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CASCADIAN INDEPENDENCE FORCE - Operation FLASH HAZARD - Action MANTLE - Sicario Mercenary Corps, Hitman Team —

1829 LOCAL TIME

MISSION CLOCK: +00:59:32

Scheduled Operational Start: 1730 LOCAL

The sky would continue to get more and more orange every time she would glance out of the canopy of the Sk.25U that she had been sitting WSO for. Formally, she shouldn’t have even been in this plane, the mission roster hadn’t had her assigned as anything more than auxiliary mechanic for the F/E-18 that Monarch should’ve been flying today. Which meant that she could sleep in. Unfortunately that didn’t happen, and instead she had been found dozing off by one of Ronin, and had been awoken by a kick to her bed, and a shout of “wake the fuck up, dammit.”

Which was not a great way to start one’s morning.

Although, she supposed that having a engine failure on the runway, when Sicario was somehow already running late to this mission, wasn’t a great way for Monarch to start their morning either.

It is what it is, or so she told herself as she suited up for combat duty, and then had to practically sprint out to the flight-line in order to make sure that Monarch’s missile compliment was loaded and balanced correctly, before she climbed the crew ladder to the Skira’s cockpit, and slid into her Weapon-Systems Officer seat, running as fast as she could through checklists and procedures that needed to be done in order for the plane to be cleared for the mission.

Once that was done, and they were successfully in the air, did she have a chance to breathe, and to let the reality of her day set in.

She is currently sitting WSO in a Skira 25-U. An air-to-ground oriented airframe, something that Monarch kept on standby in case the situation warranted such a slow, ground-pounding bird. She was currently miffed to hell and back that she had been woken up on a day that ostensibly she should have been able to sleep in, and be able to relax for the day, instead of worrying about being aboard the Skira that was currently being driven by her Pilot towards a part of the continent that she had never been to before. She was more than kind of pissed about it, but there was nothing that she could particularly do, either. Although she was reminded just how uncomfortable a Sk.25’s back seat was, compared to any of the other two-seat planes that Monarch was known to fly and she would be dragged along in.

Eventually, as the sky outside the canopy grew more and more orange in the latent cordium that was scattered throughout the troposphere in this area, scattering the light of the sun into oranges and reds that would remain as a permanent feature above this geographical landmark as the free cordium particulates would float skyward in the updrafts and the up-slope winds of this part of the continent. The skies weren’t dense enough with cordium to worry about the planes themselves, but it did create a dramatic effect as they flew underneath the layer as they burned hot-and-heavy with plenty of live ordinance towards the Apodock Fracture.

Eventually, Galaxy radioed to all of them clearing them ‘weapons hot’, and Prez saw her pilot give her a hand signal signifying that she was clear to enable her master arm switch as well. It gave a satisfying click beneath her finger as she flicked it on.

“Hitman Team, you’re clear to approach and attack the cordium facilities.” Galaxy says through the radio, and Prez is pushed further back into her uncomfortable seating, as Monarch throttles forward following the radio call, meaning that its time to get to work. She flexes her fingers in her flight suit and gets ready for the deadly dance that Monarch is invariably going to get them into. Her panel lights up with the indicators on the passive radar that the Skira has, and is being fed more information from the data-link to Galaxy, some thousands of feet above and miles behind their flight as they burn even faster towards the main cordium processing facilities. Prez sees the target on the radar screen in front of her as Monarch selects it, and she cycles the triggering system to the anti-ground missiles. Eventually, as the missile’s guidance system starts to emit a dinging sound into both her and Monarch’s ears, her pilot presses the trigger on the control column, and the plane subtly lurches as Monarch pitches up and away from the target they had zeroed in on, letting the missile guide itself into its explosive collision with the target below them. Prez makes the call on the radio for the missile being launched as she’s pushed down and back into her seat as Monarch guides the plane through the sky.

The Skira arcs through the orange sky, as it loops back around to line up another series of missiles against the ground targets, and even targeting a couple attack helicopters that are circling nearby. She watches her radar screen as the blip of one of the attack helicopters disappears off her radar screen in subsequent sweeps of the passive radar as she cycles through missile types for whatever Monarch needs.

“How’s it looking, Galaxy?” Someone asks over the radio, but as Monarch guides the Skira through another gut-pulling maneuver, she can’t tell as the blood rushes from her head temporarily, despite her bracing to the contrary.

“Well…” Galaxy starts, whether disappointment or confusion is in his voice, Prez cannot tell as Monarch performs another maneuver and unleashes a barrage of the Skira’s main gun against a convoy of ground targets, sending it up like fireworks-gone-wrong. “Gunsel and Assassin are RTB. It’s just you guys out here.”

“Let’s make it snappy, eh Dip?” Comic’s transmission wasn’t met with a signature quip from Diplomat in response, just a click of his microphone in acknowledgment that he heard her.

The Skira rattles around her, the radio crackles with transmissions, and Monarch continues to work away at the ground targets, all giving the impression of a job that’s continuing to be done — but no indication that the end is in sight at all just yet. Just missile after missile, with occasional gun-bursts as Monarch hunts down the targets on the ground. Not once does the Radar-warning-receiver go off, indicating that there’s any kind of lock against them.

“Hitman Team, Galaxy —“ Galaxy starts his transmission after a minute or two of silence from him. “I’ve got a… Handful of signatures on Radar, Bearing one-eight-zero from waypoint Charlie-Alpha-One-One-Quebec.”

Prez’s ears rushed with the feeling of blood being pulled out from them as she depressed the push-to-talk button during the middle of another manuver. “Galaxy, say count?” She managed to force the words from her lungs with just enough strength to make them audible to anyone else on the radio.

“Hitman One-Two, Unknown. I’m getting an… Abnormal amount of interference from latent cordium in that direction. Picture shows upwards of eight planes, at a minimum four… Time to intercept…” Galaxy’s transmission filled with static for a second, only being replaced by the clacking of a keyboard; “T-two minutes.”

“You don’t sound so sure of that.” Comic says over the radio.

“I’ll let you know if I get anything else to say about them, Hitman Three. Just keep plugging away.”

Monarch let loose another flurry of bullets as they push the plane to strafe a line of cordium tanks that are perfectly lined up for them. “Monarch!” Prez strains as Monarch pulls them away, “We’re running low on guns. We should focus the HVTs before we run out of missiles too.” She says, without looking up from her Radar. Her pilot wouldn’t give her acknowledgment one way or another anyways, why train her eyes elsewhere than her situation screen to try and see if there was one.

Ninety seconds pass in a rush of maneuvers and missile launches, even a few unguided bombs that the pilot drops as they strafe the larger processing facilities. Prez barely notices the time pass.

“Hitman, Galaxy — target update; contact group should be visual now, bearing one-nine-zero from Monarch, Radar indicating roughly three-thousand above.” Prez cranks her head to look for the target, her helmet showing her where the bearing is, and then looking up, for some indication of where the contacts are, a shimmer, or something at all to indicate where those targets were.

Her heart raced, and her stomach turned as Monarch banked the plane, and she had to crane her neck again to keep looking.

The Radar-Warning-Receiver screamed in her ear.

“Hitman One, spiked!” She shouted into the radio, and Monarch jammed the throttle open, pulling the Skira into another deep maneuver that shook Prez’s insides and made her clench her legs as best she could against g-loc.

“Hitman Team, emergency retreat!” Galaxy barked as the RWR’s screams were brought down to just the indication of a Radar-lock, not a missile lock. There was panic in Galaxy’s voice, unlike anything that Prez had ever heard from him. “Radar ID confirms it, those are Federation Peacekeepers. Turn three-six-zero, dump all munitions, and burn like hell! Move!” Galaxy ordered.

Prez felt the plane lurch again, and her fingers raced over the munitions jettison panel, doing her best despite the G’s pushing on her chest and arms and even eyeballs, to force a jettison of the munitions. The RWR’s low-trilling was replaced with a high screeching at the Monarch completed the turn, and dumped full after-burner into the engines, pushing Prez back into her seat as she managed to arm and then release all the remaining munitions on the hardpoints of the  plane, the acceleration forces increasing even more with less mass to hinder the engines. She scanned her situation panel, and then started turning about in her seat, trying to get a glimpse of the missile that was invariably inbound. The system had seen the missile launch, but not its current location, just that it was inbound. She trained her head and eyes towards the part of the sky where the enemy plane was flying as best it could towards them. She got a glimpse of it. A glint of metal and a trailing smoke plume that was new, and arcing through the existing ones in a way that didn’t look like leisurely strafes of the ground targets. An air-to-air missile.

“Eight-o’clock, High! Smoke in the air!” She shouted at her pilot, who jerked the controls and sent the Skira into an evasive maneuver, dumping chaff and flares as they did. Prez didn’t see the launch of the second missile as the first one was evaded. Her eyesight had blacked out in the sudden, high-G motion that the plane underwent, and even her hearing was threatening to fade out.

There was a grunt from her pilot, and the plane twisted and lurched — her body snapping into its restraints in painful lines through her flight suit and combat gear. The engines had given out. The screaming of the RWR was joined by the panicked rining of several other systems’ alarms setting themselves off as the plane had taken damage. Hydraulic pressure, fuel pressure, oil temperatures, fuel flow, all reading erroneous, or not at all. “We’re hit!” She tried to call over the radio, unsure if it was even working. She couldn’t tell if the plane was in a spin or not, just that it was still flying somehow.

If one was watching from the ground, they would see the arcing path that the plane took as it lost flight-controls, and started racing towards the ground using its conserved forward momentum to bee-line towards the ground as lift started to falter from the damaged wings, and gravity began to take over. Several people were watching, but Prez had no idea.

Prez’s heart and mind were racing miles at a time, trying to figure out what to do next. She gave a panicked glance at her attitude indicator, rapidly turning brown-over-blue and then back again, the altimeter also rapidly dropping as she glanced over it. “Monarch we—“ She began, but was cut off by the feeling of being lurched upwards.

The screaming of the alarms was silenced, and replaced instead by the roaring of the wind tearing through her helmet, threatening to claw away her entire being, as she was slammed into her chair, and rocketed away from her dead aircraft, and into the sky above.

Someone was watching all this unfold from the ground, and knew what the puff of smoke and consequent debris as the plane arced towards the ground meant, and was even more aware of what it meant when they saw the parachute automatically deploy. It was a shame they were too busy trying to keep the pipeline they were standing on from completely erupting to watch where the singular parachute landed.

“Crimson One, splash one bandit.” Came the crystal-clear radio call, being sent over the Laser Communication System, rather than the outdated Very-High-Frequency radio system that all their planes had as backup just in case the LCS failed.

“A-affirmative Crimson One. Crimson Team, remaining bandits are retreating beyond your effective Radar and fuel range. RTB.” He responded through his headset, eyes watching as the red, unidentified blips slowly disappeared near the top of his scope, away from where even the powerful radar mounted to the top of this airframe could see with all the cordium in the air at that altitude.

“Copy that Bloodsucker, Crimson Team is RTB.” Came the response from Crimson One. There was barely any emotion detectable from Crimson Team’s poster-child leader. But what he lacked in flying skills, Bloodsucker made up for in discerning the sub-tones of voices.

Was… Crimson One bored in the middle of a gunfight?

Chapter Text

Rosdower was beyond silent, the wind barely deciding to make noise as it whistles through the chain link fence as those attendants and residents of the air base started to gather around the flight-line, the rumor mill working beyond overtime as only three of the planes of the four that were dispatched to the Apdodock Fracture had returned to Rosdower. Those who weren’t doing anything important, namely Ronin, and there were a few of the Cascadian Independence Force pilots had also started to gather around the flight-line as the engines of Galaxy’s plane spooled down, and the wind continued to whistle ever so quietly.

Rosdower was silent, behind the shouting that bordered screaming of Comic as she deplaned, and was shouting something unintelligible to those who began to gather around the flight line.

The throngs of people that had started to gather, watched solemnly as Diplomat listened to Comic’s shouting-almost-screaming, and then when Galaxy’s plane had finished taxiing, his argumentative voice joined the fray of Comic’s own shouting.

It wasn’t long before Kaiser pushed his way through the throngs of those gathered watching the remnants of Hitman team argue among themselves, and without even a glance from Kaiser, Comic shut up.

“Galaxy,” Kaiser said, and Galaxy’s teeth clattered together as he shut himself up all the same as Comic. “Where did they get shot down?” Kaiser’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air between those remaining members of Hitman team, through their fears and their anxieties at losing a team member.

“They weren’t over the cordium flow facilities, if that’s what you’re asking. They were gaining speed and burning away when I lost radar contact.” Galaxy explained, his voice not holding the uncertain timbre that it had when he had called out the Peacekeepers initially. If Galaxy had one thing going for him in this moment — it was that when it came down to it, he did his job.

“Boss, we have to—“ Comic started, her voice barely containing the enmeshed fear and anger that she held as she tried to process all that had happened.

“We aren’t doing anything, Comic.” Kaiser cuts down her protestations, Comic once again shutting up. “Stardust and the CIF are already setting up a SAR team, I’m flying escort in one of their planes.”

“Will the federation let you?”

“That’s not your business.” Kaiser paused, his shoulders and jaw released their tension as best he could, and after a slow blink, his voice even lost its angry undertone, “You’re all going to go rest.” He spoke, in that moment, to his pilots and his AWACS operator. All of whom understood the concern that Kaiser held in this moment, and felt more than obliged to react in accordance with what Kaiser has said.

And in that moment, none stood to argue with him.

March 5

1324 LOCAL

 Apodock Fracture, Yellowstone Exclusion Zone, Cascadia

Prez was pretty sure that she had never had a worse headache in her whole life. Even the times that the boys in Ronin would dredge up some really expensive (and strong) booze, didn’t leave her in a morning-after state quite like this. And the midday sun baking her like a chicken in her flight suit wasn’t helping that headache much either.

She peeled her eyes open the tiniest amount, her vision filling with blue and orange as the light of the sky above filtered into her eyes. She was looking up, still attached to her ejection seat, but looking up at the sky. The back of her chair against the ground, and her nose filling with the scent of the Apodock Fracture.

As such, she could best summarize her current situation in one word; “Fuck.”

The sulfuric smell of the free cordium burned into her sinuses, and the salt of the processed product flitting through the air caused her eyes to slightly water in the oppressive midday heat.

Her brain, her shoulders, her legs, all hurt. There wasn’t need for any additional words in this situation, so she repeated herself — “Fuck.” Against the pain in her shoulders and arms, she tried to unbuckle herself from her seat, and try and move from where she was. It came loose with a satisfying ping, letting her slide herself off of the ejection seat, and lay flat against the ground, her back thanking her for getting it away from the stiffness that came with the Skira’s ejection seat. As she slid against the ground, some of the free, cordium infused dust was kicked up, and burned even further into her nose. Like spikes, the feeling intensified into her brain, and it was hard for her to do much of anything, other than think about closing her eyes in hopes that the pain would go away.

The wind whistled through the sky-tinted highland grasses and rustled her parachute. A soft breeze pulling on the material, and filling it up as she lay against the ground. She doesn’t open her eyes, she doesn’t try to slide off her helmet, and the shade that is cast by her parachute filling up is more than comfortable compared to the midday sun that she was just laying under. She ignored the  pain in her body and tried to rest here.

She didn’t feel the fact that she was moving, so much as she instinctively realized it, from the feeling of the harness keeping her attached to the parachute tightening, the lines pulling tight as the parachute, unbeknownst to Prez, filled up more and more as the wind kicked up, and started to drag her along the hill that she was laying on.

She slammed her eyes open at the realization that she was moving, and looked around, panicked — realizing that the parachute was pulling her away from her seat, and down the hill. Down the hill, where she couldn’t see anything other than open lava flows. “Oh fuck!” She panicked, trying to unbuckle the parachute, but instead found the safeties keeping her harness on, completely engaged, the mechanical system being activated by the force of the parachute as it filled in the wind. She scrambled for her kit, trying to unsheathe the survival knife that was tucked away inside of it. It was her safest bet, although a tiny part of Prez’s mind mused that it wasn’t really a bet if she had no other options.

Prez scrambled to pull out the knife, and once it was free of the kit, she started cutting at the lines that were keeping her attached to the parachute-turned-sail that was dragging her towards her doom.

Each line cut away with a satisfying twang, and as she reached for the final line, the unbalanced load of Prez on the parachute-sail started to spin her. Her descent down the hill was anything but controlled, and she became especially aware of the increasingly rocky terrain that she was being pulled down, when her knee slammed into a jutting rock on her way down the hill, giving a sickening crunch and a flash of pain throughout her leg so painful, that she almost dropped her knife as she finally got a hold of the final line.

Shitshitshit. She manages to bring the knife up to the line, and cut clean through the final line just above the gloved hand that holds onto it. The free parachute flying into the updraft that it was caught in, and leaving her to slide down the hill using what momentum remained. Still sliding towards the open lava flow, and with no way to stop herself. She couldn’t stop herself from sliding, mostly because when she did anything, her right leg sent icy spikes of pain through her body, and the other one had started to slide off the edge of the hill, dangling over the open lava flow below. She dug with her hand and her knife into the ground to bleed away the last bit of momentum she had with friction, and had just about stopped, when the rest of her careened off of the edge, the friction not quite enough to stop her.

Her mind was racing a mile a minute, and was all but sure that this was how she dies— by falling into an open lava flow, and dying some unimaginably painful death.

She didn’t hear the boot-steps racing towards her, but felt the hand grabbing hers as she about fell off the side of the hill. Her body slamming against the side of the hill, sending tumbles of dust and her survival knife plummeting down to the flow below. She stared up at the person holding onto her, only to find that they were surrounded by at least two others, who were trying to help her back up onto the hill.

She didn’t remember much after that, the pain in her leg from slamming against the rock, and now against the side of the hill acting as a “shut-down” to her brain.

March 5

2104 LOCAL TIME

150 Nautical Miles West of Haida Gwaii, International Waters

Federation Navy Ship “Flight Without Feathers”

Peacekeeper Squadron Ready Room

The ready room had its usual amount of chatter as the pilots and AWACS of Crimson Squadron sat, waiting for their flight commander to show up and give this debrief. They had landed a few hours ago, and didn’t even know that they were going to have a debrief, until well after many had settled into recreation and finding things to do other than waiting. So getting a call to the ready room for debrief wasn’t exactly something that the members of Crimson Squadron were looking forward to.

There’s a shuffle of boots as the door opens, and someone announces the Commander. All those present moving to salute their superior officer, who returns the salute. “At ease, Peacekeepers.” They stand at ease. “Take a seat, and we’ll get started.”

They sit.

“Apologies for the late debrief,” there’s undertones of irritation in his voice as he apologizes, likely because he wasn’t expecting to give a debrief this late anyways, or one at all. The Peacekeepers were supposed to have taken the in-land route to return where Crystal Kingdom had initially planned for them to be. “Crystal Kingdom wants to commend you all for your work today, all flights had successful kills, and repelled the rebel attack in all sectors. Infrastructure took markedly less damage than expected, including at the Apodock Fracture.”

The room darkens itself, and the screen behind the Commander lights itself. Showing information regarding the sorties for the day. Kill tallies, ammo expenditures, and other information that was generally disregarded by the pilots. Bloodsucker, on the other hand, did pay attention to the numbers. His eyes shooting to the bottom of the board and working his way up. Not bothering to look for his name. He was the AWACS. It didn’t matter what he did as long as he did his job. He never would have to worry about his own combat statistics.

However, that didn’t stop him from feeling pride from seeing Crimson One’s name at the top of the list. The most kills, the lowest ammo used, the most fuel on-board on his arrival back to the boat. As always.

“Crystal Kingdom would like to pass along some information of note however.” Bloodsucker could sense, rather than see in this darkened room, the reaction from several of the pilots. Some who leaned forward, others who just raised an eyebrow. “Intelligence reports that you engaged with one of the mercenary wings that has been working with the Cascadian Independence Forces, and dealing them victories where there shouldn’t be any. As part of their attacks throughout Cascadia, they were bolstered by mercenary flights. The fight today at the Apodock Fracture was comprised of solely mercenary planes. And there’s intelligence suggesting that one of Crimson One’s kills is an infamous mercenary within the mercenary forces, one that’s been referred to in after-actions on our side as, ‘the Crown’.”

“Are you serious?” Bloodsucker’s ears perk up at this voice rising above the murmurs of the rest. “You’re telling me that was the Crown?”

“Crystal Kingdom analyzed your gun-cam footage, Crimson One.” The Command explains, coolly. “You destroyed a Skira with markings analogous to previous sightings of the Crown in the Cascadian forces. Either it was a decoy, or it was really him. Covert intelligence from Crystal Kingdom agrees with the latter, and so does the wreckage that was found in the Highlands above the Facture.”

The murmurs of the Peacekeepers picks up again.

“All of you should get rest, you’ve earned it. No flight ops are scheduled for tomorrow, and the Flight will continue sailing for Presidia, further orders as we get them. Dismissed.”

There’s a milling about of feet, as the Peacekeepers get up from their seats, and leave the ready room behind.

Several minutes later, Crimson One spits out a couple words; “Fucking pathetic.” He slouches into one of the many seats in the Peacekeeper Lounge aboard the ship. An almost ornate room, with lounge armchairs, recliners, television screens, low-lights, tables — and no ranks. It didn’t matter what ship or what base they were at, their Lounge would always be the same. Giving them a sense of familiarity, no matter where in the Federation’s sphere of influence they were.

“Are you really surprised that the Crown didn’t hold up to your expectations, boss?” One of the many Peacekeepers filing into the room spoke, taking a seat across from him. The comment elicits a few chuckles from the rest of the Peacekeepers, and other pilots and even a few non-flight crew officers were among them, having been invited into the lounge by various members of Crimson team. Some carried cards, others carried booze, some had both as they got ready to celebrate the success and commendations passed down from on high.

Bloodsucker didn’t need a verbal invitation. He wasn’t formally part of Crimson Team, but he had earned their respect, and besides, he was quiet enough as it was, that most people didn’t notice him being there or not being there. He moved to slink into his corner, and no one bugged him as he took his seat at the corner table.

“And you wouldn’t be?” Bloodsucker couldn’t quite tell if Crimson One was actually mad, or if he was just teasing back to the jests from his teammates. “Daddy promises you a nice hunt, and you go out there, and find out it’s just small game?” More laughs, indicating to him that there’s jest more than anger in Crimson’s mind at this moment. “C’mon Louanne, you’d be pissed too.”

“Playing low and with her daddy issues, Headcase… Slick.” Was a cheer from across the room, a crimson-shirt wearing man leaned against a table with a few non-Peacekeeper pilots, shuffling cards. Bloodsucker didn’t need to see his face to identify him as Crimson Five. “You know that’s the only way to keep her in line, man.”

“Silence back there, Shark. Or I’ll feed you to her.” Crimson One jeers back. Louanne gnashes her teeth at both her teammates, before turning back to the drink that she has in hand.

Bloodsucker doesn’t think twice about the fact that they use Crimson One’s personal call-sign here. They’re all equals. On the radio? During a mission? They were expected to be professionals, so they would only ever use their squadron name and their respective number… But here? Things were different. He was different. More relaxed, in a way that made Bloodsucker less anxious, now that he could see him start to relax, and get comfortable. Talking with a nearby pilot about something that Bloodsucker couldn’t quite hear. The jeers and conversation between those Peacekeepers across the room had died down, and had given Bloodsucker as much time as he wanted to listen, and watch. That’s all he needed to be, and was happy to be nothing more than a mosquito on the wall, watching and listening. Making sure to not get smacked.

That had been the hallmark of his entire career as an AWACS operator in the Federation Air Force. Starting as a low level radar technician, and working his way up all the way to Peacekeeper AWACS; stay out of the way, but be helpful. And silent if he had nothing else to say. He didn’t laugh, any indication of finding humor in what had happened was kept to himself. And now that the conversation had died away, it was time to train his eyes and ears on something else. The game of watching those pilots in this lounge, their comfortable space. He couldn’t dance the same dance that they are able to, but he’s able to watch, able to be silent and able to call out when things aren’t right. In moments like these, where the Peacekeepers, a few of the Intercept Specialists and even a few blue-shirted trainee pilots were comfortable, he could watch them, and discern things about them that they didn’t even realize about themselves. How they fly, how they fight, how they fold in a game of cards, or how they call and push their initiative.

Of course, something like card games was part of that understanding that he had of them. Who would push against incalculable odds — poker faces like encrypted radios. Who would stake what, and who would fold. The trick in discerning how the games that these pilots play, and how it translates to their fighter planes, lay in the difference of stakes. That had been something that he had always been aware of, ever since sitting in the general lounge with the trainee pilots back in post-basic training, all the way until now — at the very pinnacle of what it meant to be a pilot or soldier for the Federation’s Air Force. He’d seen it all before, the most timid, mild-mannered pilots playing the games like the money they bet meant nothing, or the cocky stick-jockey wingmen who would play the game like a wrong move or a misplay meant a bullet to the brain. And it took until he was sitting behind the scope of a Federation AWACS to see how it translated. It came down to a personality quirk, how they were feeling, or how lucky they perceived themselves to be — or sometimes how much booze they’d had in the last few minutes. And who they were playing against mattered just as much. When a new transfer into the squadron of Peacekeepers had happened — for instance; Crimson 10, “Crashdown”, the guys in the other, non-Peacekeeper squadrons would play riskier, trying their luck against the newbie. But the Crimson team players always had their own quirks. Crimson 7 played closer to his chest, Crimson 2 didn’t change her stratagem at all, and instead adopted to how Crashdown played. Bloodsucker didn’t even need to see the cards she held, to know that she had outplayed Crashdown that day. And the fresh Peacekeeper didn’t take much time at all to learn from that lesson.

That had been months ago, and the game had changed slightly since them. Different sorties, including today’s work, had changed the entire team, including Bloodsucker himself — in almost imperceptible ways. But ways of change nonetheless. These changes were new, like growing pains, and Bloodsucker wasn’t sure he understood them yet. There was a movement in the corner of Bloodsucker’s vision. Crimson One, “Headcase”, standing up and moving towards one of the card tables. This came as a surprise to Bloodsucker, not entirely sure what to make of the sudden appearance of Headcase at the table. He had never really been one for cards in the past… Something had certainly changed, and Bloodsucker was bearing witness to it, in this very moment.

Bloodsucker watched as Headcase sized up all the other players, before sliding in with some Federation credits, and catching the stunned look of Bloodsucker, sitting by himself in the corner.

Bloodsucker watched as Headcase grinned at him, and gave him a wink, before he picked up his freshly dealt hand.

In the moments that followed, Bloodsucker wasn’t sure what the feelings in his chest at this were, and whether or not he wanted to have the feelings that the wink gave him, wash over him once again.

March 6

1850 LOCAL

Adodock Fracture Air Station, Cascadia

Kaiser’s legs felt weary and heavy by the time he finally deplaned and set foot on the ground of the Apodock Fracture, meeting the glance of Stardust, who had agreed to accompany him and the CIF Search and Rescue team, looking for the downed Sicario pilots, one of whom was conspicuously absent.

Stardust claimed that the Federation was doing their best to abide by accepted International Laws, and that the Federation Air Force flying overhead wasn’t allowed to shoot down the CIF planes or helicopter that were performing the Search and Rescue operation… But that would be different if Kaiser had flown in his own plane to get here. A Federation pilot was just as likely to shoot him down as was another mercenary. So he went with what Stardust had to say, and what Stardust had to say was basically “fly in one of our planes”.

Kaiser didn’t blink at that, having been given the metaphorical keys to a National Guard plane to fly to Apodock, but he did blink at then finding Monarch’s downed Skira, still burning fuel when he circled above it in his borrowed plane. The Skira had crashed into the side of one of the highland hills of the Fracture, and was still burning fuel that was slowly leaking out of it — at least Monarch or Prez had managed to successfully dump all the munitions so they didn’t have secondary explosions after the crash. Just the fire to deal with. The CIF rescue helicopter had descended to the Skira, and its crew managed to kill the fire, before checking the front of the plane for ejection seats, and possibly survivors.

There were none.

Monarch was dead. Their neck at an unsurvivable angle from the impact of hitting the ground.

The back-seat had managed to eject successfully, but that wasn’t saying much, as they couldn’t find a transponder for her ejection seat, nor had they seen her parachute from flying around the fracture.

Part of Kaiser’s brain refused to believe it. That Monarch could be dead. The rescue team didn’t have the capability of returning the whole airframe, but they retrieved Monarch’s body, and then cut out a piece of the airframe, where Monarch’s callsign was stenciled. It’d be best to not leave anything that anyone could identify who Monarch was flying with, or for. Especially if they couldn’t bring the plane back with them.

“Monarch’s wizzo’s probably still alive, y’know?” Stardust eventually broke the silence between Kaiser and himself as the blades of the SAR helicopter’s rotors eventually spun down, and the noise of the air displaced was replaced by the rhythmic thumping of the cordium refinery facilities around them. “Her TAC name was Prez, right?”

“Prez’s seat was gone. Your boys confirmed that her ejection seat was gone. So she punched out. Did your AWACS confirm it was over land?”

“Yeah, he did.” Kaiser knows, deep down, that Stardust is just simply trying to keep the story straight, to make sure he knows what questions to ask next. But still, the same part of Kaiser’s brain that refused to believe the Monarch could be dead, also wanted to snap at Stardust. He did his best to quiet that part of himself.

“Hopefully the workers know something. All things considered, they’re the ones out here, day-in, day-out. The admin staff all bugged out as soon as your team showed up. The workers… Didn’t have much idea what was going on until the tanks started going up.”

“Hopefully that plays in our favor. Prez’s too.”

Eventually, as the two stood in silence, they were approached, distantly, by one of the workers. A gruff, older man, with white-rooted hair singed black by the exposure to the cordium, and the heat of the facilities. Burnt-in creases in his skin, around his eyes and lips, and the signature of cordium workers all over Cascadia — milk-red eyes. He is still wearing his cordium gear, which coveres every inch of him from the neck down in its plates and its pouches. “Good evening, sir. I’m Stardust with the Cascadian Independence Force. This is my combat adjutant,” Stardust lied to the man whose eyes seemed to see right through the lie almost instantly.

“Blythe” The man grunts his name, his eyes looking like they dash between Kaiser and Stardust. “Chief wants me to talk with you, what do you want?”

Blythe’s curtness seems to take Stardust, at least, by surprise. Kaiser isn’t so shocked. The situations that experienced cordium workers are in made them infinitely valuable to both the Cascadians, but also the Federation. Workers who are infinitely valuable, yet still ostracized for the physiological changes that the exposure to the raw material wrings upon the human body. Leathery skin, the weakened hair, and the signature milk-red eyes.

“We’re looking for information about a mercenary plane that was shot down yesterday. We already found the wreckage on the way in, but we’re looking for someone who ejected successfully. Did anyone on your crew see a parachute or—?” Stardust barely manages to get the final word out before Blythe cuts him off.

“No.” Is the short and succinct answer.”

“No… What?” Stardust continues, “No parachute?”

“’Were busy with cordium leakage. Too busy to look up.”

“I’m sorry for the damage our planes caused.” Kaiser responds to this.

Blythe waves away his dismissal of the statement. “No matter. Under control.”

“If your crew manages to find something or someone related to our missing pilot, please contact us. We’ll be sure to reward you.” Stardust responds to this, knowing innately that the conversation is all but over.

Blythe grunts at this, before turning around, leaving Kaiser, Stardust and the SAR crew behind. Kaiser watches the man walk away, and Stardust watches Kaiser, leaning against his plane as he does.

“What do you think?” Stardust asks.

Kaiser scratches his face for a moment, before responding. “I don’t think they’re going to help us. I don’t blame them on not trusting outsiders… If Prez made it out, she probably would’ve made it to them, considering there’s not many alternatives out here.” He ran his hand across his mouth for a moment, thinking a bit more. “If she came to them, they probably would’ve either told her to go away, or helped her get away.”

“And if she didn’t make it out?”

“Well then we won’t ever know. And probably never will. The Earth can swallow people whole… But we should do another fly around, see if we can see her parachute or something.”

Stardust nods his head in agreement, and makes a motion to the sky with his thumb to the helicopter crew, who started to spin up the helicopter’s rotors as Kaiser and Stardust start to climb back up into their planes.

“C’mon Kuo…” Kaiser mutters to himself as he climbs back up into the cockpit of his borrowed plane, and straps himself in. “Just come out and say ‘hi’.”

Chapter Text

March 5

2104 LOCAL

Apodock Fracture, Cordium Crew Quarters, Cascadia

When Prez dreamed, she dreamed of planes. Of the insides of them. The mechanics that governed how they operated; lift, drag, gravity, and thrust. The systems inside of them that governed things like intentional instability, and of the principles of hydraulics that operated the more advanced planes. She didn’t just dream about fighter jets either, there were dreams about the airliners and airships that dominated the transit systems of the innards of the Federation. Planes that were designed for cargo, planes that were designed for passengers.

She dreamed of planes, and the pain in her leg.

One beat of her heart, and one throb of pain from her leg. From her knee in specific, although that didn’t stop her brain from reminding her that it was in her leg. Part of her mind, the part that was pragmatic — was especially pleased that she still had pain in her leg, because it meant she still had it.

The pain would subside if she didn’t think about it, so she willed her dreaming self to not think about it.

Eventually, the rush of distant plane engines brought her awake. Or something close to it. Her eyes were shut, but she was conscious. Laying against some kind of mattress that made the shit that passed for a bed back as Rosdower feel plush. This one let every single spring press into her back, giving her flows of pain as she continued to lay there. A different kind of pain than what her leg was feeling.

Thinking of her leg, her eyes shot open— and she was met with a dark ceiling, illuminated in reds and oranges that ebbed and flowed. She tilted her head against the pillow she was laying on, and looked to her right side. There was a window a few beds away, illuminated in the same shades. She imagined that she was somewhere close to the lava flows, in order to see them. But this did present a new problem — that wherever she was, likely wasn’t CIF, or Federation. Well, at least if she had been captured by the Feds, she likely would’ve been thrown in jail, rather than in an open dorm-style room like this.

She rolled her head to the other side, doing her best to not move her chest too much, lest she move her leg, and the pain shoot through it. She was trying to ignore the feeling of her leg being elevated, which made it feel light, and like there were pins and needles in her foot. She had at least some gratitude that whoever it was that had found her, was able to perform some rudimentary hospitalization and medical care for her.

She blinked at the other side of this room. It was dark, with no windows. But with plenty of other beds on that side of the room. She wondered if the room was jutting out of the rock, and was overlooking a lava flow. Her mind wasn’t awake enough to think about the consequences of such a thing, and instead she watched as a door on the far side of the room opened, and a shadow moved. It wasn’t until the shadow entered the room, did she realize that the shadow wasn’t a shadow, but rather a person. A woman to be specific. Her dark hair tied up behind her head in a tight bun, and her dark skin seemingly shimmering softly in the light provided from the windows to Prez’s right.

The woman stopped when she realized she was being looked at by Prez.

“I didn’t think you were going to be awake.”

Prez blinked at this, before her mind formulated a response; “It’s hard to stay asleep with my leg hurting like a bitch.”

“Ah.” The woman said, moving closer, carrying a tray. She was a quite pretty woman, with a nice, slim figure, but a face that betrayed years of having worked in the cordium facilities. Baked-in wrinkles, and graying hair that indicated long-term exposure to the raw material. “Sorry about how we can’t do more. Most of the broken bones we have here are fatal in nature.” She speaks matter-of-factually, as if she wasn’t talking about something that was more morbid in nature.

Prez wants to nod, but instead grunts in acknowledgment. “I hate to ask, but I’ve gotta… Are you working for the Feds?”

The woman sets down her tray on the bed to the left of Prez’s, and sits down next to it. Now Prez can see the contents of the tray. A few ice-cubes in a bowl, a towel, and a few pills rolling around freely on the tray. “No, I’m not. Nor is anyone else here, I think. We don’t particularly give a shit which way the war goes. Both sides would much rather exploit the labor that is here, than force new people to try and learn. That’s how you lose precious manpower.”

“You a Dustie?” Prez asks, using the moniker for those who lived in Cascadia, and believed in the local religion.

“As much as you are.” The woman responds, almost immediately.

Prez groans, and leans back into her pillow a little more. “Fuck. And here I was hoping it wasn’t obvious…” They both chuckled at this, although Prez’s was tempered by the pain in her leg. At her wincing, the woman reaches to the tray, and picks up the pills on the tray, offering them to Prez.

“Painkillers.” She explains. Prez takes them, looks them over, before popping them into her mouth, and swallowing as best she can on a dry throat. “I’m Monah. The Chief wants me to look after you, figured you’d be more comfortable being taken care of by the only woman on the crew.”

Prez grins at this. “You can call me Prez.”

“Ah, you’re a vulture. Figures that you don’t have any other patches on your suit.”

“I am yeah…” Prez’s mind seems to coalesce all the information she has just been given, and becomes both acutely aware of the fact that she was stripped of her flight suit, but also missing her pilot. “Hey, Monah…” The woman perks up at the mention of her name. “Did you find any other survivors? I should’ve been one of two who ejected.” Prez wants to prop herself up, but as soon as she activates the muscles in her core, she’s reminded why that’s a bad idea, and winces at the pain. This was going to be hard to get used to. Monah stands up, and wraps the ice cubes in the towel, before placing it on Prez’s elevated knee.

“No, we didn’t. We figure we found your crash though.” Monah explains. “It was the only one. A Skira?”

“Yeah… Monarch and I were in a Skira…” Prez says. “Did you find them? They’re a little taller than me, and would’ve had the same patches.” She explains, the panic in her voice rising slightly as she does her best to explain them to Monah.

“I’m sorry.” Monah says tenderly, breaking the news to Prez, who freezes up at this, at the solemn look that Monah gives, and the tenderness in her voice as she apologizes for something completely outside of either her, or Prez’s control.

Prez squeezes her eyes shut, tries to will herself awake from this seeming nightmare. “Did you…” She chokes back tears. “Did you get any tags?”

“I didn’t. But the Chief has pictures, if you want to see them…” Prez shakes her head. “I’m sorry… Again.”

“It’s…” Prez doesn’t finish the sentiment. There’s no need to, because it’d be a lie anyways.

They sit in silence for maybe a minute. Prez isn’t sure, she just simply fights back tears.

“Are you hungry? I can bring by food from the mess.”

“If… If you could?” Prez says, not opening her eyes.

Mona makes a small sound, something that could be a sound of assent, and the bed Monah sits on squeaks, giving the only indication that she’s gone. Even the door closing, when Prez eventually opens her eyes and looks in the direction from which Mona had come, and sees the door shut.

Slowly, without remorse, the tears marched their way out from Prez’s eyes. Her leg throbbed in icy-hot pain, even through the makeshift cold pack that was placed on it.

She didn’t want to cry, but did anyways.

Even if she hadn’t seen the body, even if she wasn’t holding the tags in her hands. She knew, she could feel it in her chest.

The corpse in that plane? Was Monarch.

March 7

0221 LOCAL TIME

Rosdower Air Force Base, Northern Cascadia

Cascadian Independence Force Mercenary Staging Base

Out of all the nighttime duties of the Ronin SOG that was divided up and across those soldiers who worked for Ronin and Sicario as a whole, the night-time patrol of Sicario’s section of hangars at Rosdower might be the least comfortable, but is generally the most quiet out of all of them. In the moments in between laps between the control tower, and the far edge of the fence-line, there is plenty of time to be by yourself, and let your mind wander. Plenty of time to just think, and keep an ear out. During the first few nights, you would jump at everything. It was your first time patrolling at night, so you weren’t sure what to expect with a singular night-optic device attached to your helmet, and your rifle’s strap slung behind your neck.

There are still a few more hours until the end of your shift, and at which point you can return to your rack for several hours, before being expected to be awake for the evening physical-training session that your particular fire-team does every evening before dinnertime starts. And then after that, you can try and catch another hour or two of shuteye before your next shift patrolling the same stretch of the airbase, over and over, for hours on end. Making sure that nothing’s out of place, nothing’s abnormal, and as you pass the hangars for Sicario’s planes — that no one is messing with them who isn’t supposed to be.

There’s a soft, cold breeze, bringing with it the ever-constant smell of the cordium fuels of the airbase, and the smell of the snow-covered tall-grass beyond the fence, reminding you how far from home you really are. You’ve never thought about it, how many miles are between you and your home. Just that you have this incredible distance between it and what you know. You try not to think too hard about the reasons for why you joined Sicario, oh so long ago, it brings up bad memories with it. But it was something you had to do. The City never smelled like anything other than factories, cars and skyscrapers, but if you sometimes ended up near the Port, you could smell the fuel used in the airships and planes moored and parked there, but you’d never smell it in your little corner of the city.

The hangars stand mostly open, planes in lines, packed into the hangar space in ways that made it convenient to pull them out and get them ready if they were needed. The sight of all these planes reminds you of pictures of birds you would see in books as a kid, birds that are nestled up to one another for warmth. Part of you shivers in the cold air of northern Cascadia, and you suddenly wish that you had packed hand-warmers from the tower. Maybe there will be a few still sitting around when you get back after this patrol lap. All of the strange birds in the hangars bear the insignias of Sicario, and then the personal emblems of the pilots and weapon-system officers where applicable. You even recognize a few. You walk a bit further away from the control tower, and you’re surprised to see, and in the quiet air of the air base, hear rustling and the sliding of drawers in a tool chest as someone works, late into the night that borders on morning. You realize whose hangar this is. It used to be the personal hangar of Hitman team, particularly of Prez and Monarch. But now Monarch was dead, and Prez was missing. And you wonder who on earth it could be who is inside the hangar. Surely it’s someone who’s supposed to be there.

A few strides short of the hangar doors, you hear something metal crash against the ground, and the hushed cursing of a male voice. You meekly look around the corner of the door, to find an unfamiliar scene, with familiar players.

Kaiser, sits atop a mechanic’s bench, surrounded by paper logs, and even a few electronic ones, metal tools and other miscellaneous things as he pours over one of the logs. He frantically flips through page after page as you watch, seemingly unaware of your presence, despite facing the same way you are walking past.

You don’t recognize the logs, you can’t make out the text that’s labeled on the covers of it. But you know its a mechanic’s logbook. Was he perhaps looking through the log of Monarch’s Skira before it was shot down? The thought itches the back of your brain. You had heard the rumblings and the rumors from your teammates, about how one of the Federation Peacekeepers had shot down Monarch, and only Prez’s ejection seat had made it out. There was the thought, among some of the most cynical sorts of Ronin, that perhaps it was intentional sabotage of Monarch’s plane. Like Prez somehow knew that the pair were going to get shot at, survive the missile, and have time to eject. Part of you doubts that the rumor is true at all. It would rely all too heavily on Prez knowing exactly everything that was going to happen. That just doesn’t seem likely. She was a gear-head, and apparently very good at her job, even if she was foul-mouthed and hot-headed. So it didn’t make sense that she’d intentionally, and so dramatically split away from Sicario and Hitman like this.

You move on with your patrol, and as you watch Kaiser as he pours over the logbook, he doesn’t look up as you watch him, doing your best to walk in a straight line.

Something about the scene sticks with you, and on your subsequent return back to the hangar, just thirty minutes later with hand-warmers tucked in your gloves, the hangar is dark again, and absent of any persons who are looking over a logbook.

March 7

1342 LOCAL

Rosdower Air Force Base, Northern Cascadia

CIF Mercenary Staging Base, Air Group Briefing Room

There’s silence in the room prior to Stardust’s entrance. None present in the room — those being Galaxy, and the remnants of Hitman team — speak between one another, there’s no need to. They all share in the loss of Monarch, each in their own ways. There’s no need to talk that much further between them, to try and lick their own wounds. It’s just a matter of getting through this meeting, and getting on with their lives.

The door to the briefing room opens, and Stardust steps through it. “Where’s Kaiser?”, Stardust takes note of the absence of Sicario’s leader, and the presence of only those surviving members of Hitman team, and their AWACS in this room.

“He’s not left his room for a couple days. Not since you both got back from the Apodock Fracture.” Galaxy responds, being the second-in-command of Sicario, and therefore the highest ranking person in this room, who isn’t Stardust. He doesn’t pay much mind to the look that Comic and Diplomat shoot between one another. The information about Kaiser’s behavior being brand-new news to both of them.

“Do you want—?”

“No thank you, Captain.” Galaxy cuts him off. “We’ll keep this in house for now.” Diplomat was at least a little surprised that Galaxy could take the initiative on a conversation this fast, in lieu of Kaiser’s presence.

There’s silence for a moment, as Stardust sits down at the briefing table. “What’s this briefing for, Captain?” Comic interjects into the silence. Hoping to bring the focus back to the War, and away from the stinging in the back off all of Hitman’s minds, about the loss of their flight leader.

“The Eminent Domain was lost with all hands aboard.”

The silence that followed, was deafening. A pin drop, could’ve been heard quite easily, even if it was dropped against the carpeted floor beneath their feet. Diplomat covered his mouth with his hand as he did the mental math of how many crew members were aboard the ship, even with a skeleton crew having hijacked the boat from the Federation — the number was high. “It seems likely that in the conflict that followed our capture of the Eminent Domain, Federation Spy Ships were able to back-door into the ship’s networked computer systems, and shut down key processes, allowing pursuing battleships to take it apart. At least, that’s what the initial report indicates. Like someone just flipped a switch.”

Comic whispered something under her breath, Diplomat wasn’t sure if it was a curse, or an utterance of grief, so instead he asks, “Why didn’t you have us deploy today?”

“At Galaxy’s request prior to the mission start time, we did not scramble Hitman team, on account of Hitman being a flight lead short. And furthermore, at Kaiser’s request two days ago, CIF ground crews are going to be inspecting all of your planes that Prez was working on, to ascertain their airworthiness and safety.” Stardust explains, calmly. As if he hadn’t just broken the news about the CIF losing something of grave importance to their war efforts.

“Why are they…?” Speaks up again, his mind confused, and racing through the possibilities of what this means.

Galaxy couldn’t help but sigh at this. “Kaiser seems to think that Monarch’s ejection seat failed because of maintenance error.”

“But Prez managed to eject!” Comic points out. “So at least the system was working?”

“You can see the suspicion, at least.” Something about how Stardust talked about this, in such a matter-of-fact manner, didn’t sit right with Galaxy. He wasn’t particularly close with Hitman team, versus any of the other Sicario flight teams, but the loss of Monarch, still felt perrsonal to him. “But based on our initial findings of the Skira, and what the SAR crew found during their examination. The ejection seat was triggered, but failed for some reason. We can’t very well make our way back to the crash site, but we’re doing our best to gather what information we can regarding it. Personally? I think it’s just coincidence.”

“Captain,” Diplomat starts, “Prez is one of our trusted crew chiefs, and is the only one who could keep up with Monarch, no matter what the plane.” He doesn’t quite like the way that Stardust dances around the accusation, and the absence of the accused. Diplomat himself, uses the present tense, rather than the past, perhaps in some way thinking that Prez is still alive, and still trustworthy. Whatever Galaxy and Stardust both think about this, they keep it to themselves, not betraying anything on their faces.

“I’ve never met Prez, I’m only following the request from Kaiser. And what he said to talk about during this briefing. I’m sorry for hitting a nerve.” Stardust puts his hands up defensively.

Comic grumbles something to herself as she slumps down further into her seat an ever noticeable amount, and Diplomat was also aware of the tell-tale signs that her mood had swung from something bordering melancholic, to something more akin to ‘grumpy’. He didn’t blame her one bit, and it was taking a fair amount of restraint from himself, to try to not bite back at the Cascadian talking so off-handedly about the death of Monarch, and the possibility that someone that Diplomat himself trusted to work on his plane, having betrayed Sicario in a way that could only be described as calamitous.

Chapter Text

March 7

2100 LOCAL

Rosdower Air Force Base, Northern Cascadia

Ground Forces Briefing Room

Your brain feels sluggish from being woken up so early. Granted, 2100 hours isn’t normally ‘early’ for people. But it is for you, considering that your body had just grown accustomed to the pattern of waking up in the evening for your patrol duty, and then falling asleep at some point during the day. But this was a meeting that you weren’t allowed to miss. Although you wonder exactly how important the meeting could be that you hadn’t heard about it until someone else in your team had woken you up to get ready for the meeting. Apparently everyone from Ronin needed to be there. So awake you are, despite your body’s protestations.

At least in these moments prior to the meeting’s start, you were able to say ‘hello’ to those of your squad that you hadn’t seen, for having been on night shift, and at least a few other people in Ronin who you’re friendly with, if not acquaintances. Catch up with those people ahead of being put back on the day shift, and your sleep schedule being ruined by your job, once again. Most of the conversations were subdued, and revolved around the strange happenings of the pilots of Sicario, since the lead of Hitman team had died. You still aren’t sure what the hang-up about one pilot is — you know that Hitman was one of the strongest teams of Sicario’s air-wing, but you never gave it much thought about it being perhaps just one pilot who was so good.

The meeting time came, and the soldiers of Ronin began to quiet down. You sit down in one of the seats in the briefing room, and other people do as well. You turn your attention to the front of the room, more specifically towards the double doors that you had entered from, and knew that there was the only way to enter. Eventually, the doors opened, and in walked Captain Kelleher, not wearing his kit, or much of a uniform as you had grown used to seeing him. He wore cargo pants that are tucked into his boots, and a plain shirt. An attire worn by several of the off-duty operators in this very room. But it wasn’t Kelleher’s entrance that caused a stir, it was the appearance of Kaiser, the boss of Sicario, behind him. He looks ragged, to say the least. Unkempt hair, bags forming beneath his eyes, and the starting of a beard that had started to grow out from his face since the last time that you saw him in the Hangar.

Everyone else seemed to be as equally disturbed by the appearance of their boss. Some shuffled their feet, others sat up in their chairs. Like there was something more in the appearance of Kaiser in this moment. You shift your eyes between those who are present, and catch those faces that drop, and you sense the air become more heavy, more solemn around you.

“Cascadia’s lost this war.” Kaiser speaks plainly. You don’t detect any kind of lie in his voice. He’s speaking the truth, although you’re not sure what propels him to say as such. He takes a deep breath. “With or without our help, it’s a lost cause… Even sticking it out for the money isn’t going to be worth it to us…”

You think to yourself; ‘Did losing Monarch really mean that much?’ You know, very well, that Monarch was, without a doubt, the best pilot in Sicario, but you still don’t know what it exactly means to have lost one pilot out of the many that still work for Sicario, those who can still fight. And not even that — the plenty of other Mercenaries that the CIF had hired as well. Surely what they didn’t have in raw talent, they would make up for in numbers.

You watch as Kaiser motions to Kelleher, who throws a black folder onto the empty table in front of the two. “We’re done working for the Cascadians, and we sure as shit can’t work for the Federation’s states anymore. Instead, I’m demaning everyone’s loyalty to me. Ronin be damned, Sicario be damned, CIF be damned.”

There were murmurs, mostly of assent, from some who you recognized as the longer-time Ronin operators, those of whom who looked like they knew what to do, even if there hadn’t been any orders given yet.

“If any of you aren’t a fan of what I’m saying, or how I’m saying it. Take a look in that folder.” He motions at it, while looking over the collection of operators in front of him.

No one moves.

“I’m the only one who knows what’s in that folder, who knows what our next steps are as we withdraw from Cascadian ally-ship. But what I can tell you that what the end of the folder says, is worth more than any reward that the Dusties could give us for their war efforts…

“So I’m asking, reaffirm your loyalty to me here tonight, and I’ll bring you along with me.”

No one moves for the folder. Your mind is curious about it, but yet you do not move. The subtext of the meeting feeling more like a sword hanging above everyone’s head if they move the wrong way. There were two ways to leave this meeting, in line with what Kaiser wants to bring Ronin along for — or in a body bag.

March 8

847 LOCAL

Apodock Fracture, Cordium Crew Quarters, Cascadia

At some point in the night, or maybe the day before, someone had come and casted her leg. She wasn’t entirely sure how someone had managed it, considering Monah had told her that there wasn’t many accidents that weren’t fatal here. So how on earth they were able to cast her leg, was beyond her. She had looked around when she had first noticed the cast, and wasn’t sure exactly if she was supposed to leave the bed or not. There wasn’t a cane or crutches or anything to balance herself with. So she stayed in bed, with parched lips, and no idea where anyone was, much less Monah.

She laid in bed, letting the days pass as best she could. Every time she woke up, she wasn’t sure whether or not it was day or not from her bed. The light flitting in from below, the lava flows illuminating the room ceaselessly. At this point, she wasn’t entirely sure how many days, or how many times she’d fallen asleep here. Sometimes when she’d wake up, there’d be food waiting for her, sitting on her bedside table.

The last few times she’d woken up, there was nothing, or rather, had been nothing.

She let herself lay in bed, and let the restlessness wash over her as her body healed.

It felt like during her waking hours, every heartbeat would send little washes of pain throughout her leg as the local blood pressure increased, and set off the nerves that were inflamed from the break in her knee, and sent those washes of pain throughout her leg. In between pulses of her heart, the pain dropped down to the baseline, and it wasn’t so bad. So that’s what she tried to focus on. Those moments between heartbeats, those ones where she didn’t have pain, and could try and fall asleep again. At some points, even the heightened pain would fade into the background, and she was able to just focus on the things around her. The ceiling, the spinning fan on the ceiling that dangled over the foot of her bed. The ceiling reminded her of the old hangars that Hitman had worked out of, back in the Creole Republic. The ceiling that looked like it was as much metal, as it was anything else, with occasional holes in it, that she couldn’t quite see light through.

At night, or rather — when she was asleep — the pain would subside, but everything else was worse. She would see visions of the inside of the Skira. The crash site of Monarch’s plane. The voice of Monarch saying something that she couldn’t quite hear, or sometimes, the bloodied image of Monarch inside their cockpit, staring up at her.

She wouldn’t wake up at these images, which made seeing them all the more horrible.

Instead, she had to force herself to wake up. And found herself still staring at the same ceiling that had been a constant for her these past few days.

She sensed the person, rather than heard them. She turned her head to meet the look of a man who was reading a book, but was positioned in a way that she could tell that he was waiting for her to wake up again.

“Awake?” The man asked, his voice gruff and deep.

“Why the hell are you watching me?” Prez asked, her voice sounding foreign and forced as she tried to use it. The words came out more defensive than she meant for them to.

“Leg healed. Gave you salve, bone should be done fusing by tomorrow.” Prez blinked in confusion, and did her best to prop herself up with her arms while not moving her lower body. “Wouldn’t recommend moving much, if I were you.”

“The hell did you put on it?” Prez resisted the urge to reach down and feel where the break had happened. “What kind of salve heals a break this fast?”

“Cordium-adapted bark. Heals bones when they’re starting to fuse.” Prez blinked in confusion again. She hadn’t heard of anything like this. Much less cordium byproducts being used in some kind of medicinal way at all. “Yes,” The man spoke, almost like he’d ripped the thoughts from her mind entirely. “Can use cordium medicine. No one but us.”

“Who’s ‘us’, cordium workers?”

The man grunted in acknowledgment. “Blythe. Chief of the crew.”

“I’m Prez.”

“Monah said.” Blythe tilted his head, giving his milk-red eyes a shimmer in the glow of the room from the lava flows outside the window. “Not a Federation pilot, but speak like one.”

“I grew up there. Now I’m a pilot for the CIF.” Prez half-lied.

“Nope. Vulture.” Prez let herself fall back down to laying on her back at this. She had been seen through instantly. “I met another Vulture. Didn’t know he was looking for you. Was enraged when I lied to him.”

“Why would you lie?” Prez tried sitting back up again, but winced at the sudden movement. She was all but sure that it had been Kaiser who had come looking for her and Monarch. That would make sense wouldn’t it?

Blythe shrugs at the question, “Same reason you do. Protect yourself, protect your crew. ‘Sides, didn’t know you weren’t a fed until just now.” He shifted how he sat, “Could’ve been a fed looking for a dustie, a dustie looking for a fed. Didn’t think that vultures looked after their own.” He gave a small, jagged smile, his scars preventing the smile from fully forming. “You fell from sky, injured. Crew wants to take care of you. Vulture shows up, looking for someone my crew is caring for? No one fucks with my crew. No crew? No cordium.”

“Didn’t want someone tearing up your home?”

The chief grunted at this. “Everyone needs cordium, no one wants to get it themselves. We get it, they leave us alone. Simple as that. Don’t look kindly at someone poking at my crew’s affairs.”

“Makes… Sense. I guess.” Prez admits, loathe she is to admit it.

“Monah wanted me to show you something.” Blythe says, and pulls a small phone from somewhere, and taps at it, before turning it to show Prez. “This your plane?”

Prez nods at the familiar Skira.

“We got to it before the Vultures. But we didn’t scavenge it. Vultures took a body out of it when they came past.” Blythe explains. “Want to see?”

Prez shakes her head, and pushes herself that much further down into the mattress and pillow, knowing already who the body was.

“You were friends with them?” Blythe spoke, kindly. And Prez gives a single nod at this. Squeezing her eyes shut, not wanting to think too hard about the subject matter, but needing to anyways. “I will pray for both of you.” The Chief stands up, and wordlessly disappeared, his footsteps barely discernible above the rattling of the ceiling fan, and the far-off rumbling of some machinery. Leaving Prez alone, to mourn her friend, her lover, a second time.

The hours pass in silence, and Prez isn’t sure when she falls asleep again.

March 15

1157 LOCAL

50 Nautical Miles West from shore, Cape Olympus, Cascadia

Federation Navy Ship “Flight Without Feathers”

Peacekeeper Squadron Ready Room

The Cascadian Peacekeeper squadron had been almost bored, if you could describe them as such. They had been deployed a handful of times in the days following the skirmish above the Apodock Fracture, and now were what could ostensibly be called “cleanup duty” for the remnants of the Cascadian rebels’ air force. Quick, one-and-done sorties that barely gave the pilots on those missions time to warm up before the mission was done and over with. For most of the missions, the bombs were guided in by laser from the ground, or were guided in by satellite coordinates — or the enemy planes were shot down with extreme-range missiles guided to their targets using Bloodsucker’s far more powerful radar. Allowing the missions to be done cleanly, and without risk of the Peacekeepers taking damage from those who would be lucky enough to get into dog-fighting distance with them. There was no need to expose the Peacekeepers to damage if they didn’t need to. And ever since putting down that one Mercenary over the Apodock Fracture — it certainly seemed all the more easier for the Peacekeepers, and the Federation Air Force at large. No sudden appearances of the Crown, no mysterious losses of superior air power against the lesser Independence Forces. Nothing of that nature. And to that extent, the squadron was almost bored in their duties. Wondering why it was at all that they had been activated, and brought back to Cascadian shores for such an underwhelming endeavor. They were now being treated as a spearhead of sorts, being deployed and sortieing at the forefront of Cascadian resistance. It was never a long battle, not like the Apodock Fracture incident. 

That being said, it wasn’t like there still wasn’t sport in it. Although it may not have been the sport that Headcase was looking for, when he’d heard about the Crown, his teammates still found enjoyment in hunting the small-fry of the CIF, and in that respect, he knew that he had to show his colors, to show his superiority at air-to-air combat.

Every sortie was its own kind of dance, and in that there was something to be had, to be taken from the enemy, something that Headcase knew that he was deserving of having, and so he took it. Fight after fight, sortie after sortie, each and every fight that he was in he took what he wanted from his enemy, yet each and every time, he found himself wanting, waiting for something that would never come. The fight that the Crown was supposed to bring, but never did, bringing instead disappointment, something that he couldn’t quite understand. It was something that ate away at him in the quiet hours of the day, something that whispered to him at all times of work and recreation aboard the Flight Without Feathers. Something that he couldn’t quite explain to someone if they asked him. Although no one did.

But it was something that still ate at him in his sleep, and threatened to boil over into his work, as every fight left him wanting more.

“And with the most kills out of the last dozen sorties… Headcase with ten!” Crashdown — Crimson 10 — announced to the ready room, reading off a screen that all could see, but that didn’t stop the cheering as he announced Crimson team leader’s kill count. It was almost an honor in of itself to be the one to announce the tallies for all those involved. Bloodsucker merely watched from a corner of the ready room, fiddling with something in his flight bag that wouldn’t be needed until his next sortie.

There was cheering, a couple of the Peacekeepers applauded, and there were many voices congratulating

“That’s mighty fine work, Crimson Team.” A new voice spoke, cutting through the rest of them.

Those who weren’t standing, rapidly became standing as the call of “Captain on Deck.” Came from Crashdown first, the one closest to the door to realize who it was who had spoken over the Peacekeeper’s celebration. All moved to salute their superior officer. Bloodsucker had to rapidly scramble to put down the his flight bag, before going to attention himself.

“At ease.” Captain Jefferson ordered. And to ease they moved. “You’ve done a lot of good work Crimson Team. But the war isn’t quite over yet. There are still elements of the Cascadian rebel forces that are going to need your… Finesse, as it were.”

“Sir?” Crimson 2 asked.

“New orders from Crystal Kingdom.” Jefferson explained, “Sorties tomorrow involving all elements… More of an exploratory mission… May I?” The Captain motions at the tablet that Crashdown holds, and Crashdown offers it to him. The Captain taps at it, pulling something up on the screen that’s displaying the tablet’s screen. Deployment orders, flight compositions, ordinance down to the kilogram. All things that were generally left to the discretion of the officer in command, but instead were coming directly from the Crystal Kingdom itself. All things that drew in the attention of all those present. Things that weren’t generally drawn out, were drawn out. Things that weren’t generally thought of as important, were labeled as such.

“Sir?” Headcase asks.

“Go.”

“Is this more of a force-reconnaissance mission?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, it is. This is a mission to gauge the capabilities of the Mercenary forces still working for the rebel forces. We haven’t seen very much of what we anticipated were mercenaries in the last week, so Crystal Kingdom is deploying you to the places that seem the most likely to contain Mercenary elements, and in accordance with federation law, detain those who surrender, and destroy those who don’t. Independence Forces are still under the same RoE. But it seems that Crystal Kingdom is trying to keep around enough mercenaries so that they can get information from them.”

“Understood sir.” Headcase responded.

“In that case, that’ll be all, Peacekeepers. Briefing is at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Dismissed.”

The Peacekeepers all salute as their superior officer leaves the Ready Room, and leaves them to simmer in the light of the screen as it displays their orders for the next day.

“So, even after all the bashing we’ve been giving ‘em, those on high want us to do that much more?” Crashdown speaks from the front of the room, somewhat scoffing as he does.

“Guess so.” Says Crimson 2. “Could be worse, they could be having us just bombing targets from altitude.”

“True that.” Someone else comments, and the conversation continues on and on, talking about things both of consequence and not of consequence, about the mission that’s been set forth for them and things unrelated to it.

Bloodsucker returns to his flight bag, picking it up from the floor of the Ready Room, and paying attention to it instead of the conversation, until someone taps him on the shoulder. He looks up, and practically jumps at the sight of Crimson One, Headcase, looking (slightly) down at him, the distance between their two heights all the more obvious in this closer-quarters situation.

“S-sir!” Bloodsucker says, trying to set down his gear again, to give respect to who is ostensibly his superior officer.

“No need. Just need something from you when you get the chance.” Bloodsucker puts up a hand placatingly. “Just something from your logs when you get a chance.”

“W-what is it?” Bloodsucker isn’t sure if it was the sudden appearance of Headcase that made him suddenly that much more apprehensive, or the fact that he was so close to him in between the lines of gear lockers.

“I’m just working on a personal project, looking at Apodock?” Headcase explains calmly, seemingly unaware of the apprehension that Bloodsucker has in this moment. “Just need what your radar showed that day, that’s it.”

“Yeah, I can get that for you later today… Sir.”

“And not that garbage processed stuff either. The raw data if you can.” Headcase notes.

“Yeah, I can do that… But do you have the processing power to—?”

“Not a worry of yours. I’m just looking to set up some simulations.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Anyways, that’ll be it… Drop it by my quarters.”

“Will do, sir.” Bloodsucker resists the urge to salute as Headcase moves away.

Something buzzes in his ears, something about the closeness and sudden appearance of him in such close quarters had certainly taken Bloodsucker by surprise, but he didn’t expect to practically be buzzing with a personal request from who was basically his boss.

The other members of Crimson Team, upon quick glance, are dispersing, going about their midday duties. Giving Bloodsucker time to go about his mission from his boss, and to also inspect his plane’s equipment, before tomorrow’s mission. Even if the rest of the team’s briefing is as early as the captain said, his is going to be even earlier — thanks to the slower, not jet-engine powered plane that he’s been assigned during his stay aboard ship. He didn’t mind it, but it certainly meant that he was going to be getting less sleep that night.

At least he was going to get to see Crimson One in action again tomorrow.