Chapter Text
In the very beginning he was worried about the three stripes that marked his plane.
Three strikes, three sin lines. The highest in the group. Only Spare 8 ‘Champ’ had two in the rest of the formation.
That made him a target. If he were an enemy pilot he’d be looking at those as kill markings, painting a target on his back.
In the very beginning he was worried. But shortly afterwards he came to accept them. While they absolutely garnered attention from enemy fighters, it alleviated the pressure on the rest of the squadron.
Spare Squadron wasn’t bad. They just lacked coordination. No-one flew in pairs, no-one tailed another target, watched each other’s backs. But individually most of them were a decent match to the enemy pilots, enough so that with Trigger pulling the aggro they could peel off a couple of kills from the swarm.
Tabloid learnt the quickest. “Stick with Trigger and you’ll make it!” Before long he had a permanent wingman. Spare 15 and Spare 11 wasn’t strictly the proper way to pair up planes, but then he’d never heard of a fifteen-callsign squadron before, so there was that.
And Tabloid was good. Not as good as trigger, not even as good as count when he wasn’t inflating his kills, but he worked well in a pair. Trigger would lead and pick off targets where he could, and if anyone got smart ideas about tailing him then Tabloid would be there to dissuade them. Of course Trigger returned the favour when Tabloid got in trouble, and the two of them began to rack up a rather nice kill count between them.
That really displeased count. But unfortunately neither he nor any of the others learned to play smart, they all did their own thing, and it worked but with several close shaves. Which the scrap queen had something to say about.
On the ground however they did start to coalesce. First day he’d arrived and Count had started a fistfight with another pilot over stealing a kill. Now they shared a meal and laughed about how one had assisted the other on a difficult opponent.
It wasn’t war for Spare Squadron. It wasn’t life or death, it wasn’t kill or be killed.
It was a game. Kill counts were just the most visible part of it.
None of them, Trigger included, had any family. Oh they all wanted to live. But nobody expected to, so why not go out with a bang? Highest score wins. Death in combat adds two ranks after all.
But nobody died. At least nobody Trigger was acquainted with. They were skilled enough and their enemies green enough that nothing could touch them. Nothing could touch them when Trigger was around.
“Stick with Trigger and you’ll make it.”
They really did. Four missions. Five missions. Six. They kept wiping pieces off the board.
He was told by the commanding officer that they were “as effective as a regular squadron.”
A regular squadron had half the planes they had. Used half the ammunition they used. But ammo was cheaper than planes. Fuel was effectively limitless, even for a penal squadron.
So while other squadrons fought and died, Spare looked the reaper in the face and laughed.
A game. Each mission another roll of the dice and they always came up double six.
And that was what got them in the end. Missions kept getting rougher. And it stopped being a game.
High Roller was lost chasing easy targets over the desert, a swarm of drones picked him clean. A stupid mistake that could have been avoided had he been flying with a wingman.
Only the first of many. Spare 1 and 4, lost over the ocean striking an enemy carrier group. Both flying high and caught by SAM.
But still they didn’t learn. They did however fly more cautiously. No more high flying in front of SAM sites. Instead of easy targets they focused down the threats first.
But they still flew alone.
Tabloid got better. He was good with the thinking, slow with the stick. Being stuck to Trigger fixed that. Now he could dogfight. Count got faster too. More confident. Didn’t fly for the clouds at the first sign of an enemy interceptor.
Every now and then an enemy ace would poke his head, or a swarm of drones would appear, and the call would go out;
“Stick with Trigger and you’ll make it!”
He took them out and protected the rest of the Squadron. Aces fell like they were going out of fashion. Drones were just scrap that didn’t know it yet.
Honestly, sometimes he’d finish a mission and AWACS Bandog would begrudgingly inform him he’d knocked out another ace, and he honestly couldn’t tell you which of the fighters he’d just downed they were.
If you believed what Tabloid told the base personnel, where Trigger looked man and machine died. It just fuelled the myth.
“Stick with Trigger and you’ll make it!”
And then he’d met his match.
Cyclops falling back was the simple part. Terrain was difficult. Lightning was worrisome. But then Sol came out of the clouds.
Champ had gone down to Mr.X, Mihaly Shilage. He’d engaged against the orders and died for it.
For the rest of Spare this would have been a good place to die. An ace who could finally equal Trigger. If not here, then where else would a good death be found? Perhaps the enemy felt the same way, for he only targeted trigger.
Which was lucky for Tabloid. The guy was determined, and stuck to Trigger like glue, following the insane twists and turns. He even loosed a couple of missiles, though none hit.
And then, in a turn nobody expected, both survived.
He got a chewing out from AWACS. Solitary.
It didn’t matter. For the first time in the skies, Trigger had felt something other than adrenaline. He’d felt fear. The swarms of drones had put him in danger, but that was just a challenge of the body. Mihaly had been a challenge for the mind. Which way did he turn. Could he make that fast pass or would it expose him. Turnfight or powerfight? Flares or a flick? It was exhilarating.
He’d been singled out. Champ was killed for his two Sin Lines. Trigger had been targeted for the same. The risk of carrying something that looked dangerously like kill markings had finally come to bite them in the ass.
But the rest of the squadron was alive, and most of Cyclops too.
And Tabloid made it out too. He’d been up there with Trigger in the direct line of fire between two aces, and he’d survived.
“Stick with Trigger and you’ll make it!”