"A shared secret forges an unbreakable bond of trust."
ACE OF HEARTS: ENTWINED FATES
EPISODE I: CHAPTER II
BATTLE FOR FARBANTI
War continues to rage across the continent of Usea! The Erusean radicals, desperate to maintain their iron grip, push their people to the brink of destruction. Amidst the chaos, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise, a symbol of hope for peace, takes to the skies to escape the shadows of war and find sanctuary. Her transport becomes the target of a sinister plot orchestrated by the radicals to silence her voice forever.
Meanwhile, in the embattled skies above Farbanti, Osea's elite squadrons fight valiantly to capture the city. Strider Squadron, led by the daring Captain Alexander "Trigger" Krieger, faces overwhelming odds, including the appearance of Sol Squadron's legendary ace, Mister X. As the battle rages, the fate of a princess and the dream of peace hang in the balance.
Erusean Royal Transport, Somewhere over Erusea. September 19, 2019.
Rosa settled into the plush confines of the royal jet, the deep hum of its powerful engines vibrating through the floor. The cabin was a picture of refined elegance, with its polished oak accents gleaming faintly under the soft overhead lighting. The deep red upholstery of the seats exuded warmth and comfort, embracing her like an old friend as the aircraft began its ascent.
As the jet reached cruising altitude, the cabin smoothed into a steady calm. Rosa took a deep breath, savouring the cool, crisp air that carried a faint trace of leather and wood polish. She closed her eyes momentarily, letting the tension in her shoulders ease. When she opened them, the view outside had transformed. A sea of clouds stretched endlessly below her, tinged with fiery orange and deep red as the sun began to set. The colours bled into one another like strokes of a celestial masterpiece, mesmerising and infinite.
For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of peace. The vast expanse of the sky above and the ethereal cloudscape below wrapped her in a sense of freedom, a tantalising taste of escape. Up here, far removed from the strife of her situation, she could almost forget the burden of her title, along with the weight of expectation that never left her shoulders.
A soft chime broke the tranquillity, and Rosa turned her head as an attendant approached with a warm, practiced smile. "Your Highness, may I offer you some refreshments?"
Rosa nodded graciously. "Yes, thank you."
Moments later, a delicate glass of sparkling water rested in her hand, its surface glinting faintly in the setting sunlight. She brought it to her lips, savouring the effervescent bubbles as they danced on her tongue, each sip crisp and invigorating. Her fingertips glided over the smooth, chilled surface of the crystal, a pleasing contrast to the warmth filtering through the air vents. The interplay of sensations—cool and warm, sharp and soft—wrapped her in a fleeting, quiet luxury.
Her gaze drifted absently to the table in front of her, where an unassuming folder sat waiting. She had taken it from Dr Schroeder's desk before her departure from the experimental facility. She hadn't planned to take it. Her hand had simply acted, driven by a mix of curiosity and something she couldn't quite define—instinct, perhaps. The label on its cover, stark in its simplicity, read: Three Strikes.
She set the glass down and flipped the folder open, breaking the spell of boredom. Inside, a thick stack of documents sat waiting: reports, photographs, and pages stamped CLASSIFIED in bold red letters. Her eyes settled on the first sheet, where a name—printed in unyielding black ink, stared back at her:
Rosa's breath caught as her eyes focused on the name, one that had loomed like a shadowy figure. Capt. Alexander "Trigger" Krieger. The fabled Osean ace, whose actions had scattered Erusea's might like a pile of leaves in a gust. Who had single handedly decimated the Erusean Air Force and turned despair into triumph with his unerring skill. The name echoed in her mind as its meaning unfolded before her.
As she read on, her concentration faltered, arrested by a detail so ordinary yet so confounding: his age. Twenty-one. She read it again, as if repetition could make it more believable, but the truth remained. Twenty-one. From the moment she took interest in him, she had imagined him as someone shaped by decades of experience, a man hardened by campaigns and tempered by countless storms. Yet here he was, not a grizzled veteran, but a young man only three years her senior. The revelation left her staring at the page in disbelief, as though the divide between the legend she envisioned and the reality before her was too vast for her mind to quantify.
Her hand trembled as she continued, and the words that followed seemed to grow in depth as she read on. The reports, stark and unembellished, spoke of his deeds, feats that defied reason and odds that would have broken lesser men. But with each report she read, a new portrait took shape. Beneath the skill, beneath the ferocity of his missions, there was something more: discipline, precision and a mind that considered not only the battle but the lives it touched. He spared retreating forces (sometimes). He struck with clarity and care, his actions measured not by anger but by an almost surgical resolve. He was no wild beast, no force of absolute chaos her country's propaganda had made him. She now knew him as a man—Alex Krieger—whose humanity shone all the brighter for being wrapped in such myth and reputation. And this, more than his skill, was what stirred her heart and left her aching.
Then her eyes caught the photograph, tucked between the pages as if waiting for this moment. It was unassuming at the first look, a simple headshot taken for his military records. Yet the moment she saw it, her world narrowed, the hum of the cabin fell away from her as she focused on him. He is real. Here he was, staring back at her with the gaze of a man who had stepped from the realm of stories into the harsh, undeniable reality of flesh and blood. His features carried the smoothness of youth, but they were tempered by something harder, something shaped by the burden he carried. His jawline, sharp and defined as well as his cheekbones lent his face an undeniable strength.
But it was his eyes that pulled her in with an almost magnetic force. They pierced through the photograph with a sharpness and coolness that seemed to bridge the distance between them. Deep blue, they were the colour of the ocean during the afternoon sun—luminous and infinitely deep. She shivered, not with fear, but with a strange sense of familiarity, like those eyes had known her far longer than this fleeing moment. They were her eyes. Both in hue and intensity. It was as if she were looking at someone she knew and would understand her rather than a stranger.
Her gaze drifted, tracing the contours of his face until it settled on his hair—dark and slightly unruly, falling in waves that brushed just above his shoulders. It gave him an air of defiance, as if the chaos of the skies had left its mark on him, yet he refused to let it tame him completely.
Rosa exhaled slowly as she traced his face, trying to memorise it. A warmth rose unexpectedly to her cheeks, and she pushed the thought away, frustrated with herself. It had struck her suddenly and unrelenting: he was handsome. Infuriatingly so, and it unsettled her, scattering her focus. The energy he exuded, even through a still image, was captivating. There was just an unpolished authenticity to him, a stark difference to the carefully curated appearances of people she had been presented with in her royal world. Perhaps for the first time, she saw a man who looked both strong and genuine, someone who, in another life—where their worlds weren't apart—might have seen her simply as her. Rosa set the photo aside with care, as though it might shatter if she lingered too long. She tried, in vain, to summon anger against him to distract herself, anger for ravaging her country's forces and shattering her nations pride. But she couldn't.
Instead, questions began to swirl, restless and insistent. Did he know her name? Not "the princess," but her—Rosa. Did he see beyond the crown and the speeches, or beyond the propaganda that had sketched her as a figurehead for the war? Could he understand her struggles, the longing for peace that had eclipsed what she had once spoken? And if he had seen her speeches, what did he think? Did he notice her in the same humanity she now saw him on?
Her mind circled back to the photo, and she found herself hoping—no, praying—that he had seen her, that he had seen the change in her, the determination to break free from the chains and bring something real to her people. And as these thoughts took root, a quiet certainty settled over her. She could not name it or explain it, but it was real. It felt as though some unseen thread, a connection, had been drawn between them, delicate yet unbreakable. And no matter how foolish it seemed, she couldn't deny it.
Her lips parted slightly as she whispered his name again, softer this time, almost as if afraid to say it too loudly. "Alex." Then, without fully thinking, she slipped the photo into her pocket.
She returned to the folder, her fingers moving almost on their own, and as her eyes scanned the pages, she found something that made her breath hitch—Alex had been imprisoned. Accused of killing Vincent Harling, the former Osean president her nation had once branded a tyrant, Alex had been thrust into a maelstrom of chaos and blame. The report detailed a chaotic evacuation near the space elevator, where Harling's death occurred under suspicious circumstances. Yet even as she read through the accusations, the incomplete evidence painted a different story: Alex had been made a scapegoat—a political sacrifice to appease the chaos and fury of a war spiralling out of control.
Her heart clenched as the reports delved into his punishment. Alex had been sent to the 444th Penal Battalion—a death sentence thinly veiled as military service. He had been consigned to Spare Squadron, a unit of expendables. They were cannon fodder, pilots forced into impossible, suicidal missions with little support or expectation of survival. It was a place meant to crush the spirit, where every day in the cockpit could easily be the last.
The stark brutality of the reports made her stomach churn. She could almost see him, a young man just a few years older than her, climbing into his aircraft, bearing the weight of unjust condemnation and the knowledge that he was seen as nothing more than a tool to be discarded. Her fingers tightened on the folder as anger surged through her—a searing rage at the cruelty of the Osean military mingled with deep sorrow for all he had endured. And yet, beneath that anger and sorrow, there was awe. Awe for his strength, his resilience, his will to survive not just physically but emotionally, to emerge from that crucible with his humanity intact.
The words on the page offered no clues as to how he had managed to endure such torment, how he had survived and defied the fate imposed on him. But as Rosa closed the folder, one thing became clear: her respect and admiration for Alex had only deepened. Knowing what he had been through, knowing the strength it took to come out of it, made her heart ache with a fierce desire to bring him justice.
Rosa's fingers grazed the edge of the photo in her pocket, the image of his face lingering in her mind. She didn't know if she would ever meet him, if their paths would cross in the storm that surrounded them. But in that moment, she made a silent promise—to him, that all his burden and sacrifice wouldn't be in vain.
She shifted her focus to the small window again, seeking solace in the view beyond. The darkened landscape stretched out below, scattered with the faint lights of towns and villages—sparks of life that flickered against the shadows. Somewhere out there, she knew, Alex was flying. Without thinking, she pressed her hand gently against the window, as if reaching across the void that separated them.
Rosa's phone buzzed sharply, shattering the uneasy quiet in the royal transport. Rosa jolted upright, blinking blearily at the name flashing on the screen: Alistair, Minister for Defence.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Of course it was Alistair. The man was a constant—like bad weather or a poorly tied cravat. With a resigned sigh, she swiped to answer. "Minister Alistair," she said bluntly, bracing herself.
"Your Highness!" Alistair crackled to life, bright and clear in his urgency. "Oh, finally, you've answered! Do you know how many rings that was? Three! Three! A personal record for you. I was about to file a missing person's report—such a shameful headline: 'Beloved Princess Ghosts National treasure. Tragic!"
Rosa rolled her eyes faintly but couldn't suppress a small huff of amusement. "Is there a point to this, Minister?"
"A point? Oh, Your Highness, there are so many points! I could make you a diagram! Complete with all the little shapes, maybe a bar chart if I'm feeling generous!" He let out a barking laugh with just enough maniacal edge to make her wince. "But the most pressing one is this: You must, and I mean must, turn on the television immediately. There's news. Catastrophic news. Very explosive. Quite literally explosive, actually!"
Rosa hesitated. Alistair's flair for dramatics was legendary, often making anthills into mountains—or, in his case, mountains into volcanoes. The last time he'd called her in such a state, it was to declare a "pancake emergency" over a glitch that duplicated grain reports. "A war on breakfast," he'd called it.
Still, something about his tone now felt... different. Calculated, almost. Measured. A hint of unease settled at the edges of her mind as she reached for the remote. The television flickered to life, and whatever sarcastic remark she'd been preparing died in her throat.
Farbanti. Her home.
The city burned. Black smoke clawed at the sky, curling in thick, suffocating tendrils. Buildings crumbled into ash as flames raged unchecked through the streets she knew so well. Explosions rippled across the skyline, their shockwaves leaving chaos in their wake. Through the faint audio of the broadcast, screams and the sharp crack of gunfire broke the silence.
Rosa's hand trembled around the remote. "No…"
"Well!" Alistair's voice jolted her out of her haze. "Magnificent production value, no? Though, if I may critique… the visuals are a bit heavy-handed. All that smoke? Dreadfully dreary. A tad more nuance would do wonders."
Her head snapped toward the phone. "Production value?! Alistair, this is Farbanti!" she snapped, shaking with fury and disbelief.
"Yes, yes, I know, Rosa—I mean, Your Highness," he corrected, lowering into an exaggerated hush, as if they were conspiring together. "Tragic, horrific, all those buzzwords the press will gobble up like pigeons with breadcrumbs blah blah blahhhh. But let's focus on you, shall we? The future of Erusea. Its beacon of hope!"
"Me?"
"Yes, you!" Alistair exclaimed sharply, almost scolding. "You must divert your jet immediately. Farbanti is a no-go zone. Oseans at the gates, crossfire galore, it's a recipe for disaster! Princess flambé, if you will."
"Divert? To where?"
"Tyler Island," Alistair said smoothly, as if it were the most logical choice in the world.
Rosa frowned. "Why Tyler Island?"
"Oh, why there?" Alistair said as if it were the most absurd question he'd ever heard. "Why, for safety, of course! Safety! Lovely concept. You should try it more often. It's a bastion of survival! It's practically begging to protect you. Lovely beaches, excellent defences—what more could you ask for? It's like a spa resort with a side of artillery."
Rosa's heart ached as her gaze drifted back to the screen. The city she loved was crumbling, her people trapped in a nightmare. Every instinct screamed at her to return, to help, to speak for peace. "My people need me," she said quietly. "When I reach Farbanti, I can negotiate—"
"NO, NO, NO!" Alistair shrieked, sounding more like a tantrum. "Stop right there! Peace talks? Now? Oh, how quaint! 'Let's all hold hands and sing while the city burns!'" He laughed hollowly. "Your plans for peace are adorable, truly, but they're not worth a thing if you're—oh what's the word? —dead."
Rosa's hands curled into fists on the armrests. "What happens to Farbanti, then? What happens to my city?"
"Your city? Oh, Rosa, sweet, naive Rosa." Alistair now sounded slow and condescending. "You leave that to me. War, strategy—it's messy, unpleasant work. Best left to professionals. You'll thank me later."
Rosa stared out the window, clouds rolled past like ghosts, obscuring the horrors below. She could feel the weight of Alistair's words pressing down, and deep down, she knew he wasn't entirely wrong.
"Fine," she said at last.
"Ah-ha!" Alistair crowed triumphantly, buzzing with glee. "Wonderful! I knew you'd see reason. Off to Tyler Island with you, where you'll sip tea and stay alive. Beauregard! We'll need banners. Something festive! 'Welcome, Your Highness,' perhaps?"
In the background, Beauregard's voice chimed in muffled but enthusiastic. "Brilliant idea, sir! Red carpet? Velvet ropes?"
"Yes, Beauregard, velvet ropes are a must!" Alistair declared. "Perhaps some floral arrangements?"
Rosa closed her eyes, forcing her fury down. "When the time comes, Minister," she said evenly, "I will return to Farbanti. And when I do, we will open peace talks. This war must end."
There was a pause. For a fleeting moment, Alistair didn't reply. Then, his voice returned, syrupy smooth. "Yes, yes, of course, Your Highness. Peace talks. Something to look forward to—"
Rosa hung up.
In the control room, Alistair stared at his phone. "Rosa? Hello? Hello?" He pressed the phone to his ear. "HELLO?!"
Beauregard peeked over his shoulder. "Sir, I think she hung up."
"I KNOW THAT, BEAUREGARD!" Alistair snapped, throwing the phone onto his desk with a dramatic flourish. "Why does no one appreciate my brilliance?!"
Beauregard frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe they don't understand your genius, sir."
Alistair spun to face him, his grin returning. "Yes! Exactly! That's why you're my favourite, Beauregard. Now, get me coffee. And make it frothy."
"Right away, sir!" Beauregard saluted and scurried off.
Erusean High Command, ISEV. September 19, 2019.
The room buzzed with tension, filled with the faint hum of the overhead lights which were rivalled by the grating sound of Alistair pacing. At the head of the table stood the Radical leader himself, his long coat swishing behind him like a villain's cape as he stomped back and forth. His manic grin stretched unnervingly wide, his eyes bright with an energy that teetered on the edge of brilliance and absolute lunacy.
"Well, gentlemen!" Alistair announced, cracking through the room with all the subtlety of a hand grenade. He clapped his hands together, startling the man closest to him, and leaned dramatically on the back of a chair. "Here we are, brooding like some cut-rate cast from a bad war movie. And do you know why? Huh? Anyone? No?"
The table remained silent, its occupants exchanging cautious glances.
"Fine, I'll spell it out for you." Alistair stood upright, his face turning into a theatrical sneer. "The reason we're here, the reason we're all miserable, the reason the war machine is grinding to a halt—can you guess?" He threw up his arms and barked, "PRINCESS ROSA!"
He spun on his heel, slamming both palms onto the map table with a loud BANG! that rattled a glass of water. "She's out there preaching peace—PEACE! —like she's running a bake sale for orphans. It's sickening!"
"Absolutely revolting," Beauregard chimed in with a nod.
Alistair threw him a finger gun. "That's why I keep you around, Beauregard. You get it."
He began pacing again, this time with exaggerated strides, throwing his arms around like a conductor leading an orchestra. "The people love her. They adore her. Why? Because she flutters her eyelashes and says things like, 'Oh, war is bad! Let's all hold hands and braid each other's hair!'" He stopped abruptly and pitched his voice into a falsetto. "'My dear, sweet Eruseans, let's find peace because it's the right thing to do.' Bah!"
Beauregard clapped. "Brilliant impression, sir."
"Thank you, Beauregard!" Alistair barked, spinning to face him with a mock bow. "And do you know what the worst part is? The soldiers are eating it up! 'Oh, Rosa's so wise, Rosa's so kind, Rosa cares, she understands us!' What is she, a princess or a therapist?"
"Why not both?" Beauregard offered.
He whipped out a pointer stick—no one was entirely sure where he'd been hiding it—and began jabbing furiously at a map of Erusea projected on the wall. "Public opinion? Leaking like a bad tap. Soldiers? Dropping morale faster than Beauregard's IQ, which, let me remind you, was already a low bar."
"Thank you, sir," Beauregard said with a proud grin.
"And the princess, she's skipping around, scattering her little kumbaya seeds like she's starring in Sound of Music 2. He smacked the pointer against the table for emphasis.
"Sir," one of the more seasoned radicals, Etienne Duval, began cautiously, "with all due respect, the troops are listening to her because they're exhausted. And frankly, we all—"
Alistair froze mid-motion, turning his head slowly to stare at Duval like an animatronic running out of power. "Did you just say, frankly?"
"Yes, sir," Duval replied, shifting uncomfortably.
"They're soldiers, Duval, not toddlers who need a nap! Oh, 'with all due respect,'" he mimicked in a nasal whine, flapping his hands dramatically. "Do you know what peace gives them? Hope. And do you know what hope is, Duval? Hope is like a tiny little germ." Alistair pinched his fingers together, wagging them under Duval's nose. "It spreads. It grows. And then—POOF!" He clapped his hands suddenly, making half the room jump. "Hesitation. Weakness. And weakness, my friends? Weakness gets you conquered."
General Labarthe, who had been sitting quietly with an expression that screamed get me out of here, finally spoke up. "Enough theatrics, Alistair. The princess is gaining traction, but if we move against her now, we risk fracturing the military. Many are still loyal to the royal family."
At the mention of the royal family, the room fell quiet. Alistair's grin twitched, but only briefly. He straightened, smoothing his coat with exaggerated care. "Ah, yes. The king. A tragedy, truly. But with him gone, the people need a new figurehead. And Rosa, bless her sentimental little heart, is perfect."
Beauregard leaned forward eagerly. "Because she's going to inspire a new wave of loyalty?"
"No, Beauregard." Alistair's grin returned, wide and twisted. "Because we're going to kill her."
The room fell into stunned silence.
"What?!" Labarthe barked almost falling from his chair.
"Not literally!" Alistair held up a finger. "Well, technically literally, but listen—this is where it gets fun." He perched on a chair backward. "I've redirected her to Tyler Island. Quiet, remote, blah blah blah. Perfect. And that, gentlemen, is where we make our move."
Duval frowned. "You mean shoot her plane down?"
"Bingo!" Alistair beamed, jabbing the air with both fingers like a game show host. "We make it look like an Osean ambush. An accident. Oh, the people will weep! There'll be flowers, mourning, and then—rage. Pure, beautiful, blinding rage." He leaned in, his eyes glittering. "Rosa becomes a martyr. Osea becomes the villain. And Erusea? Erusea unites behind one last, glorious push for revenge!"
"And Farbanti?" Labarthe challenged. "What about the capital?"
Alistair scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Farbanti is a setback, nothing more. Cities burn, Labarthe—that's the nature of war. The capital is just a chess piece, and sometimes you sacrifice a pawn to win the game. But a martyr? A martyr changes the game."
Labarthe glared back at him. "If this fails, Alistair, it could tear the country apart."
Alistair gasped, clutching his chest as though wounded. "Oh, Labarthe, please! When have I ever failed?"
"You want the list alphabetically?" Duval muttered.
Ignoring him, Alistair leapt to his feet, clapping his hands together. "Gentlemen, make the arrangements! Tyler Island awaits!"
With that, he stormed out, cackling madly as the door slammed shut behind him. The room fell into silence.
"...He's unhinged."
Beauregard beamed. "That's why he's brilliant!"
LRSSG Formation, En Route to Farbanti. September 19, 2019
The F-15 hummed around Trigger as Strider and Cyclops Squadrons cruised toward their objective. Despite the tension of the mission, the comms were alive with chatter—predictable chaos, really, given the cast of characters involved.
"Alright, boys and girls," Count drawled over the comms, "what curveballs do you think this mission will throw at us? Maybe it'll be a good straightforward one for once."
Trigger smirked, rolling his neck as he leaned into the stick. "I think this one will be the one Count manages to do something basic with no issues."
The line went quiet for half a second, and then Count fired back. "Oh, real nice, Trigger. Real fucking nice. When have I ever screwed up something basic?"
"Oh, I don't know," Trigger replied, adjusting to mimic Count's distinct drawl. "Trigger, buddy, pal—this mission's fuuuuuucked. I'm just gonna hang back here and let you handle it."
The laughter was immediate and contagious.
"Okay, okay, hold up," Huxian interjected between gasps for air. "I need to hear that again, because that was too good."
Count groaned loudly. "Alright, alright, we get it! You think you're funny, Trigger."
"No," Jaeger cut in. "He knows he's funny. Big difference."
"Jaeger, please," Count snapped. "Go back to flying your bird like you're auditioning for a cologne commercial."
"Better than flying mine like a drunk frat bro in a go-kart race," Jaeger quipped. "Also, for the record, Trigger's impression of you is uncanny. I almost thought that was you for a moment."
"You're all hilarious," Count said flatly. "But you'll see. When I save your ass, Trigger, you're gonna owe me a goddamn medal."
"I'll owe you a 'participation' ribbon at best."
"Trigger," Huxian said through barely-contained laughter, "are you gonna survive with Count here today? You sound like you're seconds away from ejecting out of frustration."
"Let's be real," Trigger replied. "We only keep Count around because he's good at making us look good by comparison if we're having an average day."
"Can I please fly one mission, without you all turning me into a goddamn meme?"
"Nope," Huxian replied instantly. "Not unless you magically stop being Count."
"Touché," Jaeger added. "Though that would require a personality transplant."
"Alright, assholes," Count growled. "Fine. Keep it coming. When I'm the last man standing out here, don't come crying to me."
"I'll be sure to cry directly into my visor," Huxian deadpanned.
At that moment, Long Caster's voice broke through the chaos tinged with sarcastic impatience. "Are you all done auditioning for a Netflix comedy special, or should I order popcorn from base?"
Huxian immediately jumped in. "Long Caster, you're a popcorn guy? I pegged you for nachos."
"Don't drag me into this," Long Caster replied. "I'm just here to make sure you don't accidentally bomb yourselves out of stupidity."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Count protested. "Let's not lump me in with these clowns, LC."
"No, Count," Long Caster said smoothly. "You're king of the clowns. Congratulations. Now, how about you all get your heads in the game before I submit a formal request to have my ears replaced?"
"Ears replaced? You mean a stomach replacement from all the burgers you've been hoarding in the AWACS," Jaeger smirked.
"Hey, I burn calories keeping you idiots alive," Long Caster shot back. "Now focus up, or you'll give me an aneurysm."
The comms quieted for a moment as the squadron collectively fought to suppress their laughter. Finally, Trigger broke the silence. "Alright, alright. Let's reel it in. Long Caster's about to put us all in time-out."
"Thank you, Trigger," Long Caster said with exaggerated relief. "For once, a voice of reason. Who knew?"
"Don't get used to it," Trigger replied. "You've still got to deal with Count."
"Hey!" Count snapped. "I'm the heart and soul of this operation, Trigger."
"And that's fuuuuuucked," Trigger shot back, dragging out the last word again for emphasis.
Huxian couldn't hold it in anymore, her laughter cutting through the comms. "I swear to God, Count, he's got you down to a science."
"Whatever," Count muttered, though he was clearly trying not to laugh. "When this mission's over, I'm demanding a fucking raise for dealing with this abuse."
"Count," Long Caster said dryly, "if I get through this mission without having to hear you and Huxian flirt again, I'll personally approve your raise."
"What flirting?" Huxian blurted quickly.
"Exactly!" Count added, though far too defensively to be convincing.
"Focus up," Trigger interjected, grinning to himself as he levelled out his jet. "We're almost there. Save the flirting and food jokes for the debrief."
"Or don't," Long Caster muttered. "I'll just start drinking early."
Battle of Farbanti, September 19, 2019.
The skies over Farbanti were a storm of chaos and destruction, a battlefield in the air that stretched across the horizon. The city below was cloaked in smoke as anti-aircraft fire lit up the heavens with streaks of orange and yellow, creating a deadly tapestry that seemed alive. Surface-to-air missiles erupted from hidden launchers with their trails crisscrossing in erratic patterns, searching for prey amongst the clouds.
Wiseman and Trigger flew together, weaving perfectly through the chaos like twin threads in a vast, tangled web. Their planes moved in perfect unison, precise and fluid, as though choreographed. Trigger held tight to Wiseman and Wiseman did the same to Trigger, both matching every dive, roll and climb. The air screamed around them as they skimmed the tops of smoke plumes as missiles streaked so close that their contrails were disrupted by their wings.
A burst of flak erupted just ahead, causing black clouds to bloom like flowers right in front of them. Trigger banked hard, pulling into a tight spiral, and Wiseman mirrored the maneuver without thinking. The pair darted through the opening, threading the needle between bursts of AA. Behind them, shrapnel fell like rain, harmless in the wake of their evasion.
Automated turrets continued to swivel and track their movements as the two diverted the enemies air defence's attention to them. Yet, regardless of the overwhelming tracer fire and the deafening boom of SAM explosions, they pushed forward. They were the spearhead, striking deep into the heart of the enemy, while the rest had split up, each focusing on their assigned objectives. The radio was alive with chatter, distant and fragmented in their ears as they continued through the storm.
Triggers RWR screamed in the cockpit, he broke left violently, releasing chaff and flares in a shimmering cascade that lured the missile toward it. Wiseman used the distraction to engage the enemy emplacement below, diving as his ordnance tore through the target in a brilliant eruption of fire and debris. Without missing a beat, Trigger lined up the next launcher, and it met the same fate.
Trigger, with his characteristic boldness, dove into the thickest fire, barely skimming past explosions. Wiseman followed close behind, his calm precision a sharp contrast to Trigger's erratic flying style. For a fleeting moment the sky around them cleared, offering a brief, breathtaking view of Farbanti's skyline. But it was only for a moment. Another barrage erupted ahead and the pair dove back into the fray. Their comms crackled to life as Wiseman broke the silence.
"Careful, Trigger. You're going to get yourself killed doing that one of these days," Wiseman said as he narrowly avoided a missile coming from the launcher he was targeting.
Trigger laughed, "relax Wise! I've got this under control. Strider One, rifle!" His plane dove sharply, weaving through and unleashing a precise strike that obliterated a SAM launcher.
Wiseman sighed audibly, rolling his aircraft to avoid debris. "Your idea of control is giving every enemy a heart attack before they die."
Trigger grinned to himself, pulling out of his attack and into a steep climb. "Hey, it's not my fault they can't keep up. Maybe they should just surrender now."
Wiseman jinked to avoid incoming fire from down below. "Yes, well I'm sure they're all reconsidering their life choices because of your flying."
Trigger levelled out, spotting a convoy of enemy vehicles below. "You worry too much, old man. Watch this!" He dived low, flying so close to the ground that the smoke plumes swallowed his plane. His missiles hit their targets in rapid succession, the convoy erupting into flames.
"Trigger!" Wiseman's voice carried a sharp edge. "That's cutting it a bit close, don't you think?"
Trigger climbed back into formation, his tone smug. "Close is what gets results. Besides, you've got to admit that was impressive."
Wiseman shook his head, focusing on the next wave of enemy fighters closing in. "I'll admit it when we survive this. Until then, try not to make me regret letting you take the lead."
Trigger chuckled while engaging one of the fighters. "You're welcome to take over anytime, but you'd miss the fun."
Wiseman sighed again. "Yes, because fun is exactly what I'm having right now."
"Strider and Cyclops." Long Caster now cut through the comms, steady but laced with wit. "This is Long Caster. Nice job so far, but we've got a buffet of bandits ahead, and the kitchen's firing up more SAM's. Watch your six!
"Trigger, heads up!" Count shouted. "SAM launch, three o'clock! Break!"
Trigger's instincts kicked in. "Strider One, defending!" he called, rolling his jet into a steep defensive turn. G-forces pressed against him, but his hands flew over the controls with ease. "Deploying countermeasures!"
Bright bursts of chaff and flare streaked from his jet, glowing against the night sky. The incoming missile veered off, flying harmlessly into the distance.
"Negative contact. Strider One, clear."
"Show-off," Count muttered. "You know, one day, those stunts are going to bite you in the ass."
"Hey, that's what Wise always says, but until then, I'll keep making you look bad." Trigger quipped.
"Trigger." Huxian interrupted, "can we focus for five seconds? We've still got SAMs lighting us up down there! Unless you want to be fireworks, maybe take them out?"
"Copy Cyclops Four," Trigger replied, spotting a SAM launcher against the cityscape. "Strider Squadron, form up. We're taking out those launchers. Skald, good to see you mate, you're on my wing."
"Roger that," Skald confirmed. "Just don't go full 'Trigger Special' on me."
"No promises," Trigger shot back, throttling forward and diving back toward the city.
The missile warning tone blared again, and Skald cut in sharply. "Incoming, ten o'clock!"
"Strider One defending!" Trigger called, yanking the stick hard to the left, forcing his aircraft into a defensive roll which sent the missile flying into the empty air behind him.
"Missile defeated. Still in the fight," Trigger said as he was lining up his target. He locked on. "Rifle!" The missile streaked toward the ground, slamming into the launcher in a fiery explosion that lit up the city.
"Splash another SAM launcher!"
"Nice shot, but don't forget there's more down there. Cyclops Four, moving on the next launcher," Huxian announced, diving toward the target. "Trigger, cover me."
"Already on it," Trigger replied, spotting a missile streaking toward her. "Cyclops Four, defend now! Missile inbound, two o'clock low!"
"Cyclops Four defending!" Huxian grunted, pulling into a hard turn and deploying chaff. The missile veered off harmlessly as she levelled out. Huxian locked back onto the site and fired, slamming it with pinpoint precision.
"Good hit, Huxian."
"Long Caster," Jaeger chimed in, "SAM sites are down. Air defences are thinning."
"Don't get too comfortable," Long Caster replied. "Multiple bogeys inbound, bearing zero-nine-zero at angels twenty-five. Looks like a mix of fast movers and stealth aircraft. Time to contact: one minute."
"Copy Long Caster," Trigger replied, adjusting his heading. "Striders form up and climb to angels thirty."
"Cyclops Squadron, providing top cover," Wiseman ordered, cutting through the chatter. "Climb to angels thirty-five. Eyes open."
As the squadrons adjusted their positions, the RWR's began to chirp again with new contacts and locks.
"Bandits at twelve o'clock high," Long Caster confirmed. "They're hostile. Weapons free."
"Finally," Count drawled. "Let's light these bastards up."
"Focus, Count," Trigger warned, he spotted an enemy manoeuvring into a firing position. "Got a tally on one of the bandits. Strider One, Fox Three!"
His AIM-120 AMRAAM streaked through the air, slamming into the enemy fighter and reducing it to a fireball.
"Splash one bandit," Trigger reported.
"Good kill, Trigger," Long Caster acknowledged. "But don't celebrate yet. We've there's still more."
"Cyclops Three, you have one on your six, break right!" Count shouted.
"Breaking!" Jaeger called, rolling into a defensive turn as Trigger swooped in behind his pursuer.
"Strider One, guns!" Trigger declared, his Vulcan cannon roaring to life. The enemy jet erupted into flames, trailing smoke as it spiralled out of control.
"Splash two," Trigger confirmed.
"Thanks, Trigger. Don't let it go to your head."
"It's already there," Count smirked.
"Long Caster to all units, I don't mean to rush you guys, but can you hurry up? Let's finish this so I can start planning what I'm eating tonight."
"Burgers, LC?" Huxian asked.
"Depends, if you all survive, I might even spring for fries."
Trigger smiled as his squadron prepared for the next wave. "You heard the man. Let's earn those fries."
Trigger streaked through the storm of combat with impossible agility. Banking hard, he narrowly avoided a wall of cannon fire, the rounds whizzing so close they nearly hit his canopy. His movements could be described by others as suicidal, but to Trigger, they were precise, as if daring the battlefield itself to catch him. He darted after bandits with relentless determination, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Above and below, the rest of them continued to move in a loose but cohesive formation, tearing through the attacking forces. Count swooped low across Trigger's path toward a fleeing enemy. Trigger held back for a brief moment, hesitating to fire on the retreating bandit. But Count fired a missile anyway splashing the enemy, he then peeled away with a sharp turn.
Jaeger, meanwhile, flew with Skald and Lanza, weaving through clouds of flak that erupted around them. Jaeger's calm precision stood out as he dismantled a fighter with a clean burst of his guns, while Skald covered his six, firing off countermeasures that lit the sky like falling stars.
Huxian darted through the chaos with an erratic energy, her jet rolling and looping unpredictably. She strafed an enemy formation, her cannons riddling their wings before diving into the smoke below. Moments later, she reemerged, climbing high to unleash a missile that detonated in a fiery bloom, scattering debris like confetti.
The retreating bandits dwindled, their numbers thinning under the relentless pursuit of the Osean pilots. Trigger's aircraft slowed, cutting a graceful path through the dissipating battle. Amidst the destruction, a fleeting serenity settled over the battlefield.
Before anyone could celebrate what looked to be the end, Long Caster came through again. "Wait..." There was a pause. "All units, be advised! New contacts detected bearing zero-eight-five at angels twenty. Multiple fast movers inbound. IFF confirms it's Sol Squadron!"
Trigger's stomach turned ice cold. Sol Squadron. The elite of the elite. And at the helm? Mihaly "Mister X," the legendary ace. He had faced him before, the man's skills were otherworldly. He wasn't going to let an old, glorified ace ruin his day.
"Copy Long Caster," Trigger responded sharply. "Strider Squadron, tighten up. We're not done yet."
"Trigger, Trigger," Count cut through, laced with his usual swagger. "You better not hog all these kills. I've got a reputation to build."
"Don't worry," Trigger replied grinning. "You can have all the scraps you want."
Before Count could retort, Huxian cut in. "Oh, what, I'm supposed to babysit Count and clean up after Trigger? Fantastic. Love this team dynamic."
"Don't act like you're not into it, Huxian," Count shot back. "Admit it—you love flying with me."
"Yeah, love flying with you the same way I love getting kicked in the teeth."
"You two need therapy," Jaeger interjected smoothly, cutting through the argument. "Like, lots of it."
"Why don't you join us, Jaeger?" Huxian said with mock seduction. "You seem like a guy who knows his way around feelings."
"Sorry, sweetheart, my schedule's full dealing with the emotional fallout of flying with Count."
As they turned toward the new threat, Sol Squadron was already in the thick of it, their jets slicing through the air with lethal precision. Mister X and his wingmen were strafing the Osean positions on the ground.
"Trigger, I've got eyes on multiple bandits engaging our ground units," Jaeger reported.
"Copy that. Prioritise targets. We need to take them out fast," Trigger ordered. "Strider One, engaging!" He pushed the throttle to full, his jet roaring as he dove toward the chaos below. He locked onto a Su-30M2, the tone blared.
"Fox Three!" Trigger called. The missile streaked toward the target, but the enemy pilot executed a masterful break and came around on his six as trigger overshot. "Damn, he's good." Trigger levelled out, and a missile streaked past his canopy, close enough to leave a shimmering vapor trail in its wake. "That was too close…" He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of his pursuer, closing fast.
He dove sharply, skimming low over the city's buildings. The bandit stayed locked on, forcing him to stay aggressive. He adjusted his speed, feathering the throttle to force a closure mismatch, hoping to make the bandit overshoot in the maze of buildings. The enemy hesitated for a fraction of a second, giving Trigger just enough room to move.
He yanked the stick hard, pulling into a steep break to the right, his body pressed hard against the seat as his jet screamed at him 'OVER G OVER G'. The enemy streaked past, unable to match the sudden deceleration and sharp turn. Trigger immediately pulled back into the bandit's six, and he lined up the target.
The bandit tried to shake him, breaking left and diving low to force a head-on pass with a second bandit approaching in the distance. But Trigger stayed locked, adjusting his aim as the crosshairs steadied over the bandit's centre mass. He squeezed the trigger, unleashing a precise burst from his Vulcan cannon. The rounds tore into the bandit's fuselage, ripping through the engine just as the second bandit merged and took a fatal hit as well, sending them both into an uncontrollable descent. "Bandits splashed."
"Hell yeah! Now that's what I'm talking about!" Skald cheered.
"Focus up, we're not done yet."
Meanwhile, Cyclops Squadron was coordinating the defence. Wiseman, Cyclops One, barked orders like a seasoned general.
"Cyclops Squadron, focus on supporting the ground units. Keep those bandits off our troops!" Wiseman commanded.
"Roger that," Huxian replied. "Hey, Count, try not to get yourself shot down, yeah? I don't feel like rescuing your ass again."
"Sweetheart, if I go down, it'll be in a blaze of glory," Count shot back.
"Or in a blaze of stupidity," Jaeger muttered.
"Cut the chatter!" Wiseman barked. "We've got bigger problems. I'll take the leader, I'll lure him so Trigger can take out his support."
"Wise, are you sure about—" Trigger warned.
"No time to argue," Wiseman retorted. "Cyclops Squadron, move!"
As Wiseman engaged Mister X, Trigger focused on clearing the skies. His jet danced through the chaos, each missile and burst of gunfire bringing down another enemy fighter. But in the distance, he could see Wiseman locked in a deadly dance with Mihaly. The old ace's movements were impossibly smooth, every maneuver calculated to perfection. Wiseman's craft, battered and trailing smoke, banked hard to evade the relentless pursuit.
"Wise, status?" Trigger called.
"Still engaging," Wiseman replied strained. "He's… unbelievable."
Trigger watched in horror as Wiseman's jet rolled hard to the right, narrowly dodging a volley of cannon fire. A missile streaked toward him, clipping the fuselage and sending a spray of debris into the air. Black smoke billowed from the damaged craft as it faltered, struggling to maintain altitude.
"Wise! You're hit! Eject!"
"Not yet," Wiseman growled, banking sharply to avoid another attack. "I can still—dammit!" His jet wobbled violently as Mister X unleashed another barrage, shredding the left wing.
Trigger pushed his throttle forward, surging ahead. "Hang on, Wise—I'm coming for you!"
"Trigger, NO!" Wiseman barked, tight with frustration. "You'll get too close! You're gonna get us both killed!"
"I'm not leaving without you, Wise." Trigger shot back, weaving through the storm of anti-aircraft fire.
Wiseman's jet shuddered again, sparks and smoke trailing in its wake as Mister X's relentless assault continued. "Trigger, you idiot!" Wiseman shouted. "This isn't a hero moment! This guy will kill us both!"
"Not if I get the cunt first," Trigger muttered as he closed the gap on the enemy. He unleashed a missile, forcing Mister X to break off his attack momentarily.
But only momentarily.
Mister X looped effortlessly back into the fray, moving with inhuman precision as he locked onto Wiseman once more. The guns roared, and they struck true again. A devastating barrage ripped through him, tearing apart the remaining wing and sending it into a catastrophic spin.
"Fuck this shit I'm punching out! Ejecting!"
A flash of light caught Trigger's eye as the canopy blew off and Wiseman ejected, his body shooting upward on a plume of fire. The parachute deployed moments later, billowing against the backdrop of the city below.
Trigger exhaled sharply, relief mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I see you, Wise. Hang tight—I'll cover you."
"No, you'll get your ass out of here!" Wiseman snapped. "Mister X isn't done—he'll come for you next."
"Then I'll keep him busy," Trigger replied, with a defiant edge. "I'll keep him off our friends."
"Trigger, for once in your life, listen to me!" Wiseman barked, dangling from the parachute as the wind whipped him back and forth. "This isn't your fight! Leave me—there's nothing more you can do!"
Trigger ignored him while his HUD blared another warning. Mister X veered back toward him. The air around Trigger's jet erupted with cannon fire, and he banked hard to evade the incoming rounds.
Below, Wiseman watched helplessly as the two jets clashed in a furious display of aerial combat. His parachute drifted closer to the ground, but his eyes stayed fixed on the battle above. "I hate it when he does this," he muttered, gripping the straps tightly.
As Mister X closed in, his guns and missiles roared with precision, Trigger slammed the throttle forward and yanked the control stick hard to the side. His aircraft rolled sharply, twisting through the air like a corkscrew. The maneuver pushed his jet into a steep, spiralling climb, straining his body against the harness.
At the apex of the roll, Trigger eased back on the stick, leveling out briefly before flipping into a controlled dive. This sudden shift in trajectory forced Mister X to overcommit to his pursuit, briefly overshooting his mark. As the enemy fighter corrected its position, Trigger pulled into a loop, banking hard to bring himself around the enemy's six.
Trigger's skill and power shone in the maneuver, allowing him to line up his target in mere seconds. With Mister X now in his sights, Trigger fired a missile—a quick, calculated decision timed perfectly with the old ace's attempts to evade. The missile streaked forward, locking onto the bandit with unwavering precision.
Mister X's evasive efforts came too late. The missile struck the Su-30's tail section with a resounding explosion, sending debris into the sky. Smoke poured from the engines and the jet faltered, losing altitude rapidly. Trigger maintained his position, watching intently as Mister X retreated, leaving the battlefield eerily quiet.
Trigger exhaled, his grip on the controls finally easing. "Hahaha, we got him, Wise," he chuckled, relief breaking through the tension.
From his parachute, Wiseman let out a shaky laugh. "You're insane, Trigger. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, well…" Trigger grinned, banking his jet to circle back toward Wiseman. "Guess I learned from the best."
"Alright, Trigger," Long Caster began, "SAR team is en route to Wiseman's location. They've got a lock on his chute, and he's reporting minor injuries. Good news is he's alive. Bad news?" A pause, deliberate. "He'll be grounded for a while. A mandatory vacation. Not that Wiseman's the vacation type. But hey, that might mean he'll be up here with me."
Trigger scoffed. "Mandatory vacation? Yeah, that'll go well. Wise doesn't know how to sit still. He'll probably start bossing the nurses around."
Long Caster chuckled, the sound dry and knowing. "Wouldn't surprise me. Guy's got the patience of a broken vending machine. But hey, it's better than the alternative, right?"
"Yeah," Trigger muttered as he breathed out hard, his gaze fixed ahead. "Better than the alternative."
"Speaking of better," Long Caster added, with a sly note of amusement, "now this is all done, I'm thinking about grabbing one of those double bacon cheeseburgers from the mess hall. You know the ones. Extra crispy bacon, melted cheese, that tangy sauce they won't tell anyone the recipe for?"
Huxian's voice cut in, sharp and unmistakable. "Oh my god, Long Caster, are you serious right now? We just barely survived a dogfight with Mister X, and you're talking about cheeseburgers?"
"Yes," Long Caster replied without hesitation. "Because I'm alive, Huxian. And alive people eat cheeseburgers. It's called not being bad and living."
Count's laughter filled the comms. "Man's got a point. That sauce is incredible. Maybe I'll join you."
Jaeger spoke now, edged with weariness. "Not a bad idea. We've earned it. Trigger especially. That stunt back there? Chasing Mister X? Reckless as hell, but damn impressive."
"You call it reckless," Trigger cut in, his tone laced with defiance. "I call it effective. Wiseman's alive, isn't he?"
"Yeah, barely," Huxian shot back. "You were flying so close to him, I thought you were gonna try and carry him to safety on your wing like some kind of jetpack superhero!"
Trigger grinned. "If that's what it took, I would've done it."
Long Caster sighed. "Alright, Trigger, let's dial back the hero complex for a second. Wiseman's alive, and you're still in one piece. Let's call that a win and not test our luck further."
Huxian snorted. "Hero complex? That's Trigger's whole personality, Long Caster. Dude flies like he's in an action movie and talks like he wrote the script."
"Hey, it worked," Trigger replied, unbothered. "You're welcome, by the way."
Count laughed again. "Cocky as ever. Gotta admit, though, it's fun watching you pull off the impossible. Even when it's borderline suicidal."
Jaeger's tone softened. "Just don't push it too far, kid. Wiseman wouldn't forgive himself if something happened to you. And neither would we."
Trigger's grin faded slightly, the weight of the moment settling back in. "I know, Jaeger. I get it."
Long Caster cleared his throat, steering the conversation back to lighter territory. "Alright, enough doom and gloom. Back to the real pressing issue: who's joining me for that cheeseburger?"
"I'm in," Count said. "As long as you're buying."
"Excuse me?" Long Caster replied, mock indignant. "You think I'm footing the bill for your appetite? You eat like a damn vacuum cleaner."
"True," Huxian added. "I've seen Count down three burgers in under ten minutes. It's like watching a nature documentary."
"Jealousy is an ugly look, Huxian," Count fired back.
Trigger rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile forming. The banter was familiar, and exactly what he needed after the chaos of the mission.
"Let's wrap it up, team. We've still got a job to do. Trigger, you good to keep going?"
Trigger straightened in his seat, his hands steady on the controls. "Always."
"Good, but seriously, save me a spot in line. First cheeseburger's mine. Non-negotiable."
Cape Rainy Airbase, Erusea. September 19, 2019. 23:00
The communications room at Cape Rainy Airbase was bathed in the light of monitors, the quiet hum of machinery, and murmurs. Colonel Marcus Laramie paced back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry. Around him, officers manned their stations, their fingers flying across keyboards and switches as they scanned multiple frequencies. The Erusean Royal Transport had gone silent, and the weight of its importance pressed heavily on everyone in the room.
"Still nothing?" Laramie's voice cut through the low murmurs of activity. His sharp gaze landed on Wulf Yularen, the veteran officer with a reputation for precision and calm under pressure.
"No, Colonel," Yularen said with the measured cadence of experience. "We've cycled through all known frequencies, including emergency channels. There is no response from the Royal Transport."
Another officer chimed in. "We've confirmed that the Transport was diverted from Farbanti four hours ago, So it should be within range by now."
Laramie exhaled sharply, his hands gripping the back of a chair. "Keep trying. Cycle through every channel again. I want that aircraft on the line. It should have arrived by now."
Yularen nodded, his expression remaining stoic as he spoke into his console. "Erusean Royal Transport, this is Cape Rainy Airbase. Princess Cossette, are you there? Please respond."
Static crackled faintly over the speakers, followed by dead air. Yularen turned slightly in his chair. "Still no response, Colonel. It's possible their communications systems have been compromised. I suggest we attempt to triangulate their last known position using satellite data."
A technician in the corner spoke up, his voice hesitant. "Sir, the satellites are currently down. Regional command reports a system-wide blackout—likely due to our attack on the Erusean network."
Yularen's expression hardened, though he remained calm. "Then we must focus our efforts elsewhere. Dispatch all available reconnaissance aircraft to the transport's last known coordinates. Additionally, alert nearby naval assets to monitor for any unusual activity."
Laramie nodded curtly. "And keep trying to raise them."
Yularen gave a small nod of acknowledgment and continued his attempts. "Erusean Transport, this is Cape Rainy Airbase. We require confirmation of your status. Respond immediately."
The room descended into a flurry of activity as officers redoubled their efforts, scanning maps, coordinating with nearby bases, and rechecking comms channels. Laramie leaned against the edge of the central console, rubbing his temple as he tried to suppress the rising tide of anxiety.
"Sir," Yularen called out, breaking through the din. "We've exhausted all standard civilian and military frequencies, it seems they've vanished. If they've deliberately gone silent, it could indicate a hijacking or external interference. We should be put on high alert and prepare contingency plans for interception."
"Vanished?" Laramie echoed. He stood upright, his eyes narrowing. "That's impossible. The Royal jets don't just disappear. Keep trying."
"As you wish, Colonel," Yularen replied with a nod, turning back to his console. "Erusean Royal Transport, this is Cape Rainy Airbase. Princess Cossette, are you there? Please respond..."
The static on the line was deafening in its emptiness, and the weight of the silence began to settle over the room like a shroud. One of the younger officers shifted uncomfortably in his seat, exchanging a worried glance with a colleague.
Laramie turned to Yularen once more, dropping to a quiet but forceful tone. "Something's wrong. This doesn't feel like radio trouble. Get me General Labarthe on the secure line. Now."
After what felt like an eternity, the secure line crackled to life. The voice on the other end was steady but grim.
"This is General Labarthe," it began, weighted with urgency. "I don't have much time. The situation in Farbanti is dire. What is it?"
Laramie straightened in his chair, leaning closer to the microphone. Yularen stood nearby, with his hands clasped behind his back as he listened intently.
Labarthe's transmission continued, detailing the situation briefly before the line cut out unexpectedly, leaving the room in tense silence. Laramie began issuing orders to the team, but Yularen broke through the activity.
"Colonel, if I may, why the sudden shift in narrative? The Princess—a figurehead of Erusean aggression until now—is suddenly pivotal to peace? I find this reversal curious."
Laramie turned to him, his expression firm. "Yularen, it's not a shift—it's the truth. And it's time you understood the full picture."
The room fell silent as Laramie began. "Rosa Cossette D'Elise was never the architect of this war. Her father, King D'Elise, trusted the wrong people. The radicals used his patriotism and the Princess's popularity as tools to further their own agenda. They presented the war as a necessary defense against Osean aggression, bolstered by Belkan technology and propaganda. But their promises of a 'clean war' were lies."
Laramie paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. "From the start, Rosa's role was symbolic. She was the face of the conflict, a rallying point for Erusean pride. But she was kept in the dark about the true costs and motivations. When she learned the truth—when she saw what this war was doing to her people—she began to speak out. Quietly at first, then louder. She risked everything to try and stop it."
Yularen's expression shifted slightly, a hint of curiosity breaking through his otherwise stoic demeanor. "And the radicals? They allowed her to act against them?"
Laramie shook his head. "They underestimated her at first, thought her influence would fade. But her speeches began to resonate. Soldiers started defecting and collaborating, some even serving alongside us in joint ops, and the citizens demanded answers. She became a symbol of hope—not for war, but for peace. That's why they're targeting her now. They see her as the greatest threat to their control."
"And you believe she can succeed? That she can bring an end to this conflict?"
Laramie met his gaze. "Yes. Rosa is the only one who can bridge the gap between Osea and Erusea. She's the only one who can rally both sides against the radicals. If she dies, the radicals will use her death to ignite a firestorm of hatred. They'll rally the people against us, framing it as an Osean assassination. It will harden Erusea's resolve and ensure the war never ends. We'll be trapped in an endless cycle of bloodshed, with no path to peace."
Yularen nodded slowly, his analytical mind clearly processing the information. "Understood, Colonel. I now see the significance of the mission. Ensuring her safety is paramount."
"It is," Laramie said resolutely. "That's why failure is not an option. Strider Squadron will ensure her transport reaches safety, or we'll find another way. Whatever it takes."
"Then let us not waste any more time," Yularen replied, stepping forward and addressing the team. "Prepare all available assets for deployment. Inform naval forces of the situation. We must act swiftly and decisively."
A/N
Written by AAceCombatFan
Characters:
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)
Wiseman (Charles Parnell)
Alistair, Leader of the Radicals (Jim Carrey)
Intro Narration (Tom Kane)
Wulf Yularen (Malcom Sinclair)
Special thanks for the favourites and follows:
Epic Zealot Productions 2.0
Unknown509
YF-23 Enjoyer
cv6all
seanymichaelcaroll
tiaago30002010
Luanr1
Marader439
StrikeFreedomX2
The-odd-Weeb-out
Additional Support:
Harper Leeds
Marcus Delany
Ace Combat Wiki
This is a work of fiction.