in the solitude of her office, when the weight of the war and the screams of her people felt like too much to bear. Frustration had poured from her like a river bursting its banks, spilling out in lines and paragraphs that felt both vulnerable and powerful. She had crafted it herself—no advisors, no council, no rehearsed rhetoric. This was her voice, a plea for unity, for something beyond the endless cycle of bloodshed and destruction. This speech would push the limits further than she had ever done. It was a dangerous gamble, and she knew it. If the council saw it—if the Defence Minister saw it—there would be consequences.
Her finger hovered over the play button, hesitating. What would Trigger do? The thought came unbidden, and she shook her head, feeling foolish. And yet, his courage and humanity had given her the courage to follow through. If he could stand against impossible odds, if he could fight for what he believed in, then she could, too.
Rosa pressed play.
My fellow Eruseans,
I speak to you not as a leader, but as one of you—a mother, a father, a brother, a sister. We have all felt the unbearable weight of this conflict. It has seeped into every corner of our lives, leaving scars not only on the land but on our hearts. I see it in your eyes, in the tired faces of those who have given more than they should ever have been asked to give. We are a nation standing in the shadow of our own pain.
This war has taken so much. It has stolen our families, torn apart our homes, and dimmed the future we once dreamed of. I ask you now: how many more lives must be lost before we find the strength to say enough is enough? How many more tears must fall before we dare to hope for something greater than pride, greater than vengeance?
We are a proud nation, yes. Our history is rich, our people strong, our resolve unmatched. But pride should not come at the cost of our humanity. Pride should not blind us to the suffering of our neighbours, nor should it justify the sorrow in our streets. It is not weakness to choose peace—it is courage. It takes strength to lay down arms and extend a hand, to look into the eyes of those we once called enemies and see their pain, their humanity, their hope.
Today, I stand before you to say that the time has come. The time to stop the bloodshed, to stop the endless cycle of loss. We must seek peace—not because it is easy, but because it is right. For our soldiers who have fought bravely but deserve to come home. For our children who deserve laughter, not fear. For the future we all wish to see—a future where no mother has to bury her child, where no father has to tell his family they have no place to call home.
But peace cannot be achieved by words alone. It requires each of us to rise above the pain, the anger, the hate. It requires us to be brave in a way that is harder than war itself. It demands of us a willingness to heal, to forgive, to rebuild what has been shattered. It asks us to be not just citizens of a nation, but stewards of hope for all who share this world with us.
To the leaders of the world who hear this message: we extend our hands. Let us come together, not as adversaries, but as people who wish for the same things—a chance to live, to thrive, and to dream.
To our soldiers: we honour your sacrifices. You have given everything for your country. Now, let us fight for your return, for your chance to hold your loved ones and walk once more on the soil you've defended.
To the people: your voices are powerful. Do not be silent in this moment. Demand peace, demand an end to this suffering. Together, united, we can find a better way.
And to those who have lost—those who carry the immeasurable burden of grief—I promise you this: your pain will not be forgotten. Your loved ones will be remembered, their sacrifices honoured, and their dreams carried forward in the peace we will build.
The road ahead will not be easy, but it will be worth it. Because in peace, there is strength. In unity, there is resilience. And in hope, there is a future that belongs to all of us.
Let us rise to this moment, Erusea. Let us choose life. Let us choose hope. Let us choose peace.
Thank you.
The video ended, and the silence that followed was deafening. Rosa leaned back in her chair, trembling. She knew it wasn't perfect, but it was the truth. She rested her cheek in her hand, staring at the frozen image of herself on the screen. Her eyes were distant, almost lifeless, as though she were a stranger to her own reflection. She felt small and tired, a girl lost in a world too big and too cruel for her to change. But even as doubt gnawed at her, a spark of determination began to take hold, that same spark that most likely fuelled trigger as well. Rosa knew she couldn't stay hidden away in this remote facility and do nothing, insulated from the pain of her people. She needed to act. And this speech would be the first steps she would take.
She stared at the screen while her finger trembled over the "Post" button. The video still lingered on her monitor, frozen on the solemn expression she had worn as she spoke the truth. The weight of her decision loomed over her like a storm cloud, pressing heavy on her chest. But beneath it, something else began to bloom—a sense of calm. This was the right thing to do. It had to be. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, and pressed the button.
The reaction was swift and overwhelming. Within minutes, her phone buzzed incessantly with notifications. Messages poured in like a flood: some outraged and furious, but many others filled with gratitude, shock, and—most unexpectedly—hope. People were sharing her words across Erusea, their comments filled with words she hadn't dared to imagine.
Gründergram:
AurianeDelcroix
[Image of a TV screen showing Rosa mid-speech with the caption]
"She speaks with such grace and truth. For the first time in months, I feel like there's a future to believe in. #HopeForErusea #PrincessRosa"
Sebastien_M92
Sebastien Marot
[Commenting on a shared video of the speech]
"I want to believe in her message, but I'm not sure we're ready for peace. There's too much anger, too much pain. Still, I respect her bravery."
Facebook:
Antoine Dubois
"I served two tours. I've seen enough death to last a lifetime. Her words spoke directly to me. Let's end this war and bring our soldiers home."
Élise Fournier
"People will criticize her, call her naive. But isn't it naive to think war is the only answer? She's leading with her heart, and that's what we need."
For the first time in in what felt like years, Rosa allowed herself a small, genuine smile. They were listening. To her.
Her moment was short-lived. The phone rang, sharp and jarring, breaking the fragile calm. She didn't need to look at the caller ID: Alistair. She knew exactly who it was.
"Your Highness!" Alistair's voice exploded through the speaker, in a mix of rage and barely contained hysteria. It was as though someone had just stepped on a hornet's nest with a megaphone. "WHAT. IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS SANE. HAVE YOU DONE?! Are you trying to kill me?! Because you're doing a fantastic job of it, truly!"
Rosa closed her eyes for a brief moment. "Good evening, Minister."
"Oh, GOOD EVENING, is it?" Alistair pitched so high it could have shattered glass. "Yes, let's all have a merry little chat over tea and biscuits while the nation collectively LOSES ITS MIND. 'Good evening,' she says! Rosa, this is not an evening! This is an apocalypse with polite manners! And guess who gets to clean it up? Yours truly!"
Rosa suppressed a smile, allowing a small laugh. "I see you're well."
"Well?" Alistair spat back with melodrama. "Oh, I'm the pinnacle of well. Thriving, really. You know, Rosa, I was thinking just this morning, 'What's missing from my life? Stress? Public outrage? A complete PR meltdown?' And voila! Here you are, delivering all three with a bow on top! It's like Christmas, only instead of gifts, I get cancer the size of Farbanti."
"But I've spoken the truth, the people need a voice." Rosa replied calmly.
"The truth? A voice?" Alistair scoffed dramatically, and Rosa could hear the exaggerated sound of him smacking something—possibly a stack of papers, though knowing him, it could've been his own forehead on the wall. "Do you have any idea how long it took us to polish those speeches? To paint a picture of Erusea—strong, defiant, victorious! And you've—what—grabbed a bucket of toilet water and soiled it? You've ruined months of glorious propaganda in five minutes, Rosa! Five minutes!"
"I was thinking about the people, Minister," His antics made her want to roll her eyes. "The ones who have lost everything to this war. The ones who deserve to hear the truth."
"The truth!" Alistair repeated mockingly, like it had personally offended him. "The people don't want truth, Your Highness! The truth is messy! The truth makes them think! And do you know what happens when people start thinking? They start questioning! And questioning—oh-ho! —that's a slippery slope to chaos!"
"You know what, I think they're capable of more than you give them credit for," She replied, unshaken.
"More? MORE?!" Alistair sputtered, and Rosa could practically hear him pacing—probably in tight circles, hands flailing in the air. "They're sharing your speech like it's the latest fad! Oh yes, let's all sit around and cry while our enemies prepare to wipe us off the map! Good strategy, Rosa! BRILLIANT! I'll put you in for tactician of the year! Did you know your little video is trending? Oh yes, #PrincessOfPeace is everywhere! The memes, Rosa—the memes. Do you realize what this means? You're a pop culture icon! Congratulations! Meanwhile, I'm over here drafting statements so diplomatic they could charm a nest of vipers. I hope you're happy. No, wait—I know you're happy. That's the infuriating part!"
She sighed. "Listen, I won't apologise for caring about our people."
"Oh, of course not!" Alistair exclaimed, feigning delight. "Why apologise for doing what's right when you can instead toss gasoline on the bonfire of public discourse? Your father must be so proud. You know, he sent you to that quiet little facility to… to keep you safe Rosa. Safe, quiet, and blissfully unaware of how to even wield a flamethrower."
Rosa's jaw tightened, she had enough now, she had to be firm. "If my father truly cared about the people, he wouldn't have sent me away. He would have stood with them, not hidden me from them!"
Alistair dropped into a mock whisper. "Oh, ouch, Your Highness. Low blow. Let's not go dragging dear old Dad into this. He had reasons, you know. And one of those reasons was keeping you far, far away from moments like this—moments where his only child decides to redefine treason as a public service announcement!"
"I won't be your puppet, not anymore!" Rosa practically shouted, cutting through his theatrics. "The people deserve the truth, whether you like it or not."
There was a long, pregnant pause on the line. Rosa could almost hear the gears in Alistair's mind turning, no doubt accompanied by some villainous finger-steepling.
"Oh, I see," he said at last. "That's how it's going to be, is it? Defiance. Courage. The whole heroic rebel princess routine. How quaint. Well, Rosa, allow me to remind you: actions have consequences. You are to return home, and if you won't return willingly, I assure you, the escort I send will be nothing short of dazzling. Think chariots. Think trumpets. Think… well, chains might clash with the aesthetic, but… we'll make it work."
"Do what you must," Rosa sighed. "But if you have to go that far, the people will see what this war has truly become."
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, in a voice low and laced with false cheer, Alistair replied, "Fine. Fine! Enjoy your little rebellion, Your Highness. I'll be sure to pencil in your public I told you so for later."
The line went dead. Rosa set the phone down, hastily as if handling a hot pan. The show was just beginning, and she would be ready. Alistair was dangerous, no less so because of his absurd personality. And whatever storm he was preparing to unleash, she was ready. She had chosen her path. Now she would stand by it.
Frontlines, Erusea, undisclosed location. August 30, 2019
The biting cold of the battlefield seeped into every layer of clothing the Erusean soldiers wore as they crouched in their defensive positions. The sound of distant artillery fire echoed faintly across the plains, a grim reminder that their struggle against Osea was far from over. Supplies were dwindling, and morale was nearly non-existent. For weeks, they had held their positions, enduring relentless counterattacks led by their enemy's infamous ace, Three Strikes. But tonight, something unexpected broke the monotony of their misery.
In a makeshift communications outpost dug into the earth, a small group of soldiers huddled around a flickering screen. Sergeant Étienne, a grizzled veteran with a permanent scowl, had stumbled across a broadcast while tinkering with the outdated equipment. "Hey… isn't this the Princess?" he said rough but intrigued.
The others crowded around him, as they momentarily forgot their exhaustion. The Princess had been the face of their war effort for as long as they could remember. Her speeches played in barracks and public squares, urging the people to fight for Erusean honour and victory. They had seen her countless times before, but this broadcast felt different. The grainy video played, and the soldiers listened in silence as Rosa began to speak.
"My fellow Eruseans, I speak to you not as your princess, but as your equal. This war has taken so much from all of us. Our families, our homes, our future. We must ask ourselves: how many more lives must be lost before we find the strength to say enough? We are a proud nation, but pride should not come at the cost of our humanity. We must seek peace, not because it is easy, but because it is right. For our soldiers, for our children, for the future we all deserve. Together, we can find a better way….."
The video ended, leaving only silence.
Corporal Mathieu Lemoine, a wiry young man with a nervous energy about him, broke the silence first. "She really said that? She's calling for peace?" He whispered, as if saying it too loudly might shatter the moment.
Étienne nodded slowly. "Yeah. She did."
"But isn't that… treason?" muttered Private Adrien Fournier, a lanky recruit fresh from training.
"Maybe," Étienne admitted. "But… damn it, it's the most honest thing I've heard in months."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. For so long, they had fought because they were told to, because it was all they knew. The war had consumed everything—their comrades, their homes, their very sense of self. And now, for the first time, someone in a position of power was acknowledging their pain.
"She's brave," Mathieu said, fixed on the darkened screen. "To say something like that, knowing what they'd do to her…"
"Braver than most of the officers back in home," Étienne muttered under his breath, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile. "She's not out here, but she's still fighting."
Adrien shifted uncomfortably. "But words don't stop bullets, she's just a girl with a crown. What can she really do?"
"It's not about what she can do," Étienne replied quietly. "It's about what she's saying. Someone needed to say it. And it's not like we're doing much better, are we? Digging trenches, burying friends, holding ground for what? For drones to replace us in a few months?"
"It's just words," Adrien said eventually, though he lacked the conviction it had carried earlier.
"Words matter," Mathieu replied softly. "They remind us of what we're fighting for… or what we should be fighting for."
The conversation trailed off, and the soldiers slowly dispersed, returning to their posts or finding a quiet corner to rest. But Rosa's words lingered in the air, spreading through the camp like a quiet breeze. Her message carried across the frontlines, whispered from soldier to soldier, shared in the dark moments before dawn. Some dismissed it as naive, the foolish musings of a sheltered royal. But many more clung to it like a lifeline, finding solace in the simple truth she had dared to speak.
Sergeant Étienne Moreau remained at the comms outpost, leaning against the wall of the trench as he gazed up at the night sky. Somewhere above, hidden beyond the clouds, Three Strikes was likely patrolling, preparing for another sortie. Étienne thought about the stories of the Osean ace, of his impossible victories, and the inspiration he seemed to ignite in their enemies. And now, Étienne felt a similar spark from their own side—not from a weapon, or a victory, but from a voice.
Erusean Experimental Testing Facility, Erusea. August 31, 2019
The encrypted group call crackled to life, filling the quiet of Rosa's office as her father's face appeared on the screen. King Dréaud D'Elise looked weary, the toll of war etched into his lined features. Flanking him were his generals and advisors, their expressions ranging from stern disapproval to barely concealed fury. Among them, to Rosa's mild irritation and slight amusement, was Alistair, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin that suggested he was preparing for the performance of his life.
Her father's voice broke the tense silence. "Rosa," he began, calm but weighted with disappointment, "do you understand what you've done?"
"I spoke the truth," she said, sitting up straighter as she gripped her desk. "The people needed to hear it."
The king sighed deeply, rubbing his temple. "You've created a wave we may not be able to control. The ministers are… displeased."
"Displeased?" Minister Laurent Dupont, his face already red with fury, barked as he leaned into the screen. "Your Majesty, that's putting it mildly! The princess's reckless actions are nothing short of treasonous! She's undermined our war effort, emboldened the enemy, and thrown the nation into chaos! Do you have any idea what you've done, 'Your Highness?'"
Before Rosa could respond, Alistair's face suddenly loomed comically close to the camera, his manic grin taking up most of the screen. "Ah yes, treason!" he exclaimed, motioning like a magician unveiling a trick. "It's a delightful word, isn't it? Rolls off the tongue so beautifully. But let's not forget the real crime here: overshadowing me! Do you have any idea how hard it is to steal the spotlight from me?"
Rosa kept herself steady. "I spoke from the heart. People are tired of this war, and they needed someone to acknowledge it. I only wanted to—"
"The heart!" Alistair suddenly interjected. "Such a lovely organ! Keeps us alive, pumps blood, and apparently has an opinion about national defence strategies… Fascinating! Shall we consult a lung next? Maybe see what the spleen has to say?"
Rosa couldn't stop the faint smirk slowly forming. "Your commentary is, as always, insightful."
"Thank you!" he replied with exaggerated sincerity, placing a hand on his chest. "Finally, someone appreciates my contributions. Now, back to the matter at hand: you've turned the royal family into a trending topic! Did you know that #PrincessOfPeace is beating out #EruseaVictory? Oh, and my personal Favorite—#D'EliseD'Loom. Clever, no? The people are practically rioting—with feelings! It's exhausting."
"Alistair," King Dréaud warned.
"Apologies, Your Majesty, but really, we must address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the Princess on the loose. Rosa, my dear, you've managed to ignite a firestorm. And while I do love a good spectacle, this one has too much collateral damage for my taste."
"Enough!" Dupont snapped. "This is not a joke, Alistair! The princess has put us all at risk!"
"Oh, forgive me, Laurent," Alistair said with a dismissive wave. "I wasn't aware that you were the one directing the war effort. Must be exhausting for you, sitting in your very safe office, moving little toy soldiers across your little maps."
Rosa couldn't help but laugh softly. "Alistair, do you ever stop talking?"
"Only when I'm sleeping, Your Highness," he quipped, giving her a grin that was equal parts infuriating and oddly reassuring. "And even then, it's fifty-fifty."
At that moment, General Beauregard appeared in Alistair's background, carefully carrying a tray with what looked like a perfectly frothy latte. "Sir," he said, soft and adoring, "I brought your coffee."
Alistair turned to him with wide-eyed delight. "Oh, Beauregard, you're an angel!" He snatched the latte and took an exaggerated sip, smacking his lips loudly. "Ahhhh, perfection, as always. Now, where were we?" He spun back to the screen, sloshing coffee onto the floor.
"Minister Alistair!" Dupont roared. "This is serious!"
"YES!" Alistair shouted back, lighting up like a child given free reign in a candy store. "Finally, Laurent, you've said something I can agree with! This is serious. But you know what else it is?" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in closer to the camera. "Entertaining."
"Enough!" King Dréaud's voice silenced the room. He turned to General Charpentier, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "General, your thoughts?"
"With respect, Your Majesty," Charpentier began, "the princess has gravely compromised our position. Her speech is being broadcast on enemy channels. They'll use it to paint us as weak, divided—"
"Because we are divided," Rosa interjected. Betraying her frustration. "And this war is tearing us apart. How many more lives will it take before we realise that? How much more blood will be enough?"
Charpentier's eyes narrowed. "Your Highness, you do not understand the complexities of war. This is about survival, and survival requires strength."
"Survival also requires humanity," Rosa shot back. "If we lose that, what's the point of surviving at all?"
Alistair clapped slowly, one exaggerated slap at a time. "Bravo, Princess. Bravo. Truly heartwarming. Now, shall we all hold hands and sing a hymn, or do you have another speech ready to go?"
"Minister," King Dréaud warned.
"Fine, fine," Alistair said, throwing up his hands. "But don't come crying to me when this turns into a Netflix special. 'Peace Princess Ruins Kingdom: The Rosa Chronicles.' Oh, it'll be riveting!"
"Alistair!"
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Stop."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Alistair said with an exaggerated bow. He whispered loudly to Beauregard, "They never appreciate the fun ones."
Beauregard nodded solemnly. "They really don't, sir."
"Back on topic," Dupont added, recovering his earlier anger. "Your Majesty, the princess must return to Farbanti at once. We need to contain this situation."
Charpentier nodded in agreement. "Her presence in that facility is a liability. She has already caused enough damage."
Before Rosa could respond, her father spoke, his voice cutting through the noise with quiet authority. "No."
Dupont blinked, stunned. "Your Majesty, with all due respect—"
"I said no," the king repeated, his tone like steel. "Rosa will remain where she is, for a little while anyway."
The silence that followed was deafening. Rosa stared at her father. His expression betrayed nothing, but she caught the faintest flicker in his eyes—a flicker of agreement, of understanding. He couldn't say it outright, not in front of his advisors, but she knew. Deep down, he felt the same.
Dupont and Charpentier looked as though they wanted to argue, but they knew better than to challenge the king outright. Dupont muttered something under his breath, while Charpentier's expression was filled with silent disapproval.
Alistair leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "Well, I must say, this has been delightful. A real meeting of the minds. Rosa, darling, keep up the good work—just, you know, maybe tone it down a notch. Or ten."
Rosa ignored him, her attention still on her father. "Thank you," she said softly.
Her father gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. The call ended, leaving Rosa alone with her thoughts.
Subject: Captain Alexander "Trigger" Krieger
Callsign: Trigger
Report Compiled By: Osean Air Force Psychological and Combat Analysis Division
Biographical Details
Full Name: Alexander Krieger
Date of Birth: October 21, 1998
Age: 21
Hair Colour: Brown
Eye Colour: Blue
Height: 182 cm
Weight: 88 kg
Marital Status: Single
Captain Alexander "Trigger" Krieger is one of the youngest active pilots in the Osean Air Defence Force and a rising legend within the ranks. Born and raised in a quiet suburb of Oured, Osea, Alexander Krieger was raised in a middle-class family. His mother was a linguistics professor, and his father worked as an aeronautics engineer, sparking Alex's early fascination with aviation. As a child, Alex displayed an exceptional aptitude for spatial awareness and problem-solving, excelling in competitive sports and simulations that demanded quick thinking and reflexes.
Tragedy struck his family when Alex was just 14. His father, working on an independent civilian aviation project in Usea, was killed in an accident. The project's connections to Erusean technology raised suspicions within the family, leaving Alex with lingering questions about the circumstances of his death. This event had a profound impact on him, instilling a need to protect others and uncover the truth, a driving force that would shape his future.
Alex enlisted in the Osean Air Force at 18, forgoing a college education to pursue his dream of becoming a fighter pilot. His natural aptitude for flying became apparent during training, where instructors were astounded by his ability to master complex maneuvers instinctively. However, tensions in Usea forced the Osean military to accelerate its training programs, and Alex was deployed to combat zones before completing his full training.
His early missions cemented his reputation as an unmatched pilot. With each sortie, Alex's skills grew, and his daring flying style earned him the callsign "Trigger," a nod to both his decisive nature and his lethal precision in combat. Despite his successes, Alex's moral compass made him question the cost of war, especially when it came to civilian casualties and the exploitation of soldiers for political gain.
Psychological Profile
Emotional Intensity and Attachment:
Captain Krieger operates with a level of emotional intensity that can be both a strength and a vulnerability. Fiercely loyal to those he considers his comrades or under his protection, Alex demonstrates a deep attachment to the concept of justice, though his definition of it is deeply personal and situational. This often manifests as an unyielding determination to protect innocents and fight against perceived injustice, even when it puts him at odds with orders or tactical prudence.
Idealistic, Yet Pragmatic When Necessary:
While Alex is idealistic at heart, his experiences in combat have taught him that achieving the greater good sometimes requires moral compromise. He has shown a willingness to eliminate particularly dangerous or malicious targets with unrelenting aggression, even if it means bending his moral code. However, he remains staunchly opposed to harming civilians or anyone uninvolved in the conflict. His squad mates have described him as a "moral storm"—capable of great compassion but utterly ruthless when facing enemies he perceives as evil.
Impulsive and Reckless:
Alex's impulsiveness is one of his defining traits. His instinctual approach to problem-solving often leads to unorthodox strategies that catch both enemies and allies off-guard. While this has yielded remarkable successes, it has also strained relationships with his commanding officers and squad mates, who sometimes struggle to keep up with his unpredictable methods.
Charismatic but Isolated:
Trigger's charm and confidence make him a natural leader, but his tendency to shoulder the burden of success or failure alone often isolates him from those around him.
Repressed Anger and Struggles with Loss:
Though outwardly calm, Alex harbors a deep well of anger tied to the personal losses he has endured. This anger occasionally surfaces in combat, where it fuels a relentless drive to succeed but can also lead to tunnel vision and overextension.
Combat and Cognitive Abilities
Unparalleled Reflexes and Intuition:
Captain Krieger's combat reflexes are unmatched. Evaluators have noted that he appears to anticipate threats and opportunities seconds before they materialize, allowing him to execute maneuvers that defy conventional logic. This preternatural sense of timing has earned him a reputation as a pilot who is nearly impossible to outmatch in the skies.
Aggressive and Unpredictable Flying Style:
Trigger's flying style is characterized by relentless aggression and a disregard for traditional dogfighting techniques. He prefers to engage enemies head-on, pushing his aircraft to its mechanical limits while using sudden, improvisational maneuvers to catch opponents off-guard.
Instinct Over Protocol:
Alex's reliance on instinct over structured tactics is both his greatest strength and his most significant liability. While his gut decisions often lead to success, they also create friction with command structures and increase risks for his squadron.
Lone-Wolf Tendencies:
Trigger frequently breaks formation, striking out on his own to complete objectives. While this approach has led to mission success in several high-stakes scenarios, it has also drawn criticism for its lack of coordination and perceived arrogance.
Combat Record
Deployment: Alex was deployed to active combat zones at age 21, making him one of the youngest OADF pilots to see frontline action. Despite his lack of experience, he quickly proved his worth, completing high-risk missions that more seasoned pilots had failed to execute.
Notable Engagements: Trigger's missions include the defence of Stonehenge, the destruction of experimental enemy aircraft, and numerous solo incursions deep into enemy territory. His success rate is unparalleled, and his presence on the battlefield has been described as a morale booster for allies and a terror for enemies.
Strengths: Precision targeting and improvised combat strategies. Superhuman reflexes. Ability to remain calm under pressure.
Weaknesses: Tendency to disregard orders. Emotional decision-making.
Assessment and Future Considerations
Captain Alexander "Trigger" Krieger is an irreplaceable asset to the Osean Air Defence Force. His unmatched combat skills and natural flying instincts make him a dominant force in the skies, capable of turning the tide of battle single-handedly. However, his impulsive nature and disregard for authority present ongoing challenges for leadership.
Psychological evaluators caution that Alex's increasing isolation and emotional intensity could lead to long-term mental health risks if not addressed. Despite these concerns, his combat effectiveness and ability to inspire confidence among allies make him a critical figure in ongoing operations.
Final Remarks
Captain Alexander Krieger is a pilot of unparalleled skill, defined by his unmatched reflexes, tactical intuition, and emotional complexity. His aggressive flying style and willingness to defy orders make him both an invaluable asset and a challenge to command.
Cape Rainy Airbase, Erusea. August 31, 2019
Trigger stood at the edge of the airfield, his flight jacket hanging loosely over his shoulders as the cold autumn wind swept across the tarmac. It clawed at his face, sharp and unrelenting, but he barely noticed. His breath clouded faintly in the air, dissolving into the vast, empty night before him. The horizon stretched endlessly, blending the fading orange glow of sunset into the darkness above. He exhaled, long and slow, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like an invisible force.
The tarmac beneath his boots felt steady, grounded, but inside, he felt anything but. In the span of months, Trigger had gone from a disgraced pilot, branded a criminal and thrown into the 444th Penal Unit, to the most feared and revered name in the skies. "Three Strikes". The callsign that carried like thunder through the war. The legend that had been forged, not by choice, but by necessity. His necessity. And yet, standing here now, the quiet settled in around him like a storm ready to break.
He'd never asked for this. Not the praise. Not the fear. Certainly not the expectations. For a while, he had buried himself. It was a lot simpler to climb into the cockpit and let the hum of the engines drown out his thoughts, to lose himself in the mechanical rhythm of flight. In Zapland, when he had been tossed into exile, everything had been stripped away—his rank, his reputation, even his future. He was nothing. He had been bitter then, frustrated, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. He flew because there was nothing left to do. It wasn't heroism or redemption. It was survival. That bitterness had a way of consuming someone, and at times, it did. Every sortie had felt heavier than the last. Every victory came with questions he refused to answer. Why am I still doing this? Who is it for? Why does it matter?
Then came the speeches. Rosa's speeches.
Trigger could still see it—barely lit rooms, the guards' cruel smirks as they switched on the crackly broadcasts. The Erusean princess, Rosa Cossette D'Elise, standing tall, her image plastered across the screens like a figure carved out of marble. At first, her words had rubbed against him like a cheese grater, hollow sounds spoken from a cage. Another puppet, he'd thought, rolling his eyes behind bars of steel and disillusionment.
But as the weeks dragged on, he began to hear something else in her voice. Beneath the carefully rehearsed lines and the polished veneer, there was something raw, something human. It was in the way her eyes lingered too long on the camera, or the faint tremor in her voice she tried to hide. She was just as trapped as he was. Maybe more. And it stuck with him, even when he didn't want it to. Her words planted seeds that refused to die, and as the silence of Zapland swallowed him whole, it was her voice that echoed in the corners of his mind. She spoke of hope, of unity, of the cost of the war. He hated how much it resonated with him. He hated that he found something to hold on to in her speeches when he hadn't been able to hold on to himself. And now, here he was, all these missions later, with the weight of too many lives on his conscience, and she was still there. Rosa. A woman he had understood more than he cared to admit.
Her latest speech played back in his mind. He had seen it earlier on a dim monitor in the corner of a briefing room. Unlike the others, this one didn't sound crafted by unseen hands. It was Rosa, stripped of the royal trappings, of the polished words others forced her to speak. It was real.
"We must ask ourselves: how many more lives must be lost before we find the strength to say enough?"
Trigger had leaned closer to the screen then, as if he could reach through it and pull her voice into his world. She wasn't just speaking for Erusea; she was speaking for everyone. For the men Trigger had shot down or spared, for the comrades who fought by his side, for the families who waited for them to come home and for him.
He rubbed his hands together now, staring into the distance. The cold bit into his fingertips, but his mind was still tethered to her words. For so long, he had been running on anger, on duty, and instinct. He had flown because that's what he did—because a soldier doesn't ask why. A soldier fights. But Rosa made him want to ask why. She made him remember that there had to be something more to this than survival and orders.
Trigger looked out across the airfield, the distant silhouettes of fighter jets resting like sleeping giants against the dark horizon. Somewhere in the sky, he would fight again. He didn't fool himself into thinking war could end with just words, but… Rosa was fighting, too. Not with missiles and gunfire, but with truth. He shifted his weight, the wind whipping at his flight jacket, and allowed himself to smirk faintly. The thought of being inspired by the enemy's princess was ridiculous—something right out of a storybook or propaganda reel. If anyone knew what she meant to him, even in this small, strange way, they'd call him a fool.
Trigger exhaled, long and steady, as his hands clenched into fists. He wasn't sure if he believed in Rosa's hope yet. But he believed in something. The hum of a jet engine in the distance pulled his attention back to the present. He turned toward the runway, his thoughts shifting to the future. Somewhere out there, on the other side of this conflict, she was there, fighting her own battle, her voice carrying through the noise of war.
"Keep talking, Princess," he muttered. "I'll keep flying."
With that, Trigger turned and strode back toward his office, the faintest flicker of purpose burning in his chest.
(About three weeks later) Erusean Experimental Testing Facility. September 18, 2019.
Rosa sat quietly in her office at the facility, the faint hum of distant machinery creating an almost pleasant backdrop against the chaos of her thoughts. The events of the past month had left her drained, but also resolute. The speech she had given—the one that had sent ripples through her people and rattled the radicals within the high command—had been an act of defiance, yes, but also one of hope. Still, she knew it wasn't enough. The storm was coming, and she had to decide whether she would face it head-on or fade into the shadows as her father's advisors clearly wished.
Her eyes rested on the small camera placed on her desk, its lens staring back at her like an unblinking eye. Her heart raced as she turned it on, the soft glow of its indicator light filling the dim room. This would be her final message before her reluctant return to Farbanti—the one that would define her legacy, for better or worse. She knew the risk, but she also knew it was necessary.
A knock on the door broke her focus. She looked up, surprised. "Come in."
The door creaked open, revealing Lieutenant Viktor Moreau, one of the soldiers stationed at the facility. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind face, his uniform slightly rumpled from long shifts spent patrolling the base. Behind him stood a handful of other soldiers, their expressions uncertain but warm.
"Your Highness," Viktor said. "We heard you were preparing another speech. We… wanted to see if you needed anything. And to thank you."
Rosa blinked in surprise. "Thank me?"
Another soldier, Corporal Elene Fontaine, stepped forward. She was young, barely older than Rosa, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid. "Yes, ma'am. Your last speech… it gave us hope. For the first time in months, we felt like someone understood us and our pain.
Rosa's throat tightened. She hadn't realized the impact her words had had on the soldiers stationed here, far from the front lines. "I was only speaking the truth," she said quietly. "It's the least I can do."
"Maybe," Viktor said smiling. "But it takes courage to speak the truth, especially when so many don't want to hear it. We respect that. We respect you."
Rosa looked at the group, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the room's overhead light. They were tired, like everyone in this war, but there was something in their eyes—resolve. It was the same resolve she had felt in her own heart when she wrote her first speech.
"You've given us something to believe in," Viktor continued. "We just wanted you to know that, whatever comes next, we stand with you."
A lump formed in Rosa's throat, and she nodded. "Thank you. That means more than I can say."
The soldiers lingered for a moment, their presence a quiet reassurance, before stepping back into the hallway to give her space. Viktor, the last to leave, gave her a small nod before closing the door behind him.
Rosa turned back to the camera, her hands trembled as she adjusted its position. She took a deep breath, the weight of what she was about to say pressing down on her. But when she hit record.
"To my people, my beloved Eruseans…"
"This may be the last time you hear from me, and if it is, I want you to know the truth. I speak to you as Rosa—a woman who has seen the cost of this war, who has felt the pain and loss it has brought to our nation. And I cannot stay silent any longer."
"We have lost so much. Sons, daughters, fathers, mothers… countless lives cut short. I see their faces every day in my mind. I carry their loss with me, just as you do. And I ask myself—how much more are we willing to lose? How many more lives must be sacrificed before we realise that this war, no matter how justified it may seem, is tearing us apart?"
"I know some of you may see my words as weakness, as betrayal. But I promise you, they come from a place of love for our nation and for its people. Erusea is strong, but true strength is not found in weapons or victories. It is found in compassion, in humanity, in the courage to build a better future. A future where no child has to grow up without a parent, where no soldier has to die far from home, and where no one is forced to endure the endless grief of war."
"I do not claim to have all the answers. I am not a soldier or a general. I am simply someone who believes that peace is possible, that it is worth fighting for. And I know that deep down, many of you feel the same. To the soldiers who stand guard at the borders, to the families waiting for their loved ones to return, to every Erusean who has suffered in this conflict—I see you. I hear you. And I promise you, your pain is not in vain. Together, we can find a way forward. Together, we can rebuild."
"I know this message may put me at odds with those in power, and I know the risks I take by saying these things. But if I must face those risks to bring hope to even one person, it will have been worth it. To those who stand with me, who believe in a future of peace—thank you. Your courage gives me strength."
"Whatever happens next, remember this: the true strength of a nation lies not in its leaders, but in its people. And I believe in you. I believe in us. For Erusea. For peace."
Rosa ended the recording and let out a shaky breath as her emotions spilled over, her body trembling with the weight of what she had just said, and a single tear fell. She saved the video and began uploading it to the same channels as before. As the progress bar inched forward, a knock came at her door again.
When she opened it, Viktor and the others were waiting. They didn't say anything, but their presence spoke volumes. Viktor offered her a small smile. "We'll make sure this gets out," he said. "And we'll make sure you're safe. No matter what happens, you have us."
"Thank you, thank you for standing with me."
Cape Rainy Airbase, Erusea. September 19, 2019.
The briefing room was packed, a low hum of tension filling the air as pilots, officers, and support staff filed in, taking their places around the room. The atmosphere was different tonight—more charged, heavier. Everyone knew what was coming. The final assault on Farbanti. This was the operation that would decide the war.
Trigger leaned against the wall near the back, arms crossed, his expression calm but his mind racing. The weight of the mission bore down on him in ways he hadn't felt before. It wasn't just another sortie. This was the culmination of months of relentless combat, of sacrifice, of victories earned at great cost.
The room gradually settled as the mission commander stepped to the front. Major Carey Boyce, a seasoned officer with gray streaking his hair, projected calm authority as he cleared his throat. The overhead screen flickered to life, displaying a detailed map of Farbanti, the Erusean capital. The city was dotted with key strategic targets, each one marked with red and yellow symbols indicating defence systems, ground forces, and high-priority objectives.
"This is it, everyone," Carey began, his voice steady but firm. "Operation Giant's Step. Our objective is simple: we take Farbanti. Osean and Usean ground forces will begin their assault with aerial support paving the way. Resistance will be heavy—Erusean forces have entrenched themselves across the city, and we expect every remaining asset they have to be brought to bear. This will not be an easy fight."
The screen shifted to show a satellite view of the city's outskirts, where anti-aircraft installations and SAM sites were densely clustered. "Our first priority is neutralising the air defence grid. Without it, our ground forces won't be able to advance into the city. That's where you come in."
Trigger straightened slightly, his eyes fixed on the screen as Carey continued. "The Long Range Strategic Strike Group will lead the charge. Your job is to clear a path through their defences and establish air superiority. Once that's done, the second wave will provide direct support to ground units advancing on the GHQ at the palace."
The palace. Trigger's chest tightened slightly at the mention of it. Rosa would be there—or so he assumed. She was the heart of Erusea's propaganda machine, and Farbanti was the seat of her father's power. For months now, her speeches had been broadcast alongside the reports of battles, her voice unwavering even as her country faced defeat after defeat.
"We expect resistance from Erusea's remaining squadrons," Carey continued. "Though their numbers have dwindled, they still have capable pilots. And let's not forget their experimental units. Intelligence suggests that several experimental squadrons are stationed in the capital, likely to supplement their weakened air force. Stay sharp."
The room was silent as the implications of those words sank in. This was it. The final strike. The end of the war, one way or another.
"Any questions?" Carey asked, his eyes sweeping the room.
Trigger stayed silent, his mind already focused on the mission ahead. The questions weren't his to ask. His job was simple: take to the skies, do what needed to be done, and bring his team back alive. As the room began to disperse, Carey's voice cut through the chatter. "Trigger, a word." Trigger nodded and stepped forward, the weight of his name following him like a shadow.
Carey waited until the room had emptied before speaking. "I won't sugarcoat this, Trigger. This mission is going to push you to your limits. The resistance will be fierce, and if even half of what we've heard about their experimental drones and squadrons is true, it'll be unlike anything we've faced before."
Trigger nodded, his expression calm. "Understood, sir."
Carey studied him for a moment, his gaze sharp. "I know you've carried a lot on your shoulders. More than most pilots ever will. But we're counting on you again. This operation… it's the endgame. The people are looking to us—to you—to finish this."
Trigger's jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded again. "I won't let them down."
Carey's gaze softened slightly. "I know you won't. Good luck out there. And Trigger…" He hesitated, then sighed. "Just… be careful. You've done enough for one war."
Trigger didn't respond, but he appreciated the sentiment. He saluted, then turned and left the room, his thoughts already turning to the skies.
As Trigger walked across the tarmac toward his F-15C, a faint chime sounded from his smart watch, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced down. It was an alert from his private news feed—one he rarely let anyone know about. Rosa had posted another video. Trigger hesitated mid-stride, his pulse quickening. He scanned the tarmac, ensuring no one was paying attention, then stepped off to the side and leaned against a stack of equipment crates. With a few quick swipes, he opened the video on his phone.
Rosa's face appeared on the screen, illuminated by the dim light of her room. She looked composed, but something in her eyes immediately struck him—an unspoken heaviness that unsettled him. Then she spoke.
"This may be the last time you hear from me."
Trigger froze. The words sent a cold shock through him, rooting him to the spot. Her tone was calm but laden with something he couldn't name—resignation, perhaps? Or finality?
He couldn't focus on the rest of her message. The thought of her being in danger—or worse—gnawed at him. What could have driven her to say something like that? What was happening behind the scenes, in the shadows of the conflict? He clenched his jaw as a wave of worry, unexpected and unwelcome, rose within him.
The video ended, leaving the screen dark. Trigger stared at it, his hand tightening around the phone. He tried to rationalise the feeling, to brush it off as concern for a political figure whose words had unexpectedly resonated with him. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. Her courage—it had drawn him in, leaving him wondering what she had to face after recording those words.
"Trigger!" The shout from his mechanic jolted him out of his thoughts. He glanced up to see Avril waving him over. "Your bird's ready. It's time."
Trigger gave a sharp nod, slipping his phone into his jacket. He made his way to the F-15, the familiar weight of duty settling over him. Yet, even as he climbed into the cockpit, his thoughts drifted back to Rosa. Why had her words hit him so hard? Why couldn't he shake the unease?
He sat in the cockpit the familiar hum of the fighter's systems filling the air around him as he worked through his pre-flight checklist. His hands moved automatically, flipping switches, monitoring readouts, and running through the startup procedure with the precision of a seasoned pilot. He had done this countless times before—so many missions, so many battles—and yet, today, something felt different.
Trigger's eyes flicked to the heads-up display, forcing himself to focus. The status indicators blinked back at him, all systems nominal. His jet was ready, but his mind wasn't. He took a deep breath, trying to push the thoughts away. This wasn't like him. He'd never allowed himself to be distracted before a mission. But no matter how much he tried, his thoughts kept returning to her. This isn't your concern, he told himself. Focus.
But it was his concern, wasn't it? He couldn't explain why, but he felt it deep in his gut. Rosa wasn't just some figurehead to him anymore. She was a young woman, barely younger than him, standing up against impossible odds for something she believed in. She had the same resolve he'd seen in himself and his comrades, the same refusal to back down even when the world seemed to crumble around them. And now, she was in danger—whether from the war or from those within her own ranks, he didn't know. But the thought of her being caught in the crossfire made his chest tighten in a way he wasn't used to.
"Trigger, you good to go?" Count's voice came in laced with that signature mix of sarcasm and concern that only he could pull off.
Trigger smirked. "Yeah, All systems green."
"Good," Count replied. "Because if you weren't, I'd have to handle this shitshow myself, and honestly, I don't have the energy for that kind of heroism today."
"Heroism?" Trigger shot back. "The only heroic thing you've ever done is manage to stay airborne without crashing into your own ego."
Before Count could retort, Huxian cut in, loud and unapologetic. "Oh please, Count's ego is the only thing keeping his plane together. Without it, he'd be nose-first in the dirt five missions ago."
"Oh, fuck off, Huxian," Count fired back. "At least I'm not the one who needed four tries to land during a training op because they couldn't figure out the difference between the runway and the grass."
"That was one time," Huxian growled. "And I was hungover! What's your excuse for being a walking disaster every day?"
Trigger chuckled, shaking his head as the bickering escalated. "You two are the reason AWACS drinks on duty."
"Hey, Trigger," Huxian snapped, "I don't need your smart-ass commentary while I'm roasting Count alive."
"Oh, trust me, Huxian," Count interjected smoothly. "If roasting me is the only way you can flirt, then just say so. We can skip the foreplay and—"
"Count, if you finish that sentence, I will shoot you down myself," Huxian snapped.
"Promises, promises," Count replied with a grin practically visible through the comms.
Before anyone else could pile on, Jaeger's smooth, dry tone cut through the chaos. "Ah, the symphony of dysfunction. Truly, nothing inspires confidence like hearing the air force's finest verbally tear each other apart."
"Don't get too comfortable, Jaeger," Trigger interrupted. "I've seen your flying. You've got no room to talk."
"I'll have you know," Jaeger replied, "my flying is a masterclass in precision and elegance. Unlike Count's, which is like watching a drunk pigeon."
"Oi, fuck you, Jaeger," Count barked.
"Language, Count," Jaeger mocked. "The princess might be listening."
Huxian snorted. "Yeah, because that's what's going to shock her after the month she's had."
The comms lit up again as Skald, Strider Two, chimed in. "For fuck's sake, can you all shut up for five minutes? Some of us are trying to focus."
"Focus on what?" Lanza, Strider Three, said dryly. "You don't even have your systems on yet."
"Goddammit, Lanza, don't start—"
"Alright, children," Long Caster's voice cut through, dripping with sarcasm and resignation. "Let's reel it in before I have to mute you all and explain to Command why this mission turned into an open-mic night. Comms check, now. Cyclops One, go."
"Cyclops One, reading loud and clear," Wiseman said, his authoritative tone silencing the chatter for a brief moment.
"Cyclops Two, Count, sexy and deadly as ever."
"Cyclops Three, Jaeger, the voice of reason, as always."
"Cyclops Four, Huxian. Louder and prouder than Count's bullshit."
"You're obsessed with me, admit it," Count shot back immediately.
"Strider One, Trigger, clear and ready."
"Strider Two," Skald, hoping for some fucking peace and quiet."
"Strider Three," Lanza, still here, unfortunately."
"Strider Four," Fencer, keeping the amateurs in line."
"Good," Long Caster replied with exaggerated patience. "Now that I've heard from the peanut gallery, can we please start focusing on the actual mission?"
"Sure, LC," Count laughed. "Right after you tell us what's for dinner when we get back."
"Oh, I don't know," Long Caster shot back. "Maybe I'll just eat the last shred of sanity I have left after listening to you all."
"Someone's grumpy" Huxian teased.
Long Caster groaned. "I swear, if I have to listen to Count and Huxian flirt one more time—"
"Not flirting!" they both shouted at the same time.
Trigger snorted. "Yeah, no, definitely not flirting. Totally normal workplace banter."
Wiseman finally stepped in, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. "Enough. Mission starts now. Long Caster, give us the rundown. Save the rest of this bullshit for the debrief."
"Copy that, Cyclops One," Long Caster replied. "Alright, listen up, team. Time to earn your Paycheck—and no, Count, Huxian doesn't count as work."
"Fuck you, LC."
The squadron settled into their roles, but the undercurrent of chaos and camaraderie lingered, a constant reminder that for all their dysfunction, they were still a team—a dysfunctional, loud, and occasionally reckless team, but a damn good one.
As Trigger taxied, he flicked a few more switches, watching as the final indicators on his HUD turned green. His F-15 was ready. He forced himself to take another breath, to shake off the lingering weight in his chest. He couldn't afford to let himself be consumed by worry—not now, not when so much was at stake.
But as he looked out at the runway stretching before him, the lights of the base glinting in the cold night air, he couldn't help but let one last thought slip through his defences.
Stay safe, Rosa. Please.
"Strider One, you're cleared for takeoff. Wind at 270, 10 knots," the control officer's voice crackled over the comms.
"Tower, Strider One copy, cleared for takeoff. Wind 270 at 10 knots"
"Strider One, Tower. Proceed to Runway 18, hold short."
"Roger tower, proceeding to Runway 18, holding short," he replied. Rolling the throttle forward, Trigger taxied the aircraft out of its parking position, carefully steering along the yellow centerline.
"Tower, Strider One. Holding short of Runway 18, ready for departure."
"Strider One, Tower. Confirm lineup and wait."
"Strider One, Tower. You're cleared for takeoff. Winds steady, 270 at 10 knots. Departure heading 190, climb to angels 15. Contact Departure on 125.85."
"Strider One copy. Cleared for takeoff, departure heading 190, climb to angels 15. Contacting Departure on 125.85."
Trigger advanced the throttle into military power, the engine roaring to life as the aircraft surged forward. The airspeed indicator climbed steadily. "Airspeed alive," he called out to himself.
At 140 knots, he pulled back gently on the stick. "Rotate." The nose lifted, and the runway fell away beneath him.
The wheels left the ground, and he called out, "Positive rate." His hand moved to the landing gear lever, retracting it with a satisfying clunk.
"Strider One airborne, climbing to angels 15," he reported as the aircraft soared skyward, steady and purposeful.
"Good climb, Trigger. Switch Departure 125.85," the controller replied, closing the loop on the procedure.
"Strider One, switching 125.85."
As the jet roared into the sky, leaving the ground behind, Trigger focused on the mission ahead. But deep in the back of his mind, Rosa's face lingered. Her voice, her strength, her plea for peace—it stayed with him, a quiet, unshakable presence.
And somehow, even as he flew into the heart of the battle, he hoped against all odds that she would survive. That they both would.
A/N
Special thanks: Swiss Shadow
Character Inspiration:
Trigger/Alex Krieger (Hayden Christensen 2005) The young, sarcastic, and intense Osean ace with unmatched skill and a burdened heart, flying to defend peace while wrestling with his growing attachment to Rosa.
Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise (Thomasin McKenzie) The defiant and compassionate Erusean princess fighting against the war machine she was once a part of, her words stirring hope in a world scarred by conflict.
Count (Glenn Powell) Trigger's cocky and quick-witted wingman, whose humor masks a fierce loyalty to his squadmates.
Jaeger (Pedro Pascal) The grounded, wise-cracking pilot with years of experience, always ready with a quip and a plan.
Huxian (Awkwafina) The sharp-tongued, fearless flyer who never hesitates to call things as she sees them.
Long Caster (Jon Hamm) The sarcastic, food-obsessed AWACS operator who acts as the squadron's steadfast guide and occasional babysitter.
Wiseman (Charles Parnell) The no-nonsense leader of Cyclops Squadron, a steady hand in the chaos of war, and a mentor to all who fly under him.
Alistair, Leader of the Radicals (Jim Carrey) The over-the-top, conniving Leader of the Radical faction whose theatrics hide a dangerous cunning.