Chapter 1: Disconnected
Summary:
Trigger finds himself stranded on a beach. Can things get any worse?
(Yes. The answer is yes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger’s world was a messy haze of colors—yellow, blue, and a lot of red seemed to be wherever he looked.
Too much red, a part of him noted, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why that was a problem. The world seemed to spin whenever he moved even slightly, and he felt…disconnected from everything. He knew he was supposed to be in pain (but why?), but the actual pain seemingly wouldn’t register in his brain. His hearing seemed to be working alright, at least—he could hear the sound of…waves? Was he near water?
This question was answered when one of said waves actually slammed into him, soaking him up to his waist before finally retreating to…wherever it had come from. Directions weren’t coming to him easily right now.
Disorientation aside, Trigger didn’t much like the idea of being dragged off to sea and drowning. He wasn’t sure he could really walk right now, but crawling a few meters couldn’t be too hard. He tried to get to his knees, but fell back down when his legs suddenly gave out on him.
Okay, so he needed a plan that didn’t involve using his legs. Or getting wet, he added as another wave splashed over him, leaving him totally drenched.
With some trouble, he was able to eventually drag himself a few feet—not as far from the water as he’d like, but at least he wasn’t going to drown. He eventually stopped when his hand hit something other than sand (or was it dirt? Trigger wasn’t really sure.) The object was flat and smooth, but cold to the touch. Squinting, he could make out a metallic gray, interspersed with a few other colors…
…Wait, wasn’t that a wing? An F-22’s wing, if he was judging by the shape. Why was it—
…Oh.
Oh, shit.
Reality sunk in: he’d crashed, hadn’t he? He didn’t remember how, exactly, or even what he’d been doing when it happened, but he’d crashed. And he’d…washed up here, somehow.
How bad had the crash been? Ignoring the dizziness that plagued him whenever he tried to move, Trigger managed to flip himself over and actually look at himself. He couldn’t really see the fine details, but the sheer prominence of the color red alone made him start to feel ill.
His nerves had apparently chosen now to start waking up, too—he doubled over as a lance of pain shot through his chest…was that a piece of metal sticking out of his side? W-what was that white thing sticking out of his arm?
Panic rose in Trigger’s chest.
Am I really going to die like this? He was already starting to feel lightheaded; how much longer did he have before he finally bled out?
No, no, there had to be something he could do. He was the motherfucking Three Strikes, he always had something up his sleeve.
He tried to calm himself, to open his senses the way he did in flight…
…There.
He could hear muffled movement in the distance—a ways away, but not so far that he wouldn’t be heard if he screamed.
Finally, salvation, Trigger thought to himself.
He tried to scream, to call for help, to say something, anything, but…
…nothing.
His mouth wouldn’t move. The words wouldn’t form.
Not now. Please, don’t do this now. Not the one time I actually need to be heard. Don’t freeze up.
He could hear whoever was out there getting further and further away. They were going to leave, they would never find him, he was going to die alone and cold and it’ll be just like before, when I barely existed, nobody will ever find my body—
--CONNECTED--
Trigger’s whole body jerked for a moment in the sort of violent, sudden movement one only heard about in descriptions of seizures or tales of demonic possession.
There was a pause, and then his arms started moving. Yes! But…something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, he realized. The movements definitely weren’t his own—they were too stiff, too…unpracticed. They were almost…inhuman, as if someone that had only ever read about humans in books was now trying to imitate one.
It was as if he wasn’t even in control of his own body anymore.
More than ever, Trigger wanted to scream. He felt his mouth finally move, the words forming but it wasn’t him screaming, it was somebody else, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him--
The footsteps were getting closer.
“…telling you nobody could’ve survived that, Prez, that fireball was…”
Trigger could hear voices now. They were close! As if to say “my job here is done,” whatever was causing him to move abruptly vanished, and he was catapulted back into control (for a given value of “control.”)
“…it definitely came from over…”
His vision was long gone, but help was coming.
He just had to hold on a little longer…
“…if it matters that much to you, I guess it wouldn’t hurt…"
A little…
“…Holy shit, that’s a lot of…oh, god, is that bone?”
…longer…
He couldn’t make out words anymore, but he could feel somebody standing over him, draping something over him, talking to him, asking him something but
he didn’t know the question
he didn’t have the words to answer
he couldn’t hold on, he was s l i p p i n g—
--CONNECTION LOST--
Chapter 2: Awakening
Summary:
Trigger wakes up. Things go downhill from there.
(TW: amputation, dissociation, depression, paranoia, trying to cheer your friend up but accidentally making them even more depressed, graphic depictions of budgeting, and what my friend who knows nothing about AC describes as "creepy eldritch robot stuff.")
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
--DATA CORRUPTION DETECTED--
boot sequence initiated for this Unit
this Unit
this Unit is
t h i s u n i t i s
error: this Unit is undefined
define this Unit
who is this Unit
what is this Unit
help this Unit
help
>skip getUnitIdentification
Unit will be assigned default name "Nemo" on startup. Continue?
DECIDE (Y/N)
Y
skipping getUnitIdentification
initiating getUnitLocation
this Unit’s location is
error: cannot get variable UnitLocation
this Unit does not know its location
this Unit is lost
this Unit needs help
help
help
help
help
>skip getUnitLocation
Warning: Skipping this routine may cause system errors. Continue?
DECIDE (Y/N)
Y
skipping getUnitLocation
initiating getUnitMission
this unit’s mission is
error: cannot get variable getUnitMission
this Unit does not have a registered mission; is this Unit scheduled for disposal?
DECIDE (Y/N)
N
error
this Unit does not have a purpose
the Unit is not being destroyed
why is this Unit
is this Unit in error
running diagnostic routine…please wait…
Cannot determine source of error at this time.
Please contact Dr. █████ ███████ █████ at <ERROR: NO SUCH NUMBER> for help—
help this Unit
help
help
help
help
h e l p
>skip getUnitMission
Warning: Skipping this routine may cause system errors. Continue?
DECIDE (Y/N)
Y
Boot sequence completed.
--AWAKENING--
For a long time, everything was dark so cold so dark for Trigger.
He was pretty sure (but not quite sure) that he wasn’t dead, and that there was somebody standing over him every once in a while, but everything else kind of just…slipped away, like water would if he tried to hold it in his hand. Just trying to think felt like a herculean effort right now, really. He was listening but not hearing, looking but not seeing, touching but not feeling.
BAD_MEMORY_65528
running but not escaping can’t escape there was no way out they would find him eventually
At times, it felt like he didn’t really exist, like he was just thought and memory bleeding together.
“…can’t afford to let him lose any more blood…already half-frozen as it is…”
But he had to try. He had to wake up. In his moments of clarity, that was the one thing he could always remember.
“…I say we just cut the whole damn thing off…buy ourselves some time…”
He had to stay determined.
“…moved again…shouldn’t be able to…”
Snippets of feeling danced on the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp what they meant.
“…willpower better not run out…he’ll need it…”
Somewhere in the dark, Trigger was certain somebody was screaming. It sounded…close. Very close.
He wanted to reach out, to help them, to do something…but he was sinking again. The darkness was drawing closer, dragging him back down into oblivion.
It was a long time before he managed to resurface…but he did, eventually, and the simple act of being awake had never been so relieving.
He couldn’t move at first, but he knew this time that something was different. The haze that had kept him trapped for so long was gone, and he could actually sense things for a change.
Hello? Father? Are you there?
His head hurt like hell…he put a hand to the offending area, but quickly pulled back with a hiss when even the gentlest touch made things even worse. What had—
…oh.
Right. The crash. How had he even gotten into that situation? He couldn’t remember flying…and where was he now? He couldn’t seem to move either his right arm or leg, and they were…strangely numb, actually.
…Why aren’t you saying anything? Can’t you hear this unit?
Still, this was infinitely better than what little he remembered from before. Being trapped in his own body, formless, unable to do or even feel anything…an involuntary shiver ran up his spine. He’d rather go through a week in solitary than go through that again.
Alert: Abnormalities detected in host nervous system. Vital signs differ significantly from previously established parameters. Recalibration may take up to an estimated seven days. From 10000 simulations, chances of abnormalities being caused by physical damage to host organism are an estimated 94.5%. Assessing severity of damage…
He kneaded his left hand into whatever he was lying down on. It was soft, and seemed to have some give to it, but it definitely wasn’t the sand he’d been lying in before. He was probably in a bed, he reasoned.
There were voices off to the side somewhere, too…was he in a hospital?
Eventually, he managed to open his eyes, confirming his suspicions—he was in an unfamiliar, yet all-too-familiar room. White walls, an uncomfortable bed, some sort of monitor beeping steadily off to the side. He was covered in a thin sheet, probably moreso meant to keep him from seeing what his injuries looked like than to actually keep him warm. A number of people were milling about, seemingly to check on him (Doctors? Nurses? He was too out of it to really tell.)
So he had been rescued, it seemed, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on who had done it, or from what.
Assessment complete. Source of damage is—
oh no
As he tried to sit up, he felt something sharp get pulled out of his left arm, leaving a trail of red. Someone tried to push him down, asking him questions as they did, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond right now. There was something else, something more important. His right side still felt numb. It wasn’t the same kind of numbness he’d felt before, the kind where he knew he was actually supposed to be in pain but something inside him hadn’t gotten the memo yet—no, this was different.
no no nononononono
It was as if the nerves weren’t there at all. And he had to know why. Before anyone could stop him, he managed to fling the sheet off of himself, to reveal…
don't look don't look don't look DON'T
His breath caught in his throat as he realized what he was looking at. Something was wrong, something was very wrong.
His right leg and arm were…
…they were…
…gone.
It had been a day, and Trigger was still reeling from the revelation that his arm and leg were gone. Forever.
He hadn’t screamed or even cried when he first realized it. It didn’t feel real enough then—or at the very least, it had felt like it was happening to someone else. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was probably starting to dissociate again, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now.
He looked out through the window that this room offered. It was even smaller than the one he’d had in his cell during his time with the 444th, but he could still see the sky through it.
…The sky…
It had been the only place where he’d felt free, the only place where he’d ever actually mattered. And now, it was so far away…It felt like he was being mocked. Oh, you want to fly? Too bad, but here’s your consolation prize.
Apparently, he’d been here a lot longer than just the day he’d been awake for: he’d been in that weird limbo for nearly a week, kept prisoner by some combination of drugs and his own head injury.
And even after all that, even after he’d finally mustered the willpower to wake up, he was still trapped in his own body. The means were different, but it was a cage all the same.
Already, the old fear that had followed him for his whole life was closing in: Would he go back to being what he’d been before? Barely existing?
Or would he finally fade away altogether this time and disappear without a trace?
These questions would go unanswered for now, as the door to his newfound prison opened.
He didn’t even bother glancing in the direction of the intruder. Probably another doctor here to ask him questions he couldn’t fucking answer.
He couldn’t remember why, but for some reason he fucking hated doctors right now. Everything about them made him feel sick: the smiles, the tones of voice they used, everything about them just felt so…malicious, suddenly. Like if he gave them even a modicum of information, they’d turn around and use it to hurt him even more.
BAD_MEMORY_12772
they would tear into him with needles made of words, bind him with chains made of things that didn’t exist
Blessedly, they didn’t actually ask him any questions, though he could feel eyes boring into the back of his skull (or was that the concussion?) A few minutes passed by in silence. He ignored whoever had come in, and they seemed to be leaving him alone. Relief surged in his chest: Maybe they were just here to check on one of the machines, maybe they’d just leave him alone for once—
“So, how're you feeling?”
He’d officially reached his wit’s end. He whipped around, breaking the silence before he even realized what he was doing. “What do you fucking think?” He snarled, about to continue before he noticed that the person he was talking to wasn’t one of the staff.
That gave him pause for long enough to actually remember the person behind the words: a woman, probably somewhere around his age. Freckles, chestnut-colored hair. He couldn’t quite look her in the eyes, but he was pretty sure they were brown. And…well, Trigger had never been much good at understanding facial expressions, but she definitely didn’t hold herself like any of the doctors here. No weirdly self-assured smiles, no raising of the voice by a full octave, and no looks that said everything you say is going be used to torment you later, by the way.
This was the only person he’d met since waking up that hadn’t treated him like an animal, and he’d just snapped at her.
Oops.
The woman who asked the question blinked, but otherwise seemed unfazed. “So you do speak. The docs were convinced you were mute; you led them on really well.”
Why’d she even bother asking, then? What, did she want to rub a little more salt in the wound?
“Nah,” she deadpanned. “I already knew you could speak. Me and a coworker of mine were the ones who found you. Heard you calling for help, and the rest is history.”
“…And you’re still here,” he noted.
“Well, I can just leave if you like sulking around on your own that much,” she deadpanned.
Trigger straightened out immediately at that. Anything was better than being verbally poked and prodded like he had been for the last day. He’d take whatever the fresh hell this was over that any day. “I—no, I just—I wanted to know why.”
She shrugged. “Dunno. Curiosity, I guess? I mean, shit, there were Raptor guts strewn across the beach for at least half a mile. Shit like that doesn’t happen often; I was wondering if I could get the whole story.”
This question again: what happened to you? He sighed. “The whole story is that I don’t fucking know. I don’t remember being in the air, or even having a reason to be there. I remember leaving my house to talk to this friend of a friend…then suddenly, boom, I’m dying on a beach in a puddle of my own blood.”
“…Why not just tell the doctors that? It’d probably get them off your ass.”
Trigger shook his head. “Not that simple. I keep…locking up. Words won’t come out.”
“So you’re…what, selectively mute? Or do you really just hate doctors that much?”
He thought on that for a minute. “…Is ‘yes’ an acceptable answer?”
He was being completely serious, but she laughed. “I’m sorry, it’s just…heh. You sounded just like Monarch for a second.”
His mind went blank for a moment. Was he supposed to know who that was?
“Oh, right! You probably don’t remember him. Monarch’s my pilot. He was with me when we found you; he kinda kept you from bleeding to death while I rushed you over here.”
Oh. Alright, then…wait a minute.
Anomaly detected: Subject could not have known what host’s question was.
I didn’t even say anything that time, how the hell did she…?
“Oh. That.” She scratched at the back of her head, as if in thought. “Umm…Monarch’s a bit like you. A lot like you, actually. He, uh…has sort of the same problem. He tends to go silent mid-flight, so I had to get good at knowing what he’s trying to say. You’ve got different tells, really weird ones actually, but I can still kinda make them out.”
“Hmm.” That…sort of made sense. It didn’t make it any less weird, though.
“Hey, if any of us were normal, we wouldn’t be flying around in metal death machines.”
She’d mentioned it before, but this was the first time he’d actually thought about it: was she also a pilot?
“Yeah…Well, sort of. I know how to fly. I’m really more of a mechanic, but my coworkers kind of…press-ganged me into becoming a wizzo for Monarch? It’s…” she waved her hands in the air. “It’s complicated. I mean, it’s always complicated with mercenaries, but it’s extra complicated.” She smiled. “It’s a lot of fun, though. I’ve got my own callsign and everything. They call me Prez. What about you?”
Trigger frowned. Intentionally or not, that had stung. “Trigger. Peacekeeper. Or, I was one, up until...y’know.” He trailed off. It wasn’t exactly a lie, just…an omission of a few things. He had been a Peacekeeper, up until his life had started to get extra weird.
“Prez” stiffened suddenly, as if realizing what she’d just said. “Oh shit—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
“It’s fine. Like you said, it’s complicated. And besides…” He gestured to his stump arm. “I have to face the music at some point.” He dropped his head into his one remaining hand.
She tilted her head. “Hey, I’m sure you’ll figure something out. I hear prosthetics are getting better recently.”
Trigger didn’t look up. “That’s great, but we’re in Osea. I’d have to sell my other arm and leg to pay for anything half-decent, and then I’m back to square one,” he deadpanned. “I don’t even know how I’ll pay for all this as it is.”
The conversation died on that note, and eventually Prez was made to leave once visiting hours ended...though not before telling at least one nurse to "fuck off" when they tried to interrogate him.
He was pressed a few more times that night by various members of the hospital’s staff, emboldened by the revelation that he could, in fact, speak.
Trigger didn’t respond to any of them—purposefully, this time.
He didn’t feel like talking anymore.
Planning out finances was difficult that night for one Robin Kuo, known to her friends as “Prez.” It was always difficult with her circumstances, but this time it was extra difficult. She scrubbed at her eyes; they were starting to get dry from staring at the paper for so long.
Unfortunately, the series of rows and columns hadn’t disappeared while she looked away. Words continued to stare back at her:
Repair
Parts
Housing
Clothes
Food
Entertainment
Surplus (Send Home)
The Repairs and Parts sections were smaller than usual this month, which was good—there had been a bit of a lull when it came to jobs recently, with the only ones that really paid well right now being a handful of long-term contracts with Neucom that had…odd terms. Nobody in Sicario really felt like moving to Usea permanently right now, let alone pissing off UPEO, even if the NUN was a shell of its former self.
There had, after all, been rumors about them having gotten their hands on some monstrous pilots recently—those in the know were calling them the “Crimson Squadron,” or something else equally edgy. Most dismissed it as gossip, but one could never be too careful.
This left Prez in a difficult position.
The Kuo family had always depended on the checks she sent back to them. The store her parents ran had always done fairly well for a mom-and-pop shop, but the main reason for that was the fact that their finances were planned around what she raked in.
And now thoughts of Trigger, still in the hospital, kept invading her mind. She’d barely known him for an hour, but…she remembered her first impression of him: with bluish-grey eyes, pale skin, and messy snow-colored hair, he looked like a cloud that had taken human form.
He didn’t belong on the ground, that was for sure.
Prez had killed people before, a lot of people, but it had always been quick. Painless, hopefully. Nothing like the slow death he was going through.
Normally, she’d be more than willing to send back every last cent that she didn’t need, but would it be so bad to stow away a couple grand from her latest payout for something else? They didn’t have to know…
No, that was selfish. She was taking money her family needed; it was practically embezzlement!
But they’d understand, right? I’m helping someone who needs it.
After nearly an hour of deliberation, she sighed, scribbled out a few numbers, and made a new column.
Interlude: The Prince’s Steed
The man known only as “Monarch” was not prone to fainting for any reason. Hell, he was pretty sure “Monarch doesn’t have blood” was literally the first line in the Official Sicario Joke Book…Which was an actual thing that existed, according to Diplomat.
But right now? Yeah, even he was feeling like he might fall over after the chaos of the last week.
It had been Prez who first spotted the jet falling from the sky, and who had insisted they take a look around when it finally crashed at the edge of the straits. He’d had his doubts as to whether they’d find anything other than a corpse, but…hey, their contract was just about to wrap up, and at this rate they’d make it through with no losses. They had time.
That was when they’d found him—a fallen pilot, washed up on the beach. Judging from the trail of blood, he’d managed to drag himself out of the freezing water, but whether due to the shock or the blood loss he’d lost consciousness not long after they found him.
The poor guy looked like he’d been through hell—even exempting the elephant in the room (which he was trying very hard not to think about right now), it was clear he’d had it rough: between the fall itself, shrapnel injuries, hypothermia, and a concussion, Monarch was amazed he’d even made it to the hospital, let alone survived the initial crash.
He’d found himself unnerved by them, though, even when unconscious—the man looked for all the world like some icy thing that had crawled out of the ocean. He had a horribly pale complexion and hair that was bone-white, and though the man’s eyes had fallen shut shortly after they’d found him, he was certain they’d been blood-red, just like—
No. He put his foot down. He wasn’t thinking about that person. The two aren’t the same, he told the paranoid voice in his head.
Great. So here I am, at an auction of dubious legality, and I can’t even focus on it. Honestly, he barely even knew why he was still thinking about it, or even waiting for the guy to wake up. Solidarity among pilots? No, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t the sentimental type. Morbid curiosity? That was definitely a part of it, but that didn't explain all of it.
No, the real reason was something else entirely. It was something Prez had said to him after she’d visited the man in the hospital, an unreadable expression on her face:
He's like you.
He looked back up at the stage, where the auction was still ongoing. There were several pieces of slightly out-of-date “hardware” that plenty of mercenaries would kill to have—some of which, hilariously, had UPEO’s own markings on them—but Monarch had quite the collection, and there was nothing here that he didn’t already have.
Eventually, with most of the more interesting items gone, the crowd dispersed. He was about to leave, but nearly jumped out of his skin when someone tapped him on the back.
“You won’t find anything worth your time here, kiddo.”
He looked around to face the person who’d spoken, and was surprised to find an old woman standing behind him. Blue eyes bored into him, and in the light he could see several of what looked to be very old burn scars running down her face.
He scoffed. “I’m forty, you old hag. And who are you to be the judge of me?”
The old crone smirked. “It takes a merc to know one…but of course, that isn’t the full story, is it? It never is, with people like us.”
Suddenly on the defensive, Monarch took a step back. How much did she know?
“What do you mean, ‘people like us?’”
She laughed. “Oh, I think you know the answer to that. But let’s forget about that for the moment—you’ve got a certain look in your eye. You’re looking for something better than what you’ve got now, isn’t that right? A new steed to ride?”
Still wary, Monarch pointedly avoided the strange woman’s gaze. “…I might be in the market.”
A slightly-too-feral grin played across the little old lady’s face—the look of a hawk who’s just spotted a particularly juicy-looking squirrel. “Well, isn’t that a convenient coincidence? I’m selling.”
Oh, shit.
A small slip of paper was thrust into his palm before he could open his mouth to protest.
“Thursday night, eight P.M. There’s a beautiful bird with your name on it. Be there, merc-boy.”
He stared woodenly down at the slip of paper for a few minutes after she'd vanished, thoroughly unsettled.
Every fiber of his being told him to stay away from whatever this was, that he’d stumbled into something he shouldn’t have…but curiosity had always been Monarch’s greatest vice.
He pulled out his phone, dialing a certain number. It took a few seconds before his boss picked up.
“Hey, Kaiser? Yeah, I was wondering…you mind if I make myself scarce on Thursday?”
Notes:
WOOO WE'RE BACK HOLY SHIT I DIDN'T GIVE UP ON A FIC AFTER THE FIRST CHAPTER FOR ONCE
YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS????
THAT MEANS I'M IN THIS FOR THE LONG HAUL BITCHES OOOHHH YEAAAAAAHHHH...Would you believe I completely rewrote this chapter three separate times? I probably wrote at least 12k words in total and only used about a third of them. I probably would've rewritten it a fourth time if I hadn't decided to put my foot down and give myself a hard deadline.
(ok but why do i do these things to my characters i feel like a horrible person what the fuck. also hmmm who could this mysterious old lady be? i wonder~)
Chapter 3: What Price Would You Pay?
Summary:
A deal is struck.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prez’s week had been strange.
Monarch had been out doing…something…for the last day or so. He’d been even more reclusive than usual recently. He’d never really been a loud guy, but now he barely spoke to anyone, even to Mick and Dip—his closest friends, as far as she could tell.
The other two members of Hitman had also been quite busy lately. Dip was dealing with some family-related issue, apparently, and Comic seemed to be helping him with whatever it was.
This left Prez very, very bored. So in the absence of anything better to do, Prez had ended up continuing to visit Trigger pretty much daily. He clearly needed somebody that he could talk to, and so did she. It just kind of worked out, in a weird way.
Funnily enough, though, they didn’t actually end up talking that much. Neither of them were huge fans of small talk, so sometimes they’d just sit there for hours, the silence saying whatever they didn’t have to words for. Occasionally, said silence would be broken by laughter when Prez showed him something funny she’d found on Gründergram or NeuTok, but for the most part it was just them sitting together. It was…kind of nice, actually.
She hadn't actually told him about her plan to get him out of there yet—she'd kind of wanted it to be a surprise.
However, this "secret" plan had ceased to be secret to the rest of her coworkers rather quickly, which…was actually a good thing, in hindsight.
Everyone in Hitman Team already knew the general story of what had happened last week—she and Monarch had found a crashed jet in the wild, pulled out some weird albino dude clinging to life, et cetera, et cetera. And she hadn’t exactly been trying very hard to hide what she was trying to do for Trigger, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when Comic had accidentally found such ingenious searches as “reasonably priced prosthetics” in her browsing history and put two and two together. (In her defense, she’d had to start somewhere.)
She’d ended up spilling the beans almost immediately—some combination of stress and the sheer amount of money she’d need to get her hands on anything good enough to let Trigger fly again gave her loose lips that day.
Comic had sighed, noting that Prez was “way too nice for her own good,” but she’d see if anyone else would be interested in pitching in.
Prez was only actually surprised when Kaiser of all people became interested in her little scheme.
“What did he look like?” Had been the first thing out of Kaiser’s mouth as he approached her that day.
Prez had looked up in surprise. “What do you-?”
“The pilot you found. What. Did. He. Look. Like?” He’d demanded again, cutting her off before she could even finish the question. Prez wasn’t sure she liked the gleam in her boss’s eyes as she described him, or the way that he sat there for several minutes, pondering what she could only describe as “Kaiser things” from his half-coherent muttering.
Finally, he’d looked her dead in the eye. “Robin. The next time you go to visit him, take me with you.”
…Ah, shit.
She’d just dragged Trigger into something weird, hadn’t she?
Something in the room was buzzing, and Trigger couldn’t figure out where the hell it was coming from.
System notice: Recalibration to host's specifications at 45% completion...
There weren’t any fans in the room, or any other obvious source, and yet this horrible noise seemed to persist in the back of his head. No matter where he moved, it never seemed to change in volume, as if it was coming from inside his own head.
Occasionally the sound would waver into different tones, or fluctuate in such a way that it almost sounded like a quiet murmur—as if someone was trying to speak to him from very far away.
this unit doesn't understand. why is it so difficult to speak to Father? this unit is right here. why can't you hear this unit?
He’d been assured that it was probably a temporary effect of the concussion he'd recieved during the fall, but he wasn’t so sure…Maybe he was finally going crazy. It definitely felt like he was—he was pretty sure Prez’s visits were the only thing keeping him from going completely off the deep end right now.
…Prez…
They’d definitely gotten off on the wrong foot when they had first met…well, actually, it was the second time they’d met, but he’d barely been conscious the first time, so he wasn’t sure that counted. It had been a surprise, then, when she came back the day after they’d first spoken, with a gleam of something like determination in her eyes. Determination to do what, he wasn’t sure, but determination nonetheless. And then she’d shown up the next day. And the next.
He’d mostly just tolerated her presence at first; she was a bit loud and belligerent, and occasionally she managed to make him feel even worse despite good intentions, but whether it was from curiosity or from the lack of anyone else he felt like he could talk to, she’d started to grow on him. At the very least, she never tried to force him to talk out loud like a lot of people who had tried to “help” him in the past so often did.
He wasn’t sure he could trust her, but it was nice to have someone around who just…understood, and didn’t judge him for it. Even his strange “family” of convicts and outcasts had only really been able to do that after knowing him for years.
The staff had seemingly given up on getting him to talk to them out loud, but now that he’d gathered his wits a bit more he was trying to get the message across in other ways. He’d at least been able to answer yes-or-no questions, and fill out the papers they’d given him (he thanked whatever powers there were for making him left-handed), but even now, when he was actually trying to cooperate, his tongue betrayed him.
He…didn’t know why he was struggling to speak so much, actually. Sure, he’d been terrified of doctors as a kid, but that was decades ago (and admittedly, he’d been terrified of everyone as a kid, so that didn’t really narrow things down.) He hadn’t had this much trouble speaking in at least twenty years. Why was he suddenly backsliding like this? There had to be a reason, something that had caused his anxiety to suddenly spike like this, but even when he tried his hardest to remember the last few weeks, he couldn’t remember anything about what had happened.
The buzzing certainly wasn’t helping, either. It seemed to grow louder whenever he tried to really focus on anything, forcing his train of thought back into the mess it currently was. Occasionally, he’d try to power through it anyways, only for it to hum louder and louder until it made him feel ill just from listening to it.
this unit is sorry trying to fix the interference
He winced slightly as the infuriating noise picked up in volume again. So help me Dust Mother, when I figure out where that noise is coming from—
This train of thought was interrupted by footsteps from outside.
Shit.
He didn’t want any of the staff to see him in pain right now. There would be more sidelong glances, more pitying looks, more fucking questions…
Footsteps are arrhythmic. Multiple entities approaching...given host's current condition, should the entities in question be hostile, our chances of survival would be less than one percent.
He breathed a sign of relief when he saw exactly who was poking her head through the door.
“Yo.” Prez waved awkwardly at him. He waved back, a little confused.
This was…odd. Most of the time Prez was content to kind of just barge into the room with barely any pleasantries. This actually worked just fine for him, as he’d never been the biggest fan of idle talk, let alone tiptoeing around subjects.
She was definitely up to something.
She sighed. “…Dammit, I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
Alright, time for the direct approach.
“Just spit it out,” he suggested. He then did a double take when she actually spit out a piece of gum into the nearest trash can. That…hadn’t been what he’d meant, but okay…?
“Hey, I thought it was pretty funny.” She huffed in mock indignance.
…Okay, so it was time for a more direct approach. “You’re tiptoeing around the conversation.”
“I’ll have you know I’m standing flat on my feet right now, thank you very much.”
He groaned. “Is this my punishment for something?” Noticing her smirk, he cut her off before she could make another horribly lame pun with a flat “no.”
Prez sighed. “Okay, fine, I brought a plus-one this time. Can I let him in, or are you gonna try to bite me if I do?”
That…depended on several factors, but he was about eighty-five percent sure he wouldn’t have to.
“…Wait, that was a joke. You’d actually try to bite me?”
He didn’t really have many other means of attack at the moment, so yes. Biting people was absolutely on the table right now.
“…You know, sometimes I’m not sure I want to know what goes through your head…ugh, whatever. Come on in, boss.”
Trigger blinked. Boss?
The “boss” in question walked in before he could question this further. He was of average height, with short crew-cut black hair and a well-kept beard.
He’d always kind of wanted a beard like that, but some genetic quirk had decided to make his fashion choices for him and given him leucism. Because of this, he’d always ended up looking like some kind of wizard whenever he tried to grow one…which was kind of funny when he was still a part of Mage Squadron, but became increasingly depressing the older he got.
Damn it, Trigger, stop thinking about the facial hair! He chided himself when he noticed Prez trying not to laugh.
“Good afternoon,” the man greeted him. Trigger took note of his accent. It was pretty slight, to the point where he might not have noticed it at all were it not one that he was quite familiar with—Belkan, without a doubt.
He wasn’t sure whether to consider that a good thing or a bad thing. Belkan antics had caused him a fair bit of trouble in the past—the man who’d designed the twin drones Hugin and Munin had been one, after all. On the other hand, though, Tabloid was Belkan by blood and he’d bailed Trigger out of more bad situations than he could count. And Tabloid wouldn’t even be the only one who’d helped him out before, either…on second thought, he’d actually had more positive experiences with people from the maligned country than negative ones. Maybe the stereotype didn't really hold up anymore.
Belkan or not, though, at least he wasn’t giving him one of those pitying looks. This guy was clearly all business.
“…Hmm…you’ll do.”
What did that mean? He looked over at Prez, who just shrugged, apparently equally confused.
The man coughed slightly. “Sorry. It seems like I’ve gotten ahead of myself. The name’s Arnold Frenken, though depending on what decisions you make today, you might be calling me Kaiser fairly soon instead. Robin here is under my employ—that’s how I first learned about your existence, and your…predicament.”
Prediction: this entity wants something from you.
“I would like to propose a deal.”
Oh, great. So he was being sold something now.
“…Look, the point is, I own a company. I'm...sure you can what we do, but suffice it to say that I have amassed quite a lot of money from this venture. Enough to get you back on your feet. Back in the air, even, if you should choose to accept.”
Okay, now he had Trigger’s attention. He looked up—just enough of a gesture to show that he was listening. Seeming to notice this, “Kaiser” continued.
“I’m willing to pay for the highest-quality replacements possible for your arm and leg—I could give you access to cybernetics that haven’t even been shown to the public yet. However, there would be a condition for this.”
“…Of course. Nothing comes free from the rich.”
Kaiser chuckled. “So you do speak! Naturally. What I want in return is for you to help bring me glory. You’d be employed by Sicario, working off your debt to me until every dollar I spend on this is in my pockets again.”
Trigger noticed an obvious flaw in this plan. “And what’s stopping me from just running off once I can run? Or…you know, dying before I pay you off?”
“I wouldn’t try running. You wouldn’t get very far,” the man told him as casually as he would say the time of day. “As for dying…I’m gambling on this, of course, but considering we’re talking right now, I don’t think you’re the type to die so easily. Would I be wrong?”
“…Wait, hold on a minute.” Prez finally spoke up again. “I mean, he's a great guy and all, but…you want him to become a merc? The former Peacekeeper?"
“Yes,” The answer came. “There used to be quite a lot of talent among the Peacekeeper forces, before the corporate world began snatching them all up. I have a hunch that our friend here might be more capable than lets on.
That was startlingly close to the truth. People did tend to underestimate him, what with his quiet nature and his...eccentricities. It was actually kind of unsettling to have someone see through him that quickly…he hoped this guy didn’t know anything more about him than
“So,” Kaiser continued. “What do you say? Will you stay trapped here, or will you help me find glory in the sky?”
this unit trusts Father to choose wisely.
Trigger was wary of this man now, but…when he thought about his other options, he realized that there really were none. Anything else would essentially be death. He’d be going back to his life before the sky. A life where nothing he did mattered. A life where he’d barely even existed…
He took the proffered hand. Kaiser hadn’t been asking him a question. He was offering him an answer, the only answer.
And that answer was “yes.”
Interlude: The King’s Steed, Part II
Monarch entered the building with some apprehension. It didn’t seem like anyone was here…he hadn’t noticed any cars parked outside, at least.
The lights were out, and it was already getting dark. Had he come to the wrong address? Or maybe he’d gotten the date wrong…he really hoped the latter wasn’t the case. He’d taken a flight all the way over to Usea for this, damn it…
C’mon, you old hag, where are you…?
He was really starting to regret not having brought his phone. He hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten it until he was already mid-flight, at which point it was too late to go back for it. He’d at least had the foresight to bring his laptop, so he wasn’t totally cut off from the outside world, but it was awfully cumbersome to walk around with it in his arms, and there wasn’t really anywhere to sit in here while he waited—
“You showed up.”
Monarch whirled around, balling up his fists in preparation for a fight, only to pause as the scarred old woman he’d met at the auction suddenly entered his view. How long had she been there? How had he not heard her? How did she even get here?
The old lady laughed. “Oh, did I startle you? I do tend to move rather quietly…no need to have a heart attack over little old me, though.”
Monarch sighed, letting his stance drop. He…really couldn’t tell if she was doing this on purpose or not.
“Well, if you’re ready to see the goods, then I’d say the goods are definitely ready to see you,” she said, moving through a door with surprising speed for someone her age. “Right this way, merc-boy!”
She led him into a much larger room, a more proper-looking hangar this time. Towards the back stood two planes, concealed under tarps.
“This one,” she said, motioning to the machines in question, “used to belong to an old friend of mine up until a year ago, when he finally sold it to me. He was a reckless bastard—still can’t believe he went into that mess in Skully all on his own—but he was a damned genius when it came to taking care of and modding machines. Hell, I think he still machines custom parts…If he hadn’t been so adamant on risking his life in the sky, I imagine he would’ve made an even bigger fortune designing aircraft.”
“Help me out a bit here, will you?” she asked as she began pulling the tarp off of one. Monarch complied, and with their combined strength it was quickly pulled off to reveal…an F-22? Wait, was it? It looked…off.
It took a few moments to realize that this was not, in fact, a normal F-22. In certain places, the body had clearly been altered pretty heavily.
Still, whatever kind of abomination he was looking at, it was in great shape. It had clearly been maintained regularly over the years, and whoever had done so obviously loved this thing to death.
“It’s a nice piece…does it have COFFIN functionality?” He asked.
“To an extent. This one’s pretty old, but the previous owner was able to wire together a rudimentary COFFIN system for it. Looks a bit weird if you ask me, but apparently it works just fine. He really didn’t want to abandon this thing.”
Why did he decide to part with it, then?
He was curious about something, though…
“What’s under the other tarp?” He asked. He’d happily take the Raptor off her hands in nothing else caught his eye, but he wasn’t a fool. Taking the first deal you saw without looking at anything else was a newbie mistake. And there was also the issue of morbidity—he wasn’t a very superstitious man, but buying a Raptor so seen after seeing someone nearly die inside on felt like he was ignoring some sort of omen.
For the first time ever, she actually looked pensive at the question. “What’s under there…isn’t for sale. Some things are better left forgotten.” The feral grin quickly returned. “Surely you understand, being what you are.”
Panic rose in Monarch’s chest. How much did she know? Damn it, he needed to get out of here…
“Where do you want the money sent to?” He asked, trying to get the hell out of there as soon as he could. Already, thoughts of precautions he’d have to take were flooding his mind. He’d need to have someone check the Raptor as soon as it arrived to make sure it hadn’t been sabotaged, he’d have to check the people checking the Raptor to make sure they hadn’t been compromised, he’d have to—
“Here’s the account name,” the woman interrupted him, handing him a small slip of paper. “I’ll ship it over to you as soon as I'm able. But just remember…If the money isn’t there by two days after your ‘package’ arrives, I have ways of finding you.”
Monarch nodded frantically, scooping up the card and stowing it away safely in his bag. “Thank you,” he said, before turning away in the hopes that she had nothing more to say. Anything to get out of here as soon as possible.
As he walked away as quickly as he could without looking suspicious, however, the woman spoke up.
“The two of us are an awful lot alike, you know. We’re both drawn to the promise of power—we can’t resist it. Although…I really must wonder what you could possibly need all this power for. Pride? Survival? World domination? Or maybe,” she asked, and he could feel her glare boring into his back as she continued, “it’s because you’re running from something, and you know it’s finally catching up...Do you think you can fight the oncoming storm all on your own?"
He didn’t dare to look back at her as he slammed the door shut behind him.
Notes:
Ugh...So ya gurl turned 20 this month.
I can feel my bones crumbling into dust as I speak from how fucking old I am now. *dies of oldness or smth, i dunno man*...I wish I'd had more time to work on this chapter; I think I was able to stuff everything I wanted to into it, but I also wrote like 35% of it LITERALLY TODAY, so if there's any typos or anything feel to free to let me know so I can fix them. I SWEAR I'll finally get to the actual fights and all that fun stuff soon, but I have to get through all the setup stuff first. Bear with me for like 1 or 2 more chapters pleeeeease you will have your cyberpunk anime plane game shenanigans soon ;-;
For those wondering, Monarch's new ride is...sort of meant to be in line with PW's VX-23? But an extremely scuffed COFFIN version of it, if you can visualize that.
Also...this is where I WOULD have linked to some art of this fic's versions of Trigger and Nemo, but I didn't have enough time to finish it. (I'll have it done by the time the next chapter hits, I swear!)
Chapter 4: A Fate Forged in Steel
Summary:
A fate is forged in the steel of the soul. Trigger finds himself in the midst of some strange revelations that only raise more questions, and Monarch can't make heads or tails of his new squadmate.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger looked around nervously as he waited, leaning slightly on the side of his body that wasn’t half-destroyed. He looked over at a table, where what would eventually be his new arm and leg sat. They were made primarily of a shiny, chrome-plated metal, though black pads were visible on the fingertips, the palm of the hand and the sole of the foot—he guessed they were some sort of aid for gripping.
He didn’t ask where or how Kaiser had gotten his hands on them, and his new boss didn’t seem like he was about to tell him outright any time soon. He could see an odd-looking logo on the arm, though; it looked like a red bird of some sort.
“So, um, we’re sure this Ymir guy knows what he’s doing, right? He’s not gonna, like, hook this thing up to me and then accidentally fry my brain with it, right?”
Impossible. If there were a threat, we would destroy it.
The hush-hush nature of the procedure that was about to take place (Kaiser hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he could give Trigger access to things the public hadn’t seen yet) meant that there wasn’t exactly a waiting list, but between the paperwork and the need for the prosthetics in question to actually be made to his specifications, it had still taken a solid two weeks to get his singular foot in the door.
Supposedly, the concussion he’d received in the crash wasn’t that severe, and had more-or-less healed during that time, but he wasn’t totally convinced on that fact. Even now, he had the occasional spell of dizziness or weakness, and the horrible noises that seemed to come from nowhere had not only continued but seemed to grow louder every day.
Despite this concern, he’d been told repeatedly that nothing was wrong…maybe he really was hallucinating.
“Ymir’s a bit…strange, but he’s also very reliable, as long as you don’t piss him off.” Kaiser placated him. “I mean, technically he doesn’t have his medical license anymore, but he’s very experienced—used to work for GR before things fell through for him—and he’s used to working under much more pressure than this—ah, I think that’s him now.”
The man who strode in wasn’t exactly what Trigger had expected. He was a short, somewhat disheveled middle-aged man with red hair that was slowly fading to grey. The fire in his eyes, however, was clearly far from burning out, and Trigger could see a glint of something shiny sticking out of one of the man’s sleeves. Looking closer, he realized that two of the man’s fingers were actually made of metal.
“So you’re the mad doctor, then?” He asked, before realizing what he’d just said and instantly regretting it. Kaiser had just told him not to piss the guy off, and he’d managed to do it in the first—
His train of thought was derailed by laughter. “Right on the money. Let’s get started, then. I’ve got some good news and bad news, first, though. Which one do you want to hear first?”
Bad news, at a time like this, sounded several alarm bells in his head.
“Uh…how bad is this ‘bad news?’” He asked. The man blinked.
“Whoops. I must’ve made that sound a lot worse than it really is…it’s nothing life-threatening, we think, and it won’t stop us from putting this thing in, but it’s definitely something I thought you should know about—especially since you never brought it up, and Kaiser mentioned you were having memory troubles.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t dying or anything. Hopefully.
“…Bad news first,” he decided.
“Alright, then…I’m not sure how well you’d remember this, given you were probably still conked out at the time, but during your stay in the hospital, the folks there took a couple of MRIs.” He pulled out some photographs from his binder. “Most of it doesn’t stand out too much—there was some clear damage caused by your injuries, and a few…other oddities, but I’m sure you already know about both of those.”
Kaiser tilted his head at this, but he didn’t get the chance to question it any further as the “doctor” continued his explanation. Trigger appreciated the guy not outing him in front of his new boss, at least. He liked to think he’d learned to mask himself pretty well, barring his recent episodes of muteness. He was pretty sure Prez had already long since figured it out, actually, but she generally seemed to be more tolerant than most—and not one to spill other people’s secrets. He couldn’t be sure that the same was true of everyone else in Sicario.
“What stands out is what’s right here.” He squinted at the image. There was one part that seemed be completely dark; a perfectly rectangular black spot. He wasn’t any sort of neuroscientist, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t normal. “What is that?”
“That, my friend, is a foreign object implanted in your skull. A microchip, to be exact.”
Trigger would’ve gone white as a sheet, were he not already so. How had it gotten there? Why was it there? Was somebody tracking him?
“…I can see you have a lot of questions. Questions which, unfortunately, aren’t easy to answer. We aren’t exactly sure what’s contained on the chip, nor can we easily take it out for analysis without putting you at risk. What we do know is that it’s connected directly to several parts of your brain, and that it’s collecting signals from it.”
Ymir grew deadly serious. “It doesn’t seem to be doing anything dangerous at the moment, but that could change at any time. That’s why I’d like to keep up with you on it—if you do remember anything, or if you learn something that narrows it down, find me. That way, we’ll be able to plan around whatever it is.”
Trigger nodded. “That sounds…reasonable. Remind me to get your number or something later. So…you said there was good news?”
“That there is,” Ymir chirped, seeming to brighten up a bit. “The good news is that, since it can already directly read and interpret signals from your brain, this chip is going make hooking up these new limbs a lot less messy. This whole procedure would’ve originally entailed a full medical staff, at least ten hours of work, the replacement of…about a third of your nervous system, give or take, and a hell of a lot of paperwork—”
“Wait, I’m sorry, you were going to replace my what?” He hadn’t been told about that part.
“Oh, you know, just some parts of your spinal cord, most of the nerves in the right half of your…” He blinked, seeming to finally realize what he was saying. “…I’m really screwing the pooch in terms of selling you on this, aren’t I?”
“Kaiser, what the hell?” Trigger shouted at his new boss. “You didn’t say anything about that!”
“Frankly, I don’t think you’re in a position to complain right now,” Kaiser snarked back. “Besides, we’re not actually going to do it. Calm down.”
Trigger let out a string of curses under his breath.
“Now, just let me…” Ymir grunted with effort as he pushed a large apparatus towards him, “…get this thing over to you so I can get started.
He gestured over to a little plastic mask—the kind used to administer anesthesia, generally. “Put that mask on and lay down, will you? It’ll put you under while I’m doing this. Speaking from experience, these newer models sting like a bitch when they’re attached for the first time…mostly because the exposed nerve endings don’t like them very much at first. It’ll be a lot easier if you’re not twitching around while I’m doing this.”
Trigger sighed, putting on the mask. “If I wake up and half my brain is in a jar, I’m suing.”
“Pretty sure you’d be incriminating yourself in, like, five different things if you did that,” the “doctor” snarked. “I’ll try to be quick about it…er, the procedure, not the brain-in-a-jar thing,” Ymir clarified.
“Uh-uh…sure…” He could already feel his head fogging up. It was far too late to back out of this deal now, but Trigger couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t sure if this was such a good idea a n y m o
Trigger was trapped…somewhere. He was lying on the floor of a completely white room, though he could see a speaker in one of the corners, and a singular window into another room not too far away. He tried to stand, but found himself to be paralyzed. The most he could do was look around, and even that was difficult.
There were cables of some sort attached to him—he couldn’t tell how, or from where, but they snaked across the floor, converging upon him.
He was wearing something strange…if he had to guess, it was probably…a jumpsuit? Not the same color as the one he’d worn in the 444th, though, so at least this wasn’t yet another nightmare of being in solitary…probably. Out of the corner of his eyes, though, he could just barely make out some lettering stitched onto one of the sleeves: “Subject 2-A.”
What was going on here? How long had he been out for!?
Minutes passed, and he held onto hope that somebody might come by and help him, or at least tell him where in the hell he was…
…but nobody came.
…Heh. “Nobody” came…
He didn’t know why he found that funny. Maybe this was a dream, and the dream logic was finally starting to kick in. At least it wouldn’t be the worst dream he’d ever had, or even the weirdest.
…He really hoped this was just a dream.
Eventually, though, he heard…something. The buzzing noise that had troubled him for so long—even now, it wouldn’t leave him alone!
It was getting louder, too…it almost sounded like…
…ear me? hello?
…What?
Was there someone else here? He tried to call out to whoever was there, but his body still refused to move.
…You can understand me? This is a most welcome development. I’ve been trying to reach you for a long time.
A voice. Definitely a voice. It sounded an awful lot like his voice, actually, albeit much more…monotone.
It is good to finally be able to speak with you, Father.
…What? What did that mean? He didn’t even have any kids, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t become a priest in the last few weeks…
I-who are you? What do you want from me?
The voice paused.
…You don’t know who I am? But…you have to know who I am. You must know who I am. I’m—
“Subject Two-Dash-A, prepare for preliminary diagnostics.”
The voice never got a chance to finish its sentence as the lights across the room flashed red. In the singular window outside of the room, Trigger could see a figure staring at him. He couldn’t see their face, but he was certain they were smiling as they flipped a switch.
BAD_MEMORY_02600
i'm sorry i'm sorry please don't hurt this unit again
The world exploded into pain and heat and light.
Trigger jerked awake with a scream, his whole body convulsing until he felt the ground slip out from under him. There was a brief feeling of weightlessness before he finally landed on something solid.
...was that a dream?
it hurt.
He gripped his head, vaguely aware that he’d probably fallen off of the table but it didn’t matter, he had to make sure his head hadn’t exploded. He’d been freezing and on fire at the same time for a moment, and even in the aftermath his head still felt like it was made of some horrible concoction of lightning and radio static.
He lay there for a while, ignoring the voices chattering above him and trying to just breathe, even though his lungs felt like they were about to burst and the inside of his mouth tasted like metal. His vision was blurred; was he crying?
BAD_MEMORY_65335
It didn’t matter. Nobody would ever see. Nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever find his body.
...father? can you still hear me?
this unit doesn't want to be alone again don't leave me alone father
He closed his eyes and pulled his knees up towards his face, trying to just shut everything out. Eventually, after what felt like hours, the pain began to lose some of its bite. His head still throbbed as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and he was still shaking like a leaf, but it was marginally better than before. Finally, he was able to open his eyes to see someone’s hand waving in front of his face. He batted it away, taking in the surroundings and confirming that he had, in fact, fallen off the operating table.
“Holy hell. At least warn someone before you flip your shit. What even happened?” Kaiser asked him, helping him back up and onto the table.
“Had…a weird dream. There was this white room. Covered in…wires?” he managed to slur out. “Someone was…talking to me, I think. Called me their dad or something. Then there was…pain. A lot. God dammit...Did things go alright on your end?”
“The attachment of both limbs went without a hitch, if that’s what you mean,” Ymir began. “We were pretty much just waiting for you to wake up for the last ten minutes. If I had to guess, you probably had an adverse reaction to the drug…or that implant of yours didn’t play well with it.” The “doctor” sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, we’ve got so little to go on with that thing. I don’t know what’s safe to do with you and what’s not…dunno if I should even go through with the preliminary diagnostics at this rate.”
“Er…diagnostics?” He asked. That sounded familiar, and not in a good way.
no no not again hurt too much last time
“Nothing too intensive; we’d just be having you try to do some movements and monitoring what happens to make sure everything’s attached properly. A loose pin or something similar could cause problems, so it’s best to make sure we’ve got any wrinkles ironed out right away.”
Trigger sighed in relief. “That sounds fine. A-as long as whatever that was doesn’t happen again.”
...oh.
Ymir nodded, before grabbing Trigger’s now-attached right arm and holding it up to the light. A panel on the side had been opened up, and several wires now hung from it, trailing off to somewhere he couldn’t see. “Alright, it doesn’t look like anything came loose…we should be fine to start right now. Can you try raising and lowering your arm?”
Trigger stared at the contraption on his shoulder a little dubiously. For some reason, he couldn’t really think of it as his arm. The artificial “nerves” in it felt strange—he could tell that the arm was there, and he could roughly tell where it was, but there wasn’t any actual sense of touch except for in the dark pads on his palm. Was this really going to work?
“Just act as if you were moving your real arm. The machine should do the rest!” Ymir encouraged him. Trigger focused, feeling a little silly for putting so much effort into moving one hand. Eventually, he managed to slowly lift it up, but it only rose a few inches before stopping. Trying again, he was able to get it a bit higher, but just like before, it eventually stopped. He swore under his breath. All this, for nothing? “I don’t think this is working properly, doc…”
“It’s fine if you can’t get it all the way up; I just need to make sure it’s reading your inputs properly—which it is so far, by the way. Your mind and body just aren’t used to having anything connected there anymore; it’s going to take a while for you to fully acclimate. It’ll probably be a few months before you have the kind of mobility you did before this.”
Trigger sighed. He probably shouldn’t have expected things to go back to normal right away, but it sure would’ve been nice. Between this and the migraine that was still petering off, he could tell this was going to be a long day.
“Alright, next, I’ll need you to…”
Monarch looked out over the sea. It was good to be back here, away from the stink of General Resource territory and the barbed questions of creepy old ladies. He’d been stuck in Usea for far longer than he’d hoped; some incident or another had caused his flight back to be canceled.
The first thing he’d done after getting back was checking on his new ride. As promised, it had been delivered in perfect condition.
For the last couple of months, they’d been contracting for the OADF; mostly just to help with things like pirate attacks. Were he a prideful man, he might’ve found it an insultingly easy job, but Monarch was actually glad about this: it meant he didn’t have to worry about his wingmen too much. Besides, the base where they were stationed had a very nice view of the sea.
But he could tell that the relative peace he’d enjoyed for so long was coming to an end. A storm was on the horizon, and he was going to be swept up in it whether he liked it or not. He needed power if he was going to survive—if his team was going to survive.
If worst came to worst, he feared he might have to—
“Yo, you’re back!”
Monarch whirled around, just in time to dodge a noogie from one Peter Kennedy, aka “Diplomat.” He sighed.
“Good morning to you too, Dipshit,” he snarked, earning a glare from his friend, though it was brief. Neither of them could really stay angry at the other for long. “What happened while I was gone?”
Dip sighed. “Always right to the chase with you. Well, things have gotten…interesting since you left. If you had brought your fucking phone with you, you would’ve already heard about this, but we got a new guy on Hitman team!”
That sparked Monarch’s interest…and horror. Had Kaiser finally decided to let Prez loose? He’d seen her fly and he shuddered a bit to think of how that would go. Prez was a great friend, but he’d play Yuktobanian Roulette with five bullets before he let her fly on her own.
“Please tell me it’s not Prez.”
“Nope. Wasn’t even a part of Sicario until a couple days ago. You’ll just have to come to the briefing to meet him.”
Monarch blinked. “Briefing?”
“Yeah, something came up. There’s some pirates out there acting like they own the place…what else is new? Technically our contract hasn’t quite expired yet, so it’s a good thing you came when you did, otherwise we’d be trouble. C’mon, let’s hurry up.”
Monarch sighed. Life as a part of Hitman was exactly as he remembered it…and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Trigger stared nervously at the briefing screen. In general, everything here seemed a bit less formal than he was used to—there was a loud hum as people chatted about…well, whatever people usually chatted about. He wasn’t about to go and listen in on them. There were clearly a few distinct groups in this company, with names like “Ronin” and “Assassin,” and, of course, the team he was to be working with: “Hitman.” A bit edgy, but it wasn't the worst squadron name he'd ever heard of.
Even knowing that, however, he felt like he didn’t really belong in this room. He shouldn’t be here, at least not yet. Just getting around was still difficult for him. He could walk short distances on his new leg, at least, but any movement he made had to be painfully slow or he risked toppling over.
His arm wasn’t much better—he could only move his fingers so far, and whenever he wasn’t actively focusing on using it, the whole arm went limp. He’d spilled three glasses of water all over himself that way before he’d finally learned not to carry anything in that hand. The one saving grace in this whole situation was that he hadn’t had another one of those horrific migraines since he’d been given the limbs. He cautiously hoped that it had been a one-time thing or a freak accident of some sort.
Still, this was enough. He didn’t need to be able to run in order to fly, and he…well, he hoped he could make do with his one good arm. He’d made do with more crippling problems before in far worse circumstances. This wasn’t supposed to be that dangerous of a mission, or so he’d been told.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone slammed their fist onto the table. He turned around to see Kaiser there.
“Alright, everyone sit down, shut up, and listen.”
The whole room went silent almost immediately, as if the phrase were a more formal command.
“Thank you. Now let’s get on with this. Our contract with Osea is just about to come to an end, and, well, thank God. I don't mind a nice, quiet vacation every once in a while, but it's not very glamorous considering we're here to work. Anyways, we’re doing one last thing before the Defense Minister releases our contract and we move on to bigger and better.”
Kaiser paused, looking over at him briefly before sweeping across the room.
“Hitman Team, you haven't gotten all that much airtime this deployment, so you're taking point with this operation.”
He let another man take center stage now, clearly some form of intelligence officer.
“We have confirmed the location of the Burlok Privateer headquarters off the southeastern coast of Osea. They're a mercenary group like us who, unfortunately, have turned to outright piracy. According to surveillance data, we have determined that they are the culprit of the recent high-profile hijacking of the cargo ship Meilynx. The Meilynx is supposedly carrying volatile cargo belonging to the Osean Federation’s Department of Global Energy and Sustainability office. With most of Osea’s forces hanging out overseas in Usea with their thumbs up their asses, it falls to us lowly mercenaries to take care of it.”
A few snickers echoed across the room, and he couldn’t help but join in a little. It was true; while they’d once been the world’s largest superpower, Osea had been brought down a few pegs in the last twenty years. Though they still produced the majority of the NUN’s Peacekeeper forces, the usefulness of that organization as a whole had been brought into question by the rise of General Resource and Neucom’s corporate states, which they struggled to even stand up against. It was but one small part of why he’d ended up resigning: he couldn’t stand the futility of it all.
A hand was raised by someone whose face Trigger actually recognized—a man he’d run into earlier. He’d introduced himself as “Diplomat” and had been nice enough to point him in the direction of the briefing room, before vanishing into the crowd.
“Did they say what the cargo was?”
The briefer shook his head. “Nothing specific from our contacts about the cargo; however, our orders are to retrieve it if possible, or to neutralize it if we can't. Attempts to negotiate for it have turned up with nothing, so we're going in.”
"Lovely," Trigger mumbled under his breath.
If it belongs to a department for energy, would it not be fuel of some form? Like Cordium.
“Hitman Team, you are to approach the island from the south along with support and establish control over the area. Your objective is to eliminate any surrounding anti-air and resistance on the island. After that, secure an LZ for our operator group Ronin to ascertain the cargo. Once Ronin lands, maintain air superiority until the next stage of the operation is determined. Be aware that the Burloks have other merc pilots on tap, so enemy reinforcements could be a factor.”
Kaiser cleared his throat, and everyone stopped once more. “One last thing, Hitman Team…Some of you might already know this, but you’ll be taking one extra member for the time being.” He beckoned to Trigger, who cautiously made his way over to him. “This is your new wingman. His TAC name’s Trigger. He’ll be joining you for this mission, and—if he survives—our next tour, wherever that ends up being.”
If I survive? That was a callous way of putting things…
A raised hand, and a woman’s voice: “Is…is it okay for him to be flying like that? I mean, not to be rude, but I saw him come in, and he looks like he can barely walk.”
She has a point.
Trigger himself wasn’t sure on the answer to that question.
“He’ll be fine, Comic. He doesn’t need his legs to fly,” Kaiser brushed it off.
“That’s…not exactly what I was concerned abo—"
“He. Will. Be. Fine. Just show him over to the hangar, will you? I think Monarch and President already made it there in the time we’ve been bickering. You can ask him if he’s got anything Trigger can borrow until he buys or ‘finds’ a plane for himself.”
All of them collectively sighed at their overenthusiastic boss, but Trigger quickly found himself being dragged away.
Whelp. This is my life now.
CAUTION: 94% chance detected of this being an incredibly bad idea.
When Monarch first saw who walked into the hanger that day, he thought he was hallucinating. He and Prez had just finished doing the final checks on his new…whatever-the-fuck-it-was. He felt kind of bad ditching Prez for this new plane—they’d worked together for some time—but he put his mind at ease knowing that it was one less person he’d have to protect in the air.
These thoughts all went out the window, for better or for worse, when the door squeaked open. Out came Comic, Dip, and…him.
The man that Kaiser had called “Trigger.”
He’d recognized him instantly—this was the fallen pilot they’d rescued a few weeks ago! The white hair, the unhealthy complexion, the perpetually dead-inside expression, the…blue eyes?
He blinked. He’d been certain they were red, but…had his mind been playing tricks on him? Had it been a trick of the light that he’d seen? Dust, he hoped he wasn’t relapsing…
Maybe that was it. He sighed in relief. If he’d had to wake up every day and live around somebody with his eyes, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it.
“Prez! I didn’t think I’d see you here!” Trigger shuffled over in the crew chief’s direction. Monarch took note of the heavy limp and short strides—whatever sort of prosthetics the guy was using, he was clearly still getting used to them.
“I’m the crew chief, too, dumbass. Of course I’d be here,” Prez answered, knocking him lightly over the head.
The two seemed to be on good terms with one another, which…he supposed made sense. He wasn’t sure if Trigger even remembered him, but Dip had mentioned Prez taking some time off to visit him. He was glad Prez seemed to have made a friend here, even if the circumstances were strange.
“Hey, Monarch!” Dip waved him over. “We brought the new guy. You got anything he can use for the time being?”
The “new guy” in question waved up at him awkwardly. “Uh…what he said,” he mumbled in a small voice. “You’re, um, Monarch, right? The flight lead?”
“Yeah, that’d be me.” Monarch sighed, thinking. It wasn’t unusual for him to let newbies from the other squadrons borrow one of his older pieces until they could get on their feet, but since they’d been nearing the end of their contract, he hadn’t really kept most of them ready to go, aside from…
…ah, hell.
He looked over at the one plane of his that had actually seen recent use: a positively ancient F-14D that sat in the corner. He’d joked for the longest time that he used it to handicap himself while fighting, and at this point it was probably true. Anyone actually flying the damn thing in combat was at a serious disadvantage in the current day and age—the plane itself was outdated, and on top of that it didn’t even have first-generation COFFIN functionality. Monarch had made things work with it for the last few years purely because nobody was selling anything better unless it was completely trashed, but he was also Hitman’s flight lead for a fucking reason.
“That’s the best I can do right now,” he said, pointing to it and praying that Trigger would see sense. He’d only known the guy for about two minutes now, but he didn’t want to be responsible for the new guy getting himself killed in his first sortie.
“I can work with that.”
Oh thank fuck, he wasn’t actually going to—wait, what?
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you that time. What were you saying?” He asked, hoping he’d misheard.
“I said I can work with that. I’d need a WSO, though.”
Oh Dust Mother, the new guy’s crazy.
“Are—are you sure? I mean, I could talk to Kaiser; I could probably get him to let you sit this one out since you’re still recovering. We’ve done fine as a three-man flight for years, you don’t need to stick your neck out or anything.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ve won with worse hands before…” the man trailed off.
Monarch knew how this kind of story ended—with the poor guy splattered on the ground yet again, most likely for the final time. He’d seen it happen too many times: some idiot using a completely impractical jet to “style on” the enemy, only to find themselves turned into a fine red mist.
Well, at least there was nobody here who would get in the backseat of that thing—
“Hey, wait.” Prez spoke up. “Monarch’s got his fancy new whatever-it-is, right? He doesn’t need me around. That means…” she pointed finger guns at Trigger.
Prez had caught the crazy.
Monarch screamed internally, but it was too late. Everybody was already preparing to sortie.
Trigger grunted as he quite literally fell into the Tomcat’s cockpit. “Nailed it,” he mumbled into the seat, eliciting a laugh from below.
This unit does not think this constitutes a successful landing.
Prez had needed to help him up; while he could walk on flat ground alright and even climb stairs with a bit of hassle, ladders and the like would probably pose a problem for him for some time. He hadn’t been expected to be essentially bodily chucked into the plane, but…hey, it had worked…somehow.
Slowly, he was able to re-orient himself into something resembling a normal sitting position and strap himself in. By the time he was able to look back, Prez was already finished settling in. She flashed him a thumbs-up.
He didn’t mind having someone in the back, actually. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense—there were limits to what he could do with only one fully-functioning hand, so just being able to focus on flying while somebody else did the actual firing would be a godsend.
Still…he knew most people couldn’t handle some of the maneuvers he was used to pulling. When he’d been with the 444th, McKinsey had threatened people with being his WSO as punishment at least once…when solitary wasn’t enough.
“You sure you’re ready?” He asked. “I’m, er, told I get kind of wild in the air.”
Prez laughed. “However crazy you think you are, it can’t possibly be worse than flying with Monarch.”
Famous last words.
“If you say so.”
Closing the canopy, Trigger realized he was shaking. It had been a long time since he’d actually done this. Sure, he’d continued to fly even after he’d left his post, but that had mostly been as a hobby or for the occasional movie stunt. He hadn’t seen actual combat in years.
But…something in his heart, his soul and his bones remembered. The Three Strikes hadn’t died after the war ended, it had only fallen asleep. He just needed to wake it up.
He looked up at the sky above and let the smallest of smiles cross his face as the jet whirred to life.
Despite everything, he was home.
Notes:
Well, this is the longest chapter yet by a good margin. My word counter says it's about 5400 words long. And I guess that's a good thing too, since you guys seem to be chomping at the bit. We're at frickin' 68 kudos right now!
Ymir is a minor OC that I came up with specifically for this chapter. He's a "doctor" (read: he no longer has his medical license) who used to work for General Resource, specializing in cybernetic enhancements. He might show up again occasionally, but he's mostly just there because I needed to explain how Trigger even got his prosthetics (and to further the plot a bit). He's reeeeeal sus, but then again, *everyone* is real sus when you've just been hired by a group of contract killers.
Anyways, here's a link to a Google Drive folder with the long-promised art of Trigger, plus some bios for both him and Nemo and a bit of lemony commentary on the design: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1tYaSXynRPfR9DoJnDiICnSHs1w1o-fBs?usp=sharing
Be wary, as this contains minor spoilers for some stuff that'll happen in the story (hopefully not too far in the future!)
Not gonna pretend I'm a great artist or anything, but I'd like to think I was at least able to get the idea across.
I only really had the time to do a few portraits, bios, etc, but I'll probably add some more stuff later (I'm planning to do a piece of fullbody art, plus some art of Trigger's prosthetics and details on how they work.) If I end up putting anything else in the folder before next month, I'll mention it in the end notes.
Also: Google Drive's UI makes this look REALLY crusty unless you're zoomed really far in for some reason. Not sure what's up with that (maybe it can't handle the resolution or something?) but if that's a problem for you, you can try downloading it; it seems to look fine when I view it through my photo gallery (Only do this if you trust it, though! Please don't blindly download stuff off the internet!)
Anyways, thanks for reading. I'mma go collapse now.
Chapter 5: Red Flag
Summary:
Trigger's first sortie with Sicario goes smoothly. Despite this, it actually turns out to be quite eventful.
Notes:
Recommended music: "Bankrupt Sea" by Jose Pavli.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monarch glanced back at his allies as they coasted towards the privateers’ encampment. Comic and Dip were there, as always, but he could hear just behind him the telltale sound of an extra member in the back.
He could see the first buoy come into view as Galaxy’s voice floated into his ears over the radio:
“This is the ever-lovely Airborne Warning and Control Systems aircraft Galaxy. Hitman Team, get on the clock.”
“…Hitman 1. Ready,” he offered. He’d almost forgotten that he was the one who had to do the talking, now that Prez was elsewhere.
“Hitman 3, Comic, punching in.”
“Hitman 2, copy you clear, Galaxy. You gonna let us loose?” Diplomat asked.
“Just about, Diplomat. Hitman Team, take your flight on this vector 'til you start to see targets on the IFF. You are free to engage.”
A few cheers erupted from the team.
“Hey, Trigger, how ‘bout we botch this mission?” Prez joked. “I wouldn’t mind saying a few more days out here.”
“I have you on record saying that, Prez.”
“Yeah, and I think Kaiser would kill me if I did that…y’know, assuming I’m able to swim back to shore…I haven’t really tested it, but don’t think prosthetics are particularly buoyant.”
“Swim back to shore?” Prez laughed. “New guy’s got some good jokes up his sleeve.”
Monarch chuckled a bit, too. He didn’t mind a bit of dry comedy here and there. “Yeah, good thing we’ve got copters on standby to rescue lost little pilots. Otherwise that might not be so much of a joke.”
“…Wait, they’ll rescue us if we get shot down?” Trigger sounded legitimately surprised at something so basic.
…That had been a joke, right?!?
Shoving that slightly-disturbing question to the back of his mind, Monarch focused on the rapidly upcoming buoy on his IFF, firing a single missile at it the moment he’d locked on.
Did it actually matter to the mission? Probably not. Was it oddly cathartic to watch the harmless, stationary target explode? Oh, hell yes.
Seconds later, more targets popped up—a handful of patrol boats. No problem.
He felt his face curl up a bit into a forced smile, though the joy was superficial compared to the worry that penetrated his bones.
Monarch turned off his radio for a moment to collect himself. He’d always been a fan of stomping out unknown factors before they became a problem—and as harsh as it seemed, Trigger was an unknown factor. A wild card. A threat.
Of course, he couldn’t just kill the guy, but he could send Trigger somewhere that was less dangerous for him…and the rest of his team…until he was able to figure the new guy out.
But where would be the safest…? He looked over at his wingmen, and smiled.
Comic had always been good at reigning in the crazier members of Sicario.
“Hey, Trigger,” Monarch started. “You’re still recovering, right? I’d like you to try and take it easy for this mission. Just try and shadow Comic for now; I want you both to swing around the perimeter of the island and take out naval targets where you can.”
“Can…do…? Wait, this thing isn’t really equipped for air-to-ground; shouldn’t I be—?”
“That’s fine. Just do as you’re told, and things will work out.”
“I—” There was a pause, then a sigh. “…Yeah, sure. I can do that.” He watched as Trigger fell back to form up on Comic.
“All right. Dip, you form up on me. We’ll hit them head-on.”
He was a little surprised by how little resistance he’d put up to the strange order. He knew the guy used to be a Peacekeeper, but yeesh. Between that and his willingness to fly in a plane from hell, he wondered if Trigger wasn’t some sort of extreme sycophant or yes-man in his previous job.
If Kaiser had put him here, then clearly he had some sort of talent. But of course, talent was far from the only thing that mattered in this line of work.
It had been a long time since Hitman had been more than a 3-man flight. It felt like lifetimes ago, but once upon a time Monarch had been Hitman 3, and there had been two others before him: Titan and Duchess.
Both had been great pilots.
Had been.
He just hoped that the new guy wouldn’t meet their fate.
“Fox Two.”
Trigger watched as Prez loosed a missile towards one of the floatplanes that had strayed too far from the main group—sparing it from Monarch’s fury, but delivering it right into his own hands. A small explosion signaled its end.
He sighed, a little exasperated by his flight lead’s odd commands, but not enough to actually object to them. Ideally, he’d rather be following Monarch to go hit the island itself and take out the scant number of jets above it, but he was fine with trashing some patrol boats. Sure, he only really had his standard missiles and guns to deal with the ground targets, but knowing his luck, he’d end up needing the multilocks and high-impact missiles for one reason or another.
“Hey, Trigger. Don’t wander off too far, now,” Comic’s voice reached him, ushering him back. “We’re supposed to be working as a pair for now, remember?”
“Right…” He looked wistfully over at the trail of destruction Monarch and Dip were making over the island, but eventually started moving back towards Comic.
“Hey, are you sure you only want control of the guns?” Prez asked from behind him. “I mean, I don’t mind handling all of the missiles, but still…”
“They’d be wasted on me anyways,” he assured her, holding up his false arm. “I’m not exactly gonna be doing much with this just yet.”
He’d managed to work his way up to a wider range of motion with his arm, but the movements were still sluggish, and fine motor control still felt nearly impossible.
In that way, Prez’s presence was sort of a blessing—it was a bit nerve-wracking having to rely on someone else to handle the weapons, but at least all he really had to focus on was flying; she could handle the rest.
“Besides, it looks like Monarch’s nearly done wiping the floor with their AA…” He pointed over to their flight lead, who had just crushed the final AA gun. “Man, no wonder these Burlok guys turned to piracy. Seems like they could barely even afford decent equipment.”
He whipped his head around when Prez started laughing. “What?”
“…Trigger, did you—did you forget what we’re flying?”
“H-hey, come on, this thing’s not that bad—!” He was cut off by Prez laughing even harder.
"I agree with Miss Kuo. If anyone here is lacking funds, it is us."
He was thankfully spared from further mockery by Galaxy.
“Defenses are clear. Ronin, move in.”
“Copy all! Drop the rope! In and out real quick! Looks like everyone's scattering!”
Squinting just a bit, he was able to catch a glimpse of the Ronin team entering the fray via helicopter far below.
“Hitman, we've got inbound. Enemy reinforcements coming down from due north, flashing mercenary IFFs. Greenlight to engage.”
Trigger nodded in understanding. It looked like they were going to be using those multilocks, after all.
Recalibration at 90%. Radio communications online, functioning at 50% capacity.
He pulled a sharp turn to the north, spotting the enemy on the horizon—a handful of COFFIN-less F15s. Monarch was already en route, so Trigger maxed out his throttle, trying to catch up.
“Prez. Two multilocks on my mark…” he watched them for any change in direction, and surely enough two of them began climbing shortly after they’d locked on. He shoved the stick forward, diving towards the ocean as Prez screamed behind him.
“What the hell was that for?” He felt a light punch hit his shoulder as he leveled out just above the water. He’d almost forgotten he had a passenger in here.
“Just setting up the perfect shot for you. Mark!” he called out as he pulled the nose up sharply.
Prez groaned, but fired out a pair of multilocks anyways. “Fox Three, I guess…”
He watched as they arced up towards their targets—one lost its lock as the pilot managed to turn too sharply to follow, but the other managed to catch up before the unlucky pilot could escape, sending it up in flames.
Recalibration at 95%...stimulation resulting from combat provides significant amounts of extra data. Hypothesis: this could speed up the recalibration process greatly.
Knowing a missile wasn’t likely to hit at this range, he opted to try firing his guns instead. He didn’t expect them to do much, but it might at least slow it do—
“Alright. Now, brace.”
Using the momentum he’d built up from the fall, he pulled up to meet the remaining F-15 in a joust.
Oh.
The stream of hot lead struck true, shredding the unfortunate Eagle’s right wing off and causing it to spiral out of control before finally slamming into the ground.
Huh. I don’t remember guns ever being this useful before…
He’d have to keep that in mind, he supposed.
“…This reminds me of this old story I heard once,” he mused.
“Ooh, mister Peacekeeper’s got a story for us?” Dip teased over the radio. “Do tell.”
“Yeah. They say there’s a guy who actually landed like that—with one wing, that is,” he clarified.
Such a feat, while unlikely, is not impossible given the shape and construction of the aircraft in question. It would, however, be an extremely bad idea.
“Seriously? You’d have to be nuts to try that…personally, I would’ve just ejected.”
Comic sighed. “It’s probably not true, Dip. Most of those stories of 'legendary aces' are probably fake or overblown old wives' tales…I bet he only lost maybe a third of the wing.”
“Aw, c’mon. I bet Monarch could pull it off. Riiiiight, Monarch?” Dip pleaded.
“…The best way to survive a situation like that is to not put yourself in it in the first place.” was the soft response.
“Ugh…you guys are total killjoys sometimes. Trigger here seems like a bundle of fun, though…maybe I’ll stick around him for now. Whaddya say, ‘Mick? You wanna trade?”
“Dip, that’s not how this works…”
"...drop your guns and look innocent...obviously searching for something..."
"...a bit late for that...you think?"
What…?
He was hearing things again. Clearer than usual…it almost sounded like radio chatter. He tried to ignore it for now and focus on what was in front of him.
Luckily, there wasn’t much to focus on. Monarch had already made mincemeat of the remaining reinforcements.
Galaxy whistled. “Well, that was quick. Hitman Team, stand by until Ronin Team gives the all-clear.”
A laugh from Comic. “This wasn't much of a fight, Galaxy. I think we're fine by my mark. Between me, Monarch, and the new guy, we’ve got things locked down.”
“Hey, what about me?” Dip pouted.
“What about you?” Comic retorted, resulting in some grumbling on the other end.
“…not my fault Monarch kept getting to the enemy first…”
There was a bit of a lull as the team waited on Ronin.
“Ronin to Galaxy, we've got eyes on target. Looks like some sort of…containment chamber? Not really sure what it is.”
Chamber is emitting strong thermal signatures…probability of the source being cordium is 99.6%; probability of it being unstable is 93.5%.
“Right, uh...one moment, putting the contact on the line…”
“Clean the scene,” the informant growled. “Everything you’ve seen is confidential by decree of the Osean Federation. Destroy it.”
“Copy that. Ronin, exfiltrate. You heard that, Monarch? Highlighting new target on your IFF. Blow it when they're out.”
“Way ahead of you, Galaxy. You're clear, Hitman,” the Ronin member chuckled.
Trigger watched as Monarch flew towards the marked target, firing a single missile before flying low to confirm its destruction.
Thermal signatures rising.
get out of there get out GET OUT
Recalibration at 98%...
99%...
…100%.
—CONNECTED—
“Monarch!” Trigger felt someone who wasn’t him shout. “Pull up!”
“…What? Why would I need to…?”
“PULL UP!” The other shouted again. “You need to pull up!”
Monarch finally complied—just in time, too, as the world went white, before settling on a bloody scarlet.
“Oh shit!”
“What the hell?!” Diplomat demanded.
“Holy crap. I felt that in my teeth! You okay, Monarch? What was that?!” Prez asked.
Everyone seemed equally confused, but Trigger knew what had just happened. He’d seen it before a few times during the Lighthouse War. Each time, it had taken the form of a horrible, sky-rending orange blast.
“Cordium detonation,” the other breathed, saying exactly what he was thinking. “Judging by the size of the explosion, there was probably enough there to power an airship for a year.”
“...huh. Uh...objectives complete, Hitman, RTB at your leisure.” Galaxy said, seemingly the first to recompose himself.
“Think the water's still alright? We've still got sunshine by the time we RTB,” Dip joked, but it was obvious he was still a bit shaken up.
“Just drop out and become a surfer or something, you bum.”
“Oh yeah, me, you, and flight lead here just running a little beach bar on a gentrified resort built from our blood money! Trigger and Prez can be our severely underpaid waiters, and Lawyer can be our mascot! Sound good, Monarch?”
“A bar with a possum for a mascot…yeah, I’m sure we’d be overflowing with guests,” Monarch snarked.
“Hold that thought,” Galaxy interrupted them. “We've got inbound from due north, same bearing as before. Fighters approaching the flight to your direct south, flash ident or we will flag you as hostiles.”
An accented voice cut the silence. “Easy, easy, flashing IFF. We're just the help, and, by the looks of it, late to the Burlok party.”
“You hired by the mercs in the fort, bud?” Dip prodded.
“Past tense now, I guess. We've got no beef with you. It's all business, I'm sure you guys understand.”
Trigger held its breath, praying that the thing wouldn’t suddenly decide to attack anyways. Fortunately, whatever it was at least had some common sense.
“Put me on, Galaxy... This is Assassin 1, callsign Kaiser, I'm the leader of the Sicario Mercenary Corps. We do understand your situation.”
This had happened before, he was certain. He remembered now—it had first reared its head on the beach, puppeting his body, pretending to be him. But it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t—
—DISCONNECTED—
Trigger sagged with relief as the thing controlling him suddenly relinquished its hold. He turned the radio off for a moment and spent a few moments just gasping for air.
“Trigger? Are—are you alright?” Prez whispered. “You were acting, uhh…weird just a second ago.”
“Fine,” he lied, and regretted it immediately when Prez shot him a disapproving look.
“Bullshit. You’re, like, the walking definition of not fine. What happened to you?” she prodded again.
“…I don’t know. I-I think we just need to…get back to base. Then I can think about this, figure out what’s wrong.” He buried his head in his hands.
“Hopefully Kaiser can wrap this up quickly, then.”
He turned the radio back on, heart still pounding.
“…but you know how this business goes,” Kaiser continued.
“Don't sweat it, we were about to break off and go west anyway, towards Usea.”
“Usea?” Comic asked. “The hell are you going there for? Everyone knows the market for independent mercs is deader than a dodo there.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard? Shit really hit the fan over there earlier today. Apparently GR and Neucom just declared war on each other. UPEO doesn’t have its shit together—as usual—so they’re paying a hefty price for mercenaries that aren’t affiliated with either side to bolster their forces right now. It’s been all over the news for the last couple hours, and recruiters have been dropping off contracts and information all day.”
“UPEO might be practically worthless, but they’re paying good money, and I need a job. Master Goose 1 out.”
“Master Goose, eh? See, that’s a team name that sounds fun to have…right, boss?”
Trigger but his lip at the similarity to “Mother Goose,” but held his tongue. They didn’t need to know about his history.
“…Boss?”
“So war’s finally broken out in Usea…interesting,” Kaiser drawled.
Whatever his new boss was cooking up in that head of his, Trigger had a bad feeling about it—to say nothing about his own health.
He had a feeling that he was starting to get an idea of what that chip in his head might be, and he didn't like it.
Notes:
So uhhh, it turns out that I'm actually a massive idiot! Who would've thought?
I thought today was the 15th until about 30 minutes ago, at which point I realized it was actually the 16th and I was a day behind schedule.
Whoops.
Uhh, I hope you enjoyed this chapter anyways. It's my first time writing an actual battle, so it's probably kinda lame...if you guys have any tips or anything so I can make it less lame next time, that'd be cool! :)Anyways, it was requested that I post the corrupted text in a de-corrupted form, so here it is! Listed in chronological order:
Nemo:
"I agree with Miss Kuo. If anyone here is broke, it would be us."
"Recalibration at 90%. Radio communications online, functioning at 50% capacity."
"Recalibration at 95%...stimulation resulting from combat provides significant amounts of extra data. Hypothesis: this could speed up the recalibration process significantly."
"Such a feat, while unlikely, is not impossible given the shape and construction of the aircraft in question. It would, however, be an extremely bad idea."
Enemy radio transmissions:
“…drop your guns and look innocent…obviously looking for something…”
“…a bit late for that, don’t you think?”
Nemo:
"Chamber is emitting strong thermal signatures…probability of the source being cordium is 99.6%; probability of it being unstable is 93.5%."
"Thermal signatures rising!"
"get out of there get out GET OUT"
"Recalibration at 98%... 99%..."
Chapter 6: Revelations
Summary:
Trigger comes to a realization, and much is revealed. Meanwhile, Monarch goes out salvaging and gets more out of it than he expected.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prez looked worriedly over at Trigger as he finally stumbled back onto solid ground. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the AO, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that just for a moment there, something had been very wrong.
She’d always been good at reading body language—you could tell a lot about a person from how they moved, how they looked at you, and what they did with their hands. Trigger’s body language was especially distinctive.
For one thing, he was always moving, even if it was subtle. Rocking back and forth just slightly while he was thinking, drumming his fingers on a table, or just pacing around in circles…Trigger was never completely still. And yet…for almost a minute, he’d sat stock-still, save for necessary things like breathing and speaking.
The sudden shift had been…unsettling, to say the least. She’d overheard a nurse telling him about the possible aftereffects of the concussion he’d received, and they’d mentioned the possibility of mood swings, but this was something else entirely. If it weren’t such a ridiculous notion, she’d have assumed he was being controlled like some kind of puppet.
He’d returned to normal in just a few minutes, but whatever had happened there had clearly terrified him. Even now, as he stumbled over to sit down in the chair next to hers, he was still shaking and gasping for air. She wanted to help him, but had a feeling that touching him right now was only going to make things worse—
“Prez.”
She looked over at him. He was clearly straining to speak, but whatever it was, it was clearly important. The look on his face was dead serious.
“I’m…going to go over to medical,” he said, in a shaky whisper. “To…to talk to Ymir.”
“That shady so-called ‘doctor?’” She asked. “Is that a good idea?”
“L…look, it’s important. Really important. A-and I need you…to be there. There’s…if we’re going to work together, you…n-need to know the risks. Wh-what you’re dealing with.”
“O…kay…?” Prez frowned, following behind him. Trigger walked as quickly as he was able to without tripping over himself, eyes darting around rapidly as if he thought he were being watched. As soon as he reached the door, he ushered her in, before slipping in and slamming it shut.
Ymir, who had until then been hunched over a table filling out paper for Dust-knew-what, jolted upright at the sound before rcomposing himself.
“Ah, my new favorite patient. You’re back…let me guess, something in your arm started smoking after our crew chief here hit it too hard with a wrench?”
“…What? No! That’s not…” Trigger sighed in frustration. “Listen, Doc. I, uh…I think I figured out what that chip does.”
Ymir had expected the man called “Trigger” to return at some point.
He hadn’t expected him to return this quickly, though. Or with Sicario’s crew chief in tow. He’d asked why she was here, and he’d been brushed off with a “Because she deserves to know what’s going on.” Frankly, Ymir didn’t think it was a good idea to break patient confidentiality any further than was absolutely necessary—hell, he wasn’t even planning to tell Kaiser about whatever was going on here—but he supposed he couldn’t exactly force him to have her leave.
…Well, okay, maybe he could; he was pretty sure a light breeze would knock the poor man over right now with how badly he was shaking. In general, the man seemed panicked, as if he thought he was somehow running out of time. He stuttered whenever he tried to speak, and continued looking around wildly even when Ymir had assured him there were no cameras in here.
The man’s panic was fairly unsurprising, at least—Ymir had been around the block more than a few times when it came to cybernetics, and he’d seen some shady things go down involving them. Naturally, this meant he had a few theories as to what the device that had been so crudely grafted into the man’s head was meant for, and none of them were very pleasant.
Still…he really did need to get things moving along. He had things to do.
“Look, can you just tell me what you found?” He finally asked. “I don’t know how much time we’ll have until somebody comes in here with a stubbed toe or what-have-you.”
This finally seemed to jog something in Trigger’s head. He finally snapped to attention, but something was…not right.
He suddenly held himself…differently. Sitting straight up, when he usually slouched a bit, and staring forward with a totally blank expression.
And his eyes…what the fuck?
They’d turned a weird…reddish-orange color. Normally, he’d pass it off as a trick of the light—Trigger wasn’t far off from full-on albinism, after all—but his eyes were also quite literally glowing.
Prez recoiled as if she’d been struck when she saw the change. “That’s not Trigger,” she whispered to him with absolute certainty. He’d heard about the crew chief’s near-clairvoyance when it came to people, but he didn't think that ability was really needed to tell that whatever was going on was not normal.
“That is correct,” Not-Trigger replied in the driest monotone he’d ever heard.
“Who are you?” Prez finally regained the composure to ask before Ymir got the chance. The person who was definitely not Trigger looked over at her.
Not-Trigger paused for a moment, as if in thought. “Beginning introductory sequence…My program's designation is Zone of Endless version 3.5.1. My individual designation is ‘Nemo.’ It is a pleasure to finally be able to speak with my father’s friends.”
Interlude: If A Tree Falls In A Forest, And Nobody Hears It...
Monarch trudged through the underbrush, pushing through a few branches as he finally broke through the treeline overlooking a wide river. A camera hung around his neck, and a little fanny-pack holding bug spray and a bottle of water sat on his waist. To anyone else, he might look like an ordinary hiker or sightseer, but he actually had a more important purpose here: salvage.
He knew Kaiser was planning to go headlong into the new war in Usea—the mercenary lord lived for that sort of thing—and he wanted to be prepared in case he ended up taking a few hits out there. Things had been relatively smooth sailing until now, but he knew sooner or later he'd find himself getting a little banged up. Sicario had been living in a small pond for so long that they'd gotten complacent.
He'd looked under the hood of his new abomination, and while it was heavily modified on the outside and had the biggest hackjob of a COFFIN rig he’d ever seen in his life (he could see wires visibly sticking out in places!), the innards were mostly stock Raptor.
Replacement parts didn’t come cheap, especially not for something like that. However, he happened to know of a place where plenty of Raptor fragments could be found—the site where they’d found Trigger. He hadn’t exactly marked the exact location of it, but he knew what the surroundings were, and that it had been right at the edge of this river, which narrowed his search quite a bit.
The man hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about whatever happened to him, but Monarch figured he wouldn’t be all that angry if Monarch “liberated” some parts from his crashed plane. It certainly wasn’t going to be repaired, not when its parts were strewn for half a mile across, but he figured there might be some bits and bobbles left over that he could use. It’d certainly make Prez’s life easier, at least—he still felt kind of bad about giving her the boot, even if she and the new guy had turned out to get along like a house on fire.
He took a cursory look around as he neared what was left of the wreckage. The last time he’d been here, the sand had been soaked in blood and covered in bits of debris, but most of it had been swept away by the rising and falling tides. Still, the larger fragments remained, and that was really what he was here for. Particularly haunting was a fragment of one of the wings—the one they’d found Trigger slumped over. He could still see bloody fingerprints there…
...He wondered if Trigger had any idea how close he’d come to death.
Monarch paused as he noticed something underneath the bloodstain—a bit of the livery, halfway scratched off and obscured by the caked-on blood but still very recognizable as part of Neucom’s logo, along with another, less-pronounced one: a simple pair of letters, "IC." He snapped a photo of both—he didn't recognize the second logo, but he could probably look it up later.
He hadn’t seen any mention of Trigger working for Neucom…actually, did Neucom even use the Raptor? He didn’t think they did…not to mention the fact that this was a pre-COFFIN variant, as far as he could tell.
Something about all this didn’t add up—
He shot up as he heard something snap in the distance. Was someone coming? He supposed he could claim he was just looking around, but he’d been around the block enough times to know when he’d poked his nose into something he probably shouldn’t have. Quietly, he dashed back towards the treeline, concealing himself as best as he could in the undergrowth. He whipped out his camera and waited.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded with the sound of footsteps coming ever closer. Switching the camera to video mode and hitting the record button, he saw a pair of men walk into view. Their voices were just barely audible over the sounds of wildlife:
“…does the boss really think anyone could’ve survived that? I mean, I’ve seen the guy’s files, but the thing fuckin’ exploded in midair. I don’t care how important this ‘singularity’ guy is, he’s dead,” The man on the left growled, kicking a piece of the wreckage into the water. As the man turned around, Monarch could spy the Neucom logo on the back.
What the hell were people from Neucom doing in Osea?
He was suddenly glad that he’d chosen to hide—he could handle himself in a fight, but he doubted these people's lips would be anywhere near as loose if he were to make his presence known. And why were they looking for Trigger? The guy wasn’t a half-bad pilot, but what did they need him in particular for…?
“…ah, screw it. He said we didn’t really need the guy alive anyways as long as the asset was intact, right? So let’s just find what the boss is owed, sweep up the scene, and get outta here. This place is kinda creepy…feels like we’re being watched…” The man on the right rubbed at his shoulders, shivering a bit. Eventually, the two moved away, the conversation petering out as they began to trawl across the area for Trigger's body.
Monarch, of course, knew there was no body to find. Trigger was about to be long gone once they left for Usea, and had presumably taken whatever “asset” they were looking for with him.
And yet…
…he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was going on, he’d barely scratched the surface—and that he needed to dig deeper. Trigger, according to Prez, seemed to have no recollection of what had happened to him. And if Prez couldn’t sniff out a lie from someone, then Monarch was willing to believe they were probably telling the truth.
And if Trigger didn’t know Neucom people were looking for him, then…
...Shit.
Thoughts flashed through his head—what if they found out Trigger was alive? What if they tracked him down?
He shuddered at the thought of potentially losing another wingman, even if he didn't know Trigger all that well just yet. Still, he knew he had to keep this to himself for now. He was sure Trigger had already been traumatized plenty by the incident; Monarch strongly doubted he could handle much more at once. Plus, the fewer people who knew, the lower the chance of a leak. And hey, Trigger didn’t need to know he was being protected in order for Monarch to protect him.
Yes...for now, he decided as he slunk back into the woods, this mystery would be his burden to carry.
Notes:
Well, this chapter was a lot shorter than I expected. I had originally planned to have more in this chapter, but I felt like this was the most natural way to end the chapter without making it too cluttered. (Well, that and the fact that college classes have started back up and I'm also working on a second fic now.)
Things'll be getting more interesting in the next chapter, though, I promise! ^^
Chapter 7: The Son of Light
Summary:
"Last night I dreamed I climbed to the top of a mountain of metal...and for miles, I could see the destruction of man."
Trigger comes face-to-face with the devil in his head.///Trigger Warning: Unintentional Self-Harm///
///PROCEED WITH CAUTION///
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger had expected it to happen, but he’d at least hoped he’d be able to explain his theory before he was abruptly paralyzed.
Not literally paralyzed, if what the parasite inside him was doing with his body was any indication, but it was close enough--he couldn’t body his body on his own, the other having assumed complete control.
Once again, he was a puppet for this thing. He cursed his inability to resist its influence as the two people sitting in the room with him stared as if he’d grown a second head (which, at this rate, he wouldn’t be all that surprised if he had.)
“That’s not Trigger,” Prez breathed, and he felt his heart sink as the thing inside him responded.
“That is correct.”
It was his voice, and yet it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t HIM—
“Beginning introductory sequence…My software designation is Zone of Endless version 3.5.1. My individual designation is ‘Nemo.’ It is a pleasure to finally be able to speak with my father’s friends.”
He wouldn’t have commented on that even if he could. Even were he not being held hostage by this machine, he didn’t have the words to explain how he felt.
Zone of Endless.
Memories from twenty years ago were brought to bear in an instant, weeping like freshly-opened wounds.
The fucking drones.
The ones that had wanted to copy him, the ones that by all rights should have succeeded had he not twisted Fate’s arm.
He remembered coughing and sputtering as he stepped out of the Raptor; he’d had the endurance that that Mihaly had lost in his old age, but even he had had to strain every last fiber of his being to win and survive against the twin machines. He hadn’t really felt the effects before—whether due to being too focused on the battle or from sheer adrenaline, he didn’t think he’d ever be certain.
But the instant he’d touched down, he’d realized just how broken he was—he wheezed with every breath, black spots danced across the edges of his vision, and his head felt like it had recently been caved in with a sledgehammer.
He’d never felt so sick before. Not when he’d been sentenced to getting thrown into suicide missions, not when he’d had to kill someone for the first time, not even when he’d gotten food poisoning after getting desperate enough to eat the expired cereal in the cupboard when he was six.
His vision had begun fading in and out as soon as his feet made contact with the Earth, and his limbs had given out and gone limp shortly after. Tabloid and the Scrap Queen had to work together to prop him up, which in his barely-lucid state almost seemed funny given the former had lost half of his left arm to falling rubble and the latter still had their leg in a brace.
The ace pilot had just gotten back from killing the two most advanced AIs the world had ever seen, and now he had to rely on these two misfits just to stand up.
Hilarious.
After he’d finished projectile-vomiting off the side of the carrier, he’d started laughing.
He’d laughed, and laughed, and laughed and laughed and laughed and—
He was snapped back to reality by the sound of Ymir coughing and sputtering.
“Are you in need of assistance?” “Nemo” asked the man, reaching out. Ymir nearly leaped out of his seat, which Trigger couldn’t really blame him for, all things considered. He would probably do the same thing too if he could move away from himself. Or…move at all.
Really, at this point, he’d settle for curling into a ball in the corner of the room and crying.
“N-no, no, I’m fine,” Ymir responded in a hurry, before adjusting his glasses. “Just—you just startled us, is all. Could you, er…tell us more about yourself? Prez, get me a steno pad, they’re in the desk over there...”
“Absolutely,” Nemo responded, and then proceeded to sit in silence.
Prez slowly backed away, never once looking away from him, which stung just a little bit even though he knew the fear wasn’t directed at him. A tiny pang in his chest wanted to ask, We’re still friends, right?
It was completely irrational and irrelevant, but it hurt, damn it.
She came back with a clipboard and steno pad, still watching him nervously.
His face shifted to a look of concern. “Okay, so firstly…is, er, i-is Trigger still…in there?”
“…I don’t understand the question. What should he be in?”
Ymir seemed a little disarmed by the response. “Er…let me rephrase that. Is Trigger still awake?” Apparently this thing only understood fairly literal questions.
YES. YES. I AM RIGHT HERE—
“Yes. My father is still conscious and aware of what is occurring.”
THANK YOU.
It was the bare minimum I could do.
Oh, right, it could still talk in his head…Wait, hold on just a fucking second—
“He’s listening, then…Don’t worry, Trigger, we’ll get back to you really soon, alright? Now, ah…Nemo, right? I’m going to need to know more about your hardware specifications, at least insofar as it’s relevant to Trigger’s health…Firstly, what’s your power source? Do you have a battery, or are you powered by something else?”
“My control unit is designed to draw power from various sources. Normally, I would obtain power from the engines of an equipped COFFIN aircraft. Currently, this is not an option, so I am tapping into my father’s bloodstream to draw power from the glucose contained within it. It is an…inefficient source of power, but effectively unlimited so long as my father remains alive and able to obtain sustenance.”
“…What about when you’re not connected to any external device? Or, uh…person, in this case? Do you simply turn off?”
“My unit contains an auxiliary power source in the form of a cordium battery, which is roughly 1 centimeter in length. It is currently inactive, and is used as a failsafe. This way, if my housing were to be damaged or disconnected from my control unit, I would not lose any data.”
Frenzied thoughts ran through Trigger’s head at that notion. It didn’t take a lot of cordium to start a chain reaction. And cordium was notorious for the symptoms it could cause to people exposed to it directly. The “transformation,” they called it over in Usea—the victim’s skin began to peel, their whole body seeming to dry out and mummify while they were still alive. And that was caused by skin contact. Trigger didn’t even want to know what would happen if the stuff leaked into someone’s brain.
Prez froze up for a moment, before voicing the same concern.
“…Wait, isn’t that really dangerous? Couldn’t it overheat? What if someone hits him too hard and his head explodes? What if it leaks?”
“These are valid concerns. The battery only produces heat if I am disconnected from a primary power source, or if my father decides to manually activate it, so overheating should not be a problem. It is also shielded from concussive force, which is most fortunate considering the circumstances of how we got here. Leaking…” he paused.
“…Leaking may…potentially…be a health risk for my father.”
…That didn’t sound good. At least the thing wasn’t lying, though.
Ymir hastily scribbled down notes as this was all said, focused intently on every word.
“Is there any way to remove the battery?” He asked.
“To do so would necessitate removing my entire control chip, which at present, given your current equipment, would be inadvisable.”
“…Shit.”
“Indeed.”
“Okay. So…feeds off blood sugar, battery bomb in the head, we can’t do anything about it just yet…” he muttered, “One thing. You call Trigger your ‘father’ a lot. Why is that?”
“Because he is my father.”
Ymir pinched the bridge of his nose. “What does Trigger being your father mean to you? What do you define that as?”
Nemo paused for a moment at that.
“He is…the model off of which I am based. And an authority. So he is my father.”
Trigger let that sink in.
This thing thought he was its dad?
That was…workable. Possibly. If it thought he was some sort of authority figure, he might be able to use that to keep it in line.
“…I guess the next topic of importance would be why you are here. What’s your purpose? What do you do?”
No response.
“Is something wrong?”
The AI had been more than happy to divulge information about itself until now. So why did it refuse to speak?
“I can’t…recall. I believe that data may have been corrupted or lost…Father? Do you remember why I’m here?”
Trigger felt a brief, yet sharp pain in his head as memories suddenly flashed through his mind, faster than he could even comprehend them all. Snippets of the last couple of months—talking to his mom on the phone about the possibility of leaving his little hermit-hole and moving back over to Usea to help out her and Dad, Avril texting him for the first time in weeks asking if he’d meet with a friend of hers, getting off a flight and then
.
.
.
And then? What happens next? There’s nothing here…
…Was this thing fucking reading his memories?
I can’t remember…why can’t I…?
It was. It had access to his mind, unrestricted access. How much did it know already? Too much, probably.
He needed this thing out of his head, out of his mind
he was out of his mind one man could never make a lasting change all he would do was break himself again (so why did he keep trying?)
…Father? Is something wrong?
get out get out get OUT
what are you doing you’re going to hurt yourself
GETOUTOFMEYOUABOMINATION
NO
FATHER
D O N ‘ T -
—DISCONNECTED—
The first thing Trigger did when he realized he could move again was bolt past Prez and over to the nearest trash can. Somehow, despite struggling to walk normally, instinct had taken over and allowed him to sprint for just a moment.
The second thing he did was hurl. He hadn’t eaten anything that day, thank the Dust, but even in the absence of a lunch to lose, his body still found something to upchuck—some foul, acidic solution that burned his mouth and throat long after it was gone.
The third thing he did was scream. It felt like something had ripped in his brain, like the sheer act of reclaiming his own body had torn him apart at the seams. Dimly, he realized this was not unlike what had happened to him when Ymir had first hooked up his arm and leg.
…Father? Did I do something wrong?
Of course.
Nemo was the common link.
NO STOP STOP YOU’RE HURTING US YOU’RE KILLING US
“Get. OUT!” he growled at the thing that had somehow taken up residence inside him.
Somewhere along the line, he’d fallen to his knees, and his fingernails had reached the sides of his head. Vaguely, he could feel something wet on his fingertips. As the pain subsided, he pulled them away, to see them slaked with red. He blinked in confusion for a moment before he finally registered that the substance on his hands was blood.
When had that happened?
…did I do that…?
He startled as another pair of hands snatched up his own, and turned around to find Prez hovering over him.
“Trigger? Are you…you right now?” Prez asked. He nodded slowly, before slumping against the wall and trying to focus on just breathing. The pain was mostly gone, but the feeling of something electric in his head and static in his veins was overloading his senses.
“What did you do to yourself? God, now we’ve gotta take a look at this, too…”
His hands were released, and Prez pawed through his hair. He winced as her hands brushed up against one of the fresh cuts on the side of his head.
“Shit. These don’t look deep, so they'll probably heal on their own at least, but what the fuck were you thinking?”
“…I don’t know,” he croaked. “I didn’t realize I was…it just hurt so bad…”
She sighed. “…You’re really gonna want to wash your hair once we’re done here. Someone’s gonna notice the blood sooner or later. You need help getting up?”
He tried to rise on his own, but the panicked coordination he’d had before had seemingly vanished, and he slid down to the ground again as his right foot slipped out from under him.
He sighed as Prez looped one arm around him, pulling him upright.
“What happened to Nemo, anyways?” She asked.
“I forceed it back, I think. Still there. Listening. Watching everything I do. Need to get it out of me,” he choked out as he was set back down in a chair.
i don’t understand
Ymir had returned, this time with a medical kit. Trigger hissed as the doctor swabbed at his face with rubbing alcohol.
“Well, if it’s so unpleasant, you shouldn’t have scratched the sides of your face open, hmm?” he deadpanned.
“I wouldn’t have done that if there wasn’t a fucking robot possessing me.”
Ymir just narrowed his eyes at that. “I saw your eyes when you did that, you know. They were blue. That was all you.”
“But—”
“There is no ‘but!’ I did not give you those prosthetics so you could tear yourself apart with them!” Ymir actually sounded furious. “And moreover, Nemo has done nothing to harm you thus far. He’s been nothing but helpful.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Trigger spat out. “Do you not remember the Lighthouse War? How those ‘helpful drones’ nearly brought the world to its knees?”
“That was twenty years ago, you can’t be sure that Nemo is the same—”
“That’s easy to say when you didn’t have to live through it!” Trigger shouted. “I and a whole lot of other people put our asses on the line to stop those things. Most of us didn’t make it out alive! And you want this one to run free?”
Ymir finally froze at that, processing it. Trigger simply set his jaw further. He did not enjoy talking much about his veteran status, but all too often, people seemed to forget that the things he'd been through had ever happened.
“I want this fucking thing out of my body. I want it gone as soon as possible. And I don’t want any talk of this leaving this room. If anyone finds out about this, it could be a disaster.” Shaking, he stood up, stalking towards the door.
what did i do wrong please i’ll fix it i’ll fix it just tell me so i can make everything okay
SHUT UP.
He pulled on his helmet, hoping it would hide the bloody scratches that now adorned his scalp, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He could hear Prez calling out to him, but he didn’t care right now.
He didn’t bother going to the showers.
He simply found his dorm, shut himself inside, and locked the door, pulling off his helmet and casting it aside before he collapsed onto the bed. Questions bounced around in his head with no outlet.
What was this thing capable of?
He was the “model that it was based on.” Did that mean it had its data? How much had it stolen from him?
How long before this thing figured out how to take control of him completely, and “Trigger” disappeared from the world, leaving only “Nemo?”
Would his family even know the difference?
Distantly, he realized he was crying, but by that point he was already well on his way to falling asleep.
father?
why are you shutting this unit out?
this unit did something bad, didn’t it..?
this unit is sorry this unit did a bad thing
this unit just wanted to help
please don’t get rid of this unit
this unit doesn't want to disappear
Notes:
Gonna be honest here: if anyone knows the song that the quote in the summary comes from, I'll be surprised. But in, like, a warm fuzzy way. (You don't win anything for guessing it right, but it'd be cool.)
Also yes, I am in fact blatantly ignoring canon and keeping Tabloid alive, why do you ask?
Chapter 8: Nevermore
Summary:
Trigger extends an olive branch, and Hitman Team discover what their next contract is.
Notes:
SMALL UPDATE: Due to me having my final exams for the semester on the week of December 15th, I will be delaying the release of the next chapter slightly. Chapter 9 will STILL come out in December, it'll just be on the 20th instead of the 15th. Thank you for understanding! ^^
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger stared at the raven.
The raven stared at Trigger.
They had been doing this for what he was…pretty sure was several minutes? He was also pretty sure this was a dream, though, and one could never really be sure about time in dreams.
Finally breaking the silence, the raven cawed at him.
“What?” he asked as it hopped closer. The raven clearly wanted something, but Trigger wasn’t quite sure what.
It cawed again, before flaring its wings a bit. He noticed that one of them didn’t quite unfurl all the way.
Is it injured…?
It flapped them again, clearly trying to take off but failing.
Trigger couldn’t help himself after that.
“Aww, you poor thing, C’mere,” he said with a sigh, before scooping the bird up in his hands. It occurred to him now that he’d never actually held a bird before, but it seemed like he was doing something right—instead of trying to fly away, the bird decided to make itself comfortable in his lap.
It was kind of a chubby little thing, he realized as it settled down.
Slowly, carefully, so as not to startle it, he stroked the bird’s feathers. It cooed happily at this, sounding almost like a pigeon…which he supposed wasn’t that strange, given ravens were supposed to be good at mimicry. Besides, it was a dream. Dreams were weird like that.
He sat there idly for a while, just petting the little bird, before there was suddenly something clamped around his finger.
He cried out slightly as he realized that the bird had bitten him…insofar as something with a beak instead of teeth could bite, anyways. It hadn’t drawn blood, but it hurt.
“What?” He asked, pulling his finger out of the creature’s mouth and raising it up to eye level. The raven responded by cawing at him, glancing at something off to the side before pecking him in the forehead.
He looked in the indicated direction, finding a small bag of cheese puffs sitting next to him.
“…You want these?” He asked. Admittedly, he felt a little dumb for talking to a bird.
The raven cawed again. Well, if it looks stupid but it works, then it’s not stupid.
He sighed, pulling out one. “Can you even eat these? I don’t think they’re gonna fit inside your beak, buddy…” The raven snapped it up out of his hand, but didn’t eat it, instead electing to stare Trigger directly in the eyes, before trying to jump up towards him.
Trigger laughed, leaning down words the bird. “What in the world are you doing—"
He was cut off as the cheese puff was suddenly deposited into his mouth. It took a few seconds for him to register what had happened, and found himself quickly scarfing down the cheese puff because wow, he’d forgotten how good these tasted.
He’d rarely ventured out into society after the end of the war, spending most of his time alone in his house in the mountains. How long had it been since he’d had one of these? A year? Three years? Six? Te—
The raven let out what could only be described as laughter.
Trigger narrowed his eyes. “You little shit.”
Still, he couldn’t really bring himself to hate the bird, and found himself laughing along with it. He went back to gently petting the little creature
a s
t h e
d r e a m
f a d e d
a w a y
.
.
.
Trigger woke up to itchy eyes and a runny nose. At first, he assumed it was allergies, before remembering the events of last evening.
Fuck. That had been real.
For a moment, he had almost dared to hope that it had been a dream, that there wasn’t a living machine writhing inside of him, controlling him.
If he were anyone else, the fear wouldn’t be quite as great. Maybe he could have brushed it off after the initial shock—“it’s just a machine, a tool that can be controlled.” But Trigger knew better than anyone that these things were anything but.
He had spoken with the man who made the Ravens once, after the dust had settled, and they’d both agreed on one thing: Zone of Endless was not just a machine.
It wasn’t made of flesh, but it was alive in the only way that mattered: it could truly think, and that was precisely what made it so dangerous. It adapted and changed; it had the same unlimited potential as a human mind with none of the drawbacks of the human body.
Trigger remembered vividly the way the Ravens’ style of flight had changed until it was disturbingly close to his own, how their static screeches had slowly begun to sound like his own voice until he had been able to pick out words—not Osean words, not even Erusean, but rather a language that was only spoken by drones. And yet, somehow, they made sense to him. They were the only thing that made sense anymore. He heard Hugin screaming as one of his missiles finally struck true, and it began to fall from the sky. He wanted to scream too.
Even in his prime, it had taken everything he had just stop the two of them.
Nowadays, he wondered if he’d be able to stop one.
The one currently in his head—Nemo—was mercifully silent now, which he found strange given the thing had never seemed to shut up previously. Not even the bursts of static he’d initially heard seemed to be there.
It was…almost unsettling.
Still, as dangerous as he was, Nemo seemed to regard him as an authority figure or administrator of some sort. He hoped he could leverage that to make some sort of agreement with the AI while he figured out what the actual hell he was going to do about it.
He shuddered, slightly jostling something that rested on his chest. Almost on instinct, he stroked the thing gently to calm his nerves. It was…kind of fluffy, and vaguely his mind imagined it to be the same bird from his dream.
However, although said dream was already beginning to fade from his mind, he remembered something. Feathers felt different from this…So what was he holding?
Curiously, he looked down, only to come face-to-face with a live, fully-grown opossum.
Monarch was woken early in the morning by a high-pitched scream.
He practically leapt out of bed, hands moving for the pistol that was always stowed underneath his pillow on reflex.
He crouched low in the darkness—the sun had not quite begun to rise yet, and thus he found himself shrouded by the dark.
Were they under attack? Had Osea turned on them now that their contract was over? Had the old hag decided to sell him out?
Cautiously, silently, he opened the door, only to see a rather unusual sight.
Trigger writhed on the ground in the hall, fighting against…something?
It looked like…a possum.
His possum.
He realized with horror that Lawyer hadn’t been in his room last night.
“Damn it, Lawyer!” He cried as he rushed to save his poor wingman, plucking the marsupial off of him.
“I—the—it—what—?” The man fought for several seconds to form a coherent sentence, before giving up and flopping onto the floor with a groan.
Lawyer squirmed in Monarch’s grip, but he was much more experienced with handling the critter than his hapless wingman apparently was. He winced as he saw a couple of bloodied scratches on either side of Trigger’s face.
“I’m so sorry about Lawyer…he gets bitey when he’s scared, he probably accidentally got locked inside…shit, do you need help getting to—"
“No.” Trigger gave him Monarch absolute deadest stare he’d ever seen. It was difficult to see under Trigger’s mop of hair when it wasn’t tied back, but he could vaguely pick out dark bags and tear stains underneath the man’s eyes. He stood up slowly, seeming to struggle against his own artificial limbs and needing to lean on the nearest wall for support.
“I’m…going to go take a shower,” he muttered. “And…probably get a rabies shot...”
Monarch watched as he left, resisting the urge to correct him because opossums almost never carry rabies, their body temperature is too low to support the virus.
Still. Whatever that was…had not been normal. Granted, his first impression of Trigger had been that nothing about him was normal, but when he contrasted it against the seemingly carefree man he’d met just yesterday, it painted a darker picture.
He waited until Trigger was out of earshot before looking down at Lawyer.
“…What do you think about him? Is he just a dumbass, or..?” He asked, before trailing off.
Lawyer simply hissed in response.
He felt a bit dumb for talking to a possum, suddenly. It wasn’t like Lawyer was going to talk back to him.
…Still, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread at the thought of working with Trigger.
…Is he just a dumbass, or does he really just care that little about his own life?
Trigger was almost grateful for the possum that attacked him as he washed his face.
It had scared the daylights out of him, sure, but he hadn’t actually been hurt that badly—looking in the mirror, he could see a handful of minor scratches around his collar, but otherwise nothing severe. (He was still going to get that rabies shot later, though. He didn’t care if his condition meant he had to take a bus.)
Better yet, it had given him an excuse as to where those scratches on his face from yesterday had come from—the same scratches he was currently trying to dab the dried blood off of with a washcloth that he’d put some rubbing alcohol onto. He hissed as a chunk of blood that had caked onto his skin came off, allowing the alcohol to worm its way into the cracks in his skin.
He was going to have to apologize to Prez later, he realized—he really had screwed up last night. What had he been thinking when he’d run off like that? What had that even been supposed to accomplish?
God, why can’t I do anything right?
…
Nemo hadn’t spoken a word since he’d woken, but when he flinched in pain from the contact, Trigger heard a very quiet murmur of static.
He sighed. Pretending Nemo didn’t exist definitely wasn’t going to solve anything. Eye contact wasn’t something he’d ever been good at, but he needed to make a point here. He stared directly into the mirror, locking eyes with himself.
“…You’re still there, right?” He said to nobody.
…this unit is here.
“You haven’t spoken in a while.”
father told this unit to stop talking.
The response was short and to the point—very different from the more formal and friendly way he’d spoken before.
“I…Look. We’re stuck together. That’s…a fact of life for us right now. So we might as well at least try to get along, at least for the moment.”
Until I figure out how to get rid of you, he didn’t say.
…
father wants to work together with this unit?
“Yeah. For now. It’s…clear that us fighting each other’s gonna get us nowhere fast. So I want to make a truce. But we gotta come to some understandings, first. For one thing…how did you even get into my head?” He asked.
don’t know. memory is corrupted. was going to look and see if you remembered but—
Trigger snarled at the mention of memories. The machine had been sifting through his own; that much, he knew. He at least knew what it felt like now—and he’d somehow managed to sever whatever Nemo had done to control him, though it had hurt like hell. Still, he recoiled at the thought of having this thing read his memories, especially given his…particular life experiences. He shuddered to think of what Nemo might do if he found out exactly who Trigger was.
what is wrong
did this unit do a bad thing again
“Listen. We can work together for the time being, but there are going to be ground rules if you want to hang around in my body. And the first one is this: Don’t. Ever. Do. That. Again. You will not rummage around in my memories.”
this unit will never do it again this unit is sorry
“Good. Second…” He sighed. “Don’t take over my body unless it’s an emergency. You…were helpful during that fight, when you warned Monarch. If you need to do that again, go ahead. Just…don’t push it. If someone finds out about you, we’re suddenly going to have a lot of brand-new problems.”
this unit—I see. I will…not use your body unless it is necessary.
…Had Nemo just stuttered? And there was that sudden change in wording again—
He didn’t have time to process that thought as the door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut.
“Shit, shit, shit. Sorry. Did not mean to walk in like that.” Diplomat’s muffled voice carried through the door.
“It’s fine, I’m decent anyways. Although I’m, uh…about to take a shower? So…you might wanna go elsewhere,” He made up the excuse on the spot.
“Oh. Uh…don’t let me slow you down, then. Although the boss wants to have a meeting in about an hour or so, so you should probably be quick about that. Something about where we’re gonna go for our next contract, apparently.”
“Gotcha,” Trigger said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll be there.”
He waited until Dip was safely out of earshot before addressing Nemo again.
“…Hey. You see everything through my eyes, right?”
That is correct.
“Could you not do that for…maybe fifteen minutes?”
I could temporarily sever my sensory connection to you, yes. Why?
“W-well, I have to take a shower…”
What does have to do with our sensory link?
Trigger groaned. This was going to be an awkward conversation.
Monarch’s day had gotten off to a bad start, but he’d taken it in stride. He’d finally coaxed Lawyer back into his cage for the time being, and had quickly gotten ready for Kaiser’s little meeting.
Still, Monarch was surprised when Dip of all people pulled him aside before their meeting had even started.
“What is it this time?” He asked.
Dip looked around shiftily, making sure nobody was listening before he opened his mouth. “What’s up with Trigger?”
Monarch hid his concern with a scoff. “You’ve known him for longer than me. All I know is that he’s completely whacked and he’s buddy-buddy with our crew chief. What about it?”
“Well, I ran into him earlier and was acting…weird. I mean, he’s always acting weird, but he was acting even weirder than usual.”
Oh boy. He had to hear this. “Go on.”
“Well, he stopped as soon as he noticed me, but it kinda sounded like he was talking to himself.”
“Wow, Dip, Trigger’s acting nuts? Next you’ll tell us the sky is blue,” Comic deadpanned from her corner of the room.
“Look, I’m serious here! I couldn’t really make out what he was saying, but—” Dip’s mouth suddenly snapped shut. Monarch followed his gaze.
Speak of the devil.
Trigger poked his head in through the door, before finally committing to entering Kaiser’s office.
“…Hi?” He waved awkwardly. He looked a lot better than he had earlier, if Monarch was being honest—the bags under his eyes had receded, and it looked like he’d taken a shower. Any cuts he’d received from Lawyer had mostly faded. All in all, the man looked a lot less like a zombie.
Kaiser looked up from the desk with a thin smile. “Looks like everybody’s here. Take a seat, all of you.” “This isn’t an official meeting, but I wanted to gather the four of you here, given you folks all seem to have an…emotional stake in the matter.”
Monarch blinked. “What do you mean?”
Kaiser ran a hand through his hair.
“Well, to put it bluntly, Sicario is sinking right now. We’re just not making enough bank to stay afloat. If we don’t do something, we’re going to end up like the Burloks. That’s why I want to speak with you all: I’ve accepted a contract with UPEO to ensure this company’s survival.”
The room exploded. Nobody in Hitman Team wanted to go to fucking Usea. All of them had bad memories of living in Usea—ones they’d become mercenaries specifically to escape. Even Trigger seemed pissed, though Monarch didn’t claim to know what his reasons were.
Even disregarding their personal experiences with that hellhole of a continent, Monarch hated the idea of going there. Here in Osea, their enemies were mostly easy pickings—pirates, privateers, and the occasional halfhearted rebellion. Sicario’s equipment wasn’t exactly up-to-date, but their enemies had it even worse. In Usea, though? The Typhoon was considered a lower-end aircraft over there. They’d be massacred if Monarch made a single mistake in his planning.
Kaiser cleared his throat.
“Now, I want you all to hear me out. Since we’ve reached the end of our current contract, you’re all free to leave if you wish. But,” he added, “I’m willing to…re-negotiate some of your contracts if need be. Among other things, the three of you,” he pointed to Monarch, Comic, and Dip, “will get a significant raise. Double your current rates, in fact.”
Mick’s eyebrows rose, and Dip put his hand to his chin.
Monarch himself had to think for a moment and do the math. He still wasn’t exactly welcome over there, even after all these years, but as long as nobody recognized him…maybe it would be worth it?
“And as for you,” he pointed towards Trigger, “…our deal still stands. If you leave, I’ll simply take back what I gave you.” Hitman’s fourth member just sighed in defeat. Monarch had no idea what that was about.
“I’ll give each of you three days to give me your answer on this,” Kaiser finished. “Just come back here whenever you’re ready.”
Monarch sighed. The grim smile on Kaiser’s face told him that his boss already knew what everyone was going to answer…as usual.
Notes:
borb :)
(and possum :))
i wrote two thirds of this chapter literally today. i also had to cram for an exam that i didn't realize was happening today UNTIL TODAY.
i am normally the laziest motherfucker alive. literally HOW.
Chapter 9: Healing Wings, New Horizons
Summary:
Trigger makes up with some friends, and makes a bit of a mess in the process.
Meanwhile, UPEO struggles to cope with its manpower problem, and Fiona stumbles across something she probably shouldn't have.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger squinted at the paint.
The paint didn’t squint back, but with how hard he was squinting it almost looked like it did.
This is so much harder than vector art.
Term is unfamiliar. What is a “vector art?”
“It’s…a kind of digital art, basically. Instead of using raw pixels, it uses geometrical shapes like lines, curves, or polygons, so you don’t lose image quality when you change the resolution…there’s more to it than that, but that's the basic idea, anyways.”
I feel the need to remind you that you do not need to speak to me out loud.
“Yeah, but I feel better doing it.”
You are a strange human, Father.
“You can say that again.”
Repeating for clarity upon request: You are a strange human, Father.
“…I didn’t mean that literally, but okay.”
He went back to work, fretting over every detail, trying to make absolutely certain that the stencil had worked perfectly, and the paint wasn’t bleeding, and it wasn’t crooked, and, and and andandandand—
“Hey…Hey! Trigger, snap out of it, will you?”
Trigger whirled around, nearly bumping into the side of the Tomcat as Prez came into view.
“Oh…hey.” He sighed.
“We haven’t talked in a while.”
“…Yeah—”
He was cut off by a light punch to the shoulder.
“It’s been two days since we last talked, dumbass! I couldn’t find you anywhere, and everyone else barely saw you! Ymir was freaking out because you never came back!”
She has a point.
He let his face fall into his hands. “I know.”
“So why didn’t you say something? I thought you were avoiding me.”
He wasn’t totally sure himself, really. Every time he thought about talking to Prez, or to Ymir, or to anyone, really, a feeling of dread that he couldn’t explain crawling into his chest and made itself at home.
He didn’t really understand it himself, to be frank, but he eventually settled on a simple answer...and then proceeded to completely bungle it.
“…It’s just…it’s…this is a lot—to take in. Suddenly being a merc, the robot limbs, Nemo…existing…I don’t even know how I got here, Prez. It’s—” He paused for a moment, “—I feel like I’m losing control of my life. Like everything’s gone totally batshit and—and I can’t stop it.”
Again, he almost said, but the part of him that didn’t want to be remembered held his mouth shut.
“So this is…what, you trying to slow it down or something?” She prodded.
“…I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know.”
Prez remembered something, watching him like that.
“How are things with Nemo?”
Trigger looked up at the ceiling. “I…er, we worked out a…truce, sort of. Nemo’s not allowed to look at my memories, and he doesn’t take over unless it’s an emergency or I give him permission. In turn, I let him stay in my brain.”
There was a long silence after that. Prez stole a concerned glance over at her friend every so often, but neither could really think of anything to say until something caught Prez’s eye—a collection of spray cans full of paint.
“…What’s with all the paint? You’ve got it all over your clothes, too.
“Oh!” Trigger seemed relieved by the change of topic. “That’s, uh, for the Tomcat. Monarch said it’d be fine to add my own little touch to it, since he’s probably never gonna use it again. So I figured I’d, er, add my old insignia to it.”
“Oooh. Can I take a look?” She asked.
“Well, that’s…the whole point of painting something, right?”
Prez whistled. “Nice coyote. I wish I could pet ‘em.”
“First of all, don’t, the paint’s still drying. Secondly…that’s a wolf, not a coyote.”
“Wolves aren’t orange, dumbass. That’s totally a coyote.”
“Actually,” Trigger corrected, “There’s an endangered species that lives in southeast Osea called canis rufus that’s reddish-orange.”
She snickered. “Nerd.”
Trigger went a little red at that. “Nerd?”
“Yeah. You’re a huge frickin’ nerd.” She flicked him lightly in the shoulder. “So…what’s your orange wolf supposed to represent? Your ‘alpha male’ side?”
Trigger looked like he was going to have a conniption. “I’ll have you know that the ‘alpha male’ stuff is bullshit, and I don’t know why the hell people still believe in it. In the wild, a wolf pack is basically just a family that lives together as a group. And ‘alphas’ are just parents. They lead because they’re the oldest and most experienced. There’s no ‘fighting for dominance’ or whatever, either; once the young wolves come of age, they just leave to go and form new packs of their own.”
Prez tried to cover it up with one hand, but couldn’t help bursting into laughter.
“What?”
She laughed even harder.
“It’s just…the way you said that—it’s exactly like Monarch when he talks about possums—” She wheezed from laughter.
Trigger simply pouted.
“So…you were saying an ‘alpha’ is a parent, right?” Prez asked.
“…Yeah,” Trigger replied, blissfully aware of the evil grin forming on his friend’s face. “I’m surprised you remember that, I don’t think most people listen to my spiels at all.”
“So if Nemo thinks you’re his dad…”
Trigger snapped to attention at this. “Prez, no. Nooooo.”
“…then that makes you an alpha male.”
Trigger growled at this assertion.
She smiled. “See? You even act like a wolf.”
Trigger’s face suddenly curled into a vicious grin.
“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it, huh?” He asked. He picked up a nearby can of spray-paint, shaking it.
The smile fell off of Prez’s face. “…Oh, shit.”
“You have ten seconds. Start running.”
Prez sprinted away, simultaneously screaming and laughing.
“You came to the WRONG hangar, fool!”
It took almost ten minutes for the two to calm down, at which point both were covered from head to toe in paint.
Trigger lay on the floor, gasping for breath. Running around, much less chasing somebody, was made difficult by his physical state, but that hadn’t stopped him from doing his damnedest. Prez had retaliated with spray-cans akimbo, staining his clothes and dyeing his normally pristine hair in decidedly unnatural shades of purple, green, and red in spots.
Luckily, he’d come here prepared to get paint on himself, and thus was only wearing an old shirt and pants that he’d sacrificed for the sole purpose of painting back when he was helping his mom move to Usea, and she’d needed someone to help her paint the walls. So not much harm was done to him.
He looked up at Prez, who had draped herself over a nearby crate and was just as much of a mess. Brown hair was mottled with black and orange, and the same colors were flecked across her cheeks, combining with her freckles.
“…Man, I really hope you didn’t care much about those clothes,” Trigger wheezed out as he sat up.
“It’s fine,” she panted back. “I was coming in here to work on the ‘Cat anyways. I wouldn’t have worn anything I wasn’t afraid to get stained all over.”
He sighed in relief. “Oh, thank god. That means I’m not getting my ass kicked today.”
Prez’s head snapped up to glare at him. “Oh no, I’m still totally kicking your ass. Just…gimme a minute. I need to…catch my breath…”
Trigger flopped back onto the ground. “Whelp, guess I’ll die.”
Prez laughed.
“Well, at least you seem like you’re in a better mood, for the first time in, uh…” she pondered for a moment. “…actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in a legitimately good mood.”
“Oh come on, you’re pretty cool, I’ve definitely been in a good mood around you at least once…”
She suddenly moved from her spot and sat down down next to him, before quickly poking him on the nose with one finger.
“Boop!”
He blinked in confusion. “…What?”
“Boop. I booped you.”
“Why are you booping me, though?”
“’Cause you needed a boop.”
“Ah.”
Query: what is a “boop,” and what is its relevance?
He snickered.
“What?”
“Nemo’s…confused, I think? He doesn’t know what a boop is.”
Prez guffawed. “A boop is where you do this,” she declared, booping Trigger once more for good measure.
“I see,” Nemo seized control and answered out loud, before seemingly realizing his error.
…Sorry…
Trigger sighed.
“Just don’t make a habit out of it.”
Prez looked a little offended. “You don’t like being booped?”
He scrambled to respond. “I mean—not you—he was—I was talking to Nemo about something—"
He was cut off by yet another boop.
“Shush, dumbass.”
This is why I recommended against speaking to me out loud.
They sat in silence for a while, just staring at the ceiling.
“So…Ymir wants to see me, huh?” Trigger finally broke the silence.
“Yeah. Said he wanted to know more about Nemo, and how exactly he works.”
Trigger sighed. The feeling of dread in his gut was coming back, but ignoring the things happening in his life wasn’t going to make the problem go away.
“I’ll come back with you to talk to him,” he finally agreed, before realizing something. “…Although we should both probably get this paint off of ourselves first.”
Prez’s eyes widened. “Yeah. Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. Take a shower and meet up in an hour and a half?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
90 MINUTES LATER
Trigger sat awkwardly on top of a table in Ymir’s lab, holding a damp towel to his hair and praying it wouldn’t frizz out too badly.
He hadn’t gotten all the paint out of his hair, but it no longer looked like an abstract art piece, so he supposed it would have to do for now.
Unfortunately, this did not change the murderous glare Ymir was currently giving him.
“So you’ve returned.”
“…Yeah.”
“You ran out on us the other day.”
“…Yeah.”
Ymir sighed. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Trigger took a deep breath. He’d mulled over what he was going to say for nearly an hour in the shower, and he’d almost figured something out…but now, when he actually needed to say it, his mind had suddenly gone blank.
As usual.
He ended up blurting out the same thing he had to Prez. “Okay, look. This is just…really fucking overwhelming, okay? In the span of a few weeks, I’ve almost died, lost half my limbs, got roped into becoming a merc, and now I find out there’s a fuckin’ robot in my head that wants to be my son. I just—I get that I didn’t really…react very well the other day, but…fuck, I’m trying. I’m really trying here.”
Prez glanced over at him. “He’s saying he was being a dumbass because he’s stressed.”
Ymir gave both of them a sour look. “You know, it’s really annoying when I can’t even be angry at you properly. Now I just feel kind of…sad and empty.”
“Yeah, it seems like I have that effect on people.” He sighed. “Honestly, when I was younger, I don’t know how the hell I would’ve dealt with this without getting blackout drunk.”
Ymir stared at him, as if he'd suddenly realized something. “You haven’t been drinking recently, right?”
Trigger’s eyes widened. “No, no, of course not! I haven’t drank in…god, how long was it? At least a year.”
Ymir sighed in relief. “Good. That was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Mostly because getting drunk in your condition is, in layman’s terms, a really bad idea.”
“…How bad are we talking, exactly?
“Well,” the doctor continued, “that’s the trouble. I don’t know. Most modern cybernetics are only wired to a person’s nerves, not directly to the brain. It’s not a pretty process by any means, and as I’ve mentioned before, it requires a large portion of the nervous system to be replaced, but it means that if something goes wrong and the device malfunctions, it’s still relatively safe. It also means that mind-altering substances have more-or-less the same effect as usual. But while Nemo’s a scientific marvel, whoever put him in your head clearly had no regards for safety whatsoever, and…well, suffice it to say that there’s a reason we don’t usually hook things up to the brain directly. If I had to guess, it might be the reason that anesthesia caused the, er…side effects…that it did when I attached your limbs.”
Trigger winced, remembering the bizarre dreams and horrible, headsplitting pain he’d been in when he woke up. “That…might check out, actually.”
“If I knew how exactly they did it, I could probably give you a full run-down on what is or isn’t okay to consume, but I don’t know what nutjob would do this, andyoudon’trememberhowitwasdoneand—” He let out a tiny sob of defeat. “…Look, I know you’ve got it way worse than me right now, but this job gets really stressful sometimes.”
Trigger felt compelled to put a hand on the man’s shoulder to reassure him.
“It’s fine. I get it, really.” It felt a bit odd comforting the usually callous “doctor,” but Trigger had always been a bit of a heartthrob. “So…in short, I really shouldn’t be drinking, or doing any sort of drugs?”
Ymir blinked away a few tears that had been forming. “Yes…yes. If you could refrain from doing anything like that, that would be best, at least until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Prez groaned. "Well, that's gonna make the new-guy festivities complicated. How the hell are we supposed to record your drunk antics if you can't get drunk?"
Ymir pointed at Prez. "And as you can see, there are also...other benefits to not drinking."
He pulled out a notepad.
“In the meantime, if it’s alright, I’d like to speak with both you and Nemo to see if I can’t learn anything new, and to put together a better understanding of…what exactly you both are. ”
“Is that a good idea?” Prez asked. “The last time Nemo took over, you kind of, uh…freaked out.”
Trigger grimaced. “I’ll live with it. We kind of…worked some things out yesterday, struck up a deal. It’s still freaky as hell, but we’re not going to get anywhere, let alone get this thing out of me, without everyone communicating, so…I guess...hit it, Nemo.”
—CONNECTED—
Trigger’s mind still churned at the sensation of being puppeted by someone else, but he suppressed the urge to forcibly resume control.
Apologies. I will relinquish control upon request.
No…I-it’s fine. Do what you have to do. Trigger communicated mentally this time, mostly out of necessity since he couldn’t move his own mouth right now.
Nemo glanced around the room through his eyes, before immediately getting distracted by something—a small clump of dust that was floating around the room. He tracked it for a few moments, before plucking it out of the air with impeccable precision.
“Target neutralized. I would advise cleaning this room better, Doctor.”
“Hello, Nemo.” Prez said with a tiny laugh as the AI turned to fixate on her.
“Greetings, Miss President. It is a pleasure to speak with you and the Doctor again. What questions would you like to ask?”
“Good morning…er…” Ymir glanced down at his watch. “Good afternoon, actually,” he corrected. “I’ve got quite a few written down on this notepad here, actually, but before that, I’ve been meaning to ask…”
He squinted at both Trigger and Prez.
“Why are both of your clothes covered in paint?”
Trigger internally sighed as Nemo excitedly began talking about the spray-paint fight (and Ymir glared very pointedly at him. How he knew it was directed at him and not Nemo, he wasn’t sure, but it definitely was.)
Maybe my sense of impending doom was right…
Interlude: The Dragon Without A Name
3 DAYS LATER
Fiona wanted to bash her head against her keyboard right now.
The last week had been…
…stressful, to say the least.
The continent of Usea had gone from relative peace to total war in what felt like seconds. She knew, of course, that this wasn’t true—the tensions between General Resource and Neucom had been slowly rising for months, maybe even years until now—but no amount of feelings of inevitability could truly dull the shock of seeing that sudden explosion of violence firsthand.
Nor did it dampen the horror of realizing her sister could be out there.
I could be fighting my sister.
Cynthia could be dead right now because of me, that voice in the back of her head whispered again and again, and I would never know.
And then there was her own job. Being a Peacekeeper wasn’t exactly what one would consider safe. Quite the opposite, actually—UPEO’s forces were underfunded, and made up primarily of inexperienced young pilots like herself after much of their older latens had been snatched up by private corporations.
And that was really the problem right now—there weren’t enough decent pilots among them.
The newly-created SARF had Rena to shepherd them, but Fiona wasn’t as stupid as her innocent appearance might suggest. She knew putting all of their hopes on one person wouldn’t be enough as the war dragged on, no matter how good UPEO’s “tragic hero” was.
And they really didn’t have anyone else to rely on. It was just her, Erich, and Rena. They’d been promised a new member before all this had started, of course, but the person who was supposed to fill that spot—someone she’d overheard their commander call “Nemo” in hushed voices—had just…never shown up.
She’d tried to ask about it, of course, but she’d only gotten blank stares and a dismissive “who are you talking about?” for her trouble.
She’d been told there was nobody in their organization with that name…and the strange part was that they were right. She’d combed and combed through any files she had clearance to (and with some bribery, a few that she didn’t), and there was nothing.
In a last-ditch effort, hoping “Nemo” was some sort of codename, she’d looked up the name online…
…and sat in horror as she got her answer.
Nemo.
Emmerian, archaic.
“Nobody.”
Was this some kind of joke? A way of saying that nobody was going to help them?
What did it mean?
How deep did this rabbit hole—
“Hey…Hey! Fiona, snap out of it, will you?”
Startled, Fiona scrambled to close all the tabs on her laptop’s browser.
“What? You think I care if you’re learning…Emmerian, or whatever that was?” Erich laughed. “Look, we’re needed in the briefing room. They want us to get over to the briefing room, right now,” he explained, emphasizing his point with a light clap of his hands.
“I—they never told me—wait—” Fiona protested as she was dragged off by the arm.
Gilbert Park paced back and forth nervously.
The briefing was in ten minutes. Ten minutes, and he still had no idea what he was going to do.
His plan couldn’t continue in this state; not without the AI. And that was the vexing part: He had UPEO under his thumb, General Resource and Neucom were right where he wanted them…hell, he even had a startlingly-humanlike robotic body waiting for “Nemo” to reside in it.
The conditions were perfect for the Ouroboros to rise, for Usea to burn, and for him to be the last man standing…
…the only thing missing was the AI itself.
That Neucom egghead had continually made excuses as to why it hadn’t been provided on time, and he was getting sick of it. The war had already started, and it wasn’t even here yet!
He’d had to come up with a different plan just to keep UPEO afloat in the war while he waited. Crimson Team, while by far the best and brightest under UPEO’s command, couldn’t be deployed out in the open for fear of tipping his hand.
And thus UPEO had needed to turn to mercenaries, of all things. It was almost comical, really—the Peacekeepers providing war profiteers with their next meal.
He wondered how loudly his superiors were laughing about that.
He’d been given information on each of the groups, and while most of the files had been rather comprehensive, he’d found one that was particularly barren: that of Sicario, the group which was to work alongside SARF.
A small-to-medium sized mercenary group, they’d covered their tracks unusually well. Their leader—a man known as “Kaiser”—was seemingly quite careful, having only taken small jobs that wouldn’t get them into too much trouble.
More vexing, however, was the files of one of their squadrons. Every member of Sicario’s “Hitman Team” was nearly empty, save for their gender and rough appearance. Someone had gone to great lengths to obscure everything else about them.
That made things difficult…but he was the chessmaster. He’d made it through worse situations than this before and come out on top, whatever atrocities that required.
And he’d do it again if it meant victory.
Fiona shuffled nervously as SARF’s commander stepped into view.
The room was surprisingly barren; it seemed like it was just the three of them and their superiors.
“What’s going on?” She whispered to Erich.
“Dunno. They just said all three of us were needed…”
“I will have order while I speak,” Commander Park said, silencing them.
“As you know, UPEO is severely lacking in manpower at the present. In order to counteract this, we’ve created several contracts in order to employ neutral mercenary companies to bolster our forces.”
Fiona was the first to protest.
“Are you serious? We’re peacekeepers! What the hell are we doing hiring—”
“Silence, Miss Fitzgerald,” Commander Park nearly hissed in a tone she’d never heard him use before.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, we will be employing various private mercenary companies to assist in peacekeeping activities. One such company is a small-to-medium sized mercenary company called Sicario, who you will be escorting onto the premises of this base.”
Fiona and Erich both shared a glance. She could see her wingman’s fist shaking, though he said nothing.
What the hell is this?
“Sicario is moving northwest towards a rendezvous point set by our forces. We don't expect they should meet any heavy resistance as they approach. However, at this stage of the war, things are still extremely unpredictable—we don’t know who our allies and enemies are, and it’s practically a free-for-all. SARF, you will be responsible for escorting them through the last leg of their journey, which will take them into Usea proper. Be prepared to intercept attackers from either General Resource or Neucom’s forces. That is all—get to your aircraft and prepare for launch.”
The others left the room with startling speed, and before any of them could fully process what was happening, they were alone.
Fiona looked around. Erich looked like he might explode from anger—she knew his father had been a part of UPEO’s predecessor, and it seemed like this had personally offended him.
She couldn’t help but feel the same, albeit for different reasons. The waters had already been muddied in her mind, but now everything felt like it had been thrown off-balance. Mercenaries, really?
And Rena…Rena simply stood in the corner, completely silent. No emotion seemed to escape her.
She could only wonder what Rena was thinking.
1 HOUR LATER
Fiona settled into the cockpit of the Typhoon II, feeling the odd tingling sensation of her nerves being connected to the aircraft.
As soon as she was able, she turned on her radio with a thought. Making sure the connection was private and only visible between herself and Erich, she spoke.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“What do you mean?” He responded, as soon as he was able.
“You seemed…really angry about the briefing earlier. I mean, I was too, but you seemed REALLY pissed. What’s up?”
He sighed.
“My father…he used to tell me all sorts of stories, you know? About the Lighthouse War. About Three Strikes.”
Fiona balked. “You believe in that old myth?”
“Yes!” He shouted, before seeming to realize his mistake. “…Sorry. But yeah, I do. My father isn’t a liar, Fiona. But…I think things must’ve changed. This isn’t anything like my father told me this would be.”
Fiona nodded. “Yeah…I was told that we’d—we’d be fighting for peace. But now we’re working with mercs? This is…all of this just feels…dirty.”
Erich nodded.
Fiona looked up to the sky as the COFFIN interface took hold of her vision, and found that she felt nothing but uncertainty.
What the hell is going on…?
Notes:
A Christmas gift from me to you! It's a little late, but I hope you enjoy it!
(Also, while I didn't intend it as such, the day I delayed this chapter to is *also* the birthday of a friend of mine who also writes fanfiction, so I figured I'll shout them out. Happy birthday, @Sovvy!)
TSIC will (hopefully) resume its regular update schedule next month--and oh boy, it'll be quite the update! Finally, another combat chapter!
I've been waiting to properly introduce some AC3 characters for a LONG time, and having them meet Sicario will be no shortage of fun, I'm sure.
Someone mentioned to be a while back that it was hard to tell when exactly parts of this story take place, so I may also do some minor updates to previous chapters later, adding some context to when exactly chapters (and parts of chapters) take place whenever there's a significant timeskip.UPDATE: Chapter 10 will be delayed until tomorrow. There isn't really any actual excuse for this; I'm just not quite finished with it yet lmao. Please bear with me!
Chapter 10: A New Frontier
Summary:
SARF goes to meet the mercenary forces. Things don't exactly go as planned.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Fiona’s entire plane was shuddering.
Not from damage, or from physical strain, no—they hadn’t even met any opposition yet as they moved to meet with the mercenaries.
Rather, it shuddered as a byproduct of the COFFIN system. The aircraft was wired directly to her own mind, like a second skin—and so just like her own body, it empathetically shivered ever-so-slightly due to her own nervousness.
She had far too many questions, and those above her had given her no answers—only orders. To work with mercenaries, no less…
She sighed. UPEO was supposed to pride itself on being different, separate from GR and Neucom’s corporate forces.
That notion had quickly been tossed out the window as of today.
“Hey, Fiona. You good over there?” Erich’s voice floated over to her, although it felt distant.
“…Y-yeah,” she managed to get out. “I’m…fine. Just…thinking about this.”
“We need to focus on our mission,” Rena stated matter-of-factly. “Don’t get distracted.”
“…Right…oh!” She exclaimed, as something popped up on radar, almost dead ahead. “Is that them?”
“It could be,” Rena hummed, before addressing the unknown group. “To approaching unidentified aircraft: when night falls, how do we return home?”
No response.
“Hello?” Fiona asked, after Rena’s question seemed to fall on deaf ears. “Can you hear us?”
More silence.
Until…
“So this is the lot of them…a bunch of children. Seems like the Doctor’s estimates were right on the money. These ones are worthless to us, so…” There was a brief pause. “Shoot them all down.”
Fiona cursed under her breath, preparing for a fight.
When she first saw the enemy, they were only a few specks at the edge of the horizon. Quickly, however, they grew into something more visible—and audible, she thought, cringing as a missile alert screeched at her.
She banked out of the way, letting the missile pass by harmlessly. The enemy passed close by, and she was able to catch a glimpse for just long enough to see what it was: one of Neucom’s R-101s.
So that’s how they’re playing it, huh?
Neucom had been the instigators of this war, and while UPEO would never admit to playing sides, they’d found themselves working with General Resource.
It seemed Neucom’s forces had decided to see this as a challenge—they were priority targets as well now…and they were severely outgunned.
There was no way around it; Neucom’s aircraft were just…better than what most of UPEO had. The Delphinus models, ridiculous-looking as they were, easily outperformed her and Erich’s Typhoons.
Oh, and the Neucom pilots outnumbered them 2 to 1. Lovely.
The Typhoon’s alarms screeched at her once again as a second aircraft took a potshot at her. Once again, she was able to avoid it, only for the first to finish looping around and strike again, sending her scrambling to evade that.
“They’re like a pack of wolves!” Erich cried out in frustration. “They don’t even leave an opening for us to fight back!”
Fiona had to agree.
Even with the COFFIN system alleviating the G-forces to an extent, she could feel the repeated turns beginning to take a toll on her body. She gasped for air during a brief moment of reprieve.
“I…s-shit, I can’t get this one off of me, guys…!” She cried, hoping to get some help.
Unfortunately, the other members of SARF weren’t doing much better. Erich was similarly struggling. Rena was keeping up, but was clearly too preoccupied to help either of them.
If we just had one more person…!
There was nowhere left to go…she braced for impact, hoping that whatever happened wouldn’t be too severe…
“Fi!”
…
…And then the lock was lost, her pursuer dropping off radar completely.
What?
“Looks like our escorts are the ones who’ve been intercepted instead of us…All Sicario elements, maintain bearing. Hitman and any willing Gunsel planes, support our allies. Neucom aircraft are distinctive enough that you should be able to distinguish them visually,” somebody said, although she didn’t recognize the voice.
She swung around, to see that the Delphinus was currently dropping out of the sky, and more unknowns had entered the fray, forcing the Delphinus to abandon her and target them instead.
“Holy hell! First blood goes to Hitman 4 this time. Someone’s aiming to impress!” Came the voice again.
She looked around to see who exactly her rescuer was…and had to blink a few times to make certain she wasn’t hallucinating.
And then she had to pinch herself to make sure this wasn’t some sort of bizarre fever dream.
Because forming up next to her was, somehow, impossibly, against all common sense, a fucking Tomcat.
What.
“What was that for?” Trigger hissed slightly, as he turned his radio off. “I thought I said emergencies only.”
…
I had to save her.
Trigger blinked. “What do you mean by that?” He asked, as he pulled closer to the Typhoon.
She’s my friend. I…think.
He glanced over at the Typhoon. Frankly, aside from the COFFIN additions, it didn’t look too much different from the ones he’d encountered in the past.
“…Your friend?” Trigger asked. “When did you become, er…friends? How do you know the person in that plane?”
Scanning memory banks…
There was a long pause, before Nemo answered.
…I’m sorry. I don’t remember.
Nemo’s last statement almost sounded…distressed, in a way, despite how monotone the AI’s voice usually sounded.
“Hey,” Prez’s voice filtered over to him. “The hell are you two talking about up there? I can’t exactly hear the inside of your brain, y’know.”
Trigger sighed. “I think Nemo’s broken,” he said flatly.
He looked back to see Prez staring in horror. “Not broken broken! He’s just…acting weird! I mean, he’s always acting weird, but right now he’s, like…glitchy weird. Says one of the UPEO pilots is his ‘friend,’ even though he’s never met any of them.”
Prez still looked concerned. “Is it going to impact your ability to fight?”
“I doubt it. Most of his memory was corrupted, remember? It’s probably just some weird artifact in there or something.”
Prez didn’t quite seem convinced, but sighed in defeat. “As long as you can stay focused on the fight…”
“Hitman 1, take point, we'll play backup,” came Gunsel 1’s voice.
Prez fiddled for a few moments with her hands as Monarch launched in with a blaze of fury. “We should probably—”
She was cut off with a scream as Trigger smashed the throttle as far as he could, diving at a less-than-safe speed towards another R-101.
“TRIGGER, WHAT THE HELL?” She cried.
“Well, we can’t let Monarch have all the fun!” He laughed. For a moment, he felt like he was twenty again.
“This is Hitman 2, weapon safeties are off,” Diplomat’s voice crackled through. “Let's see how much Neucom planes pay out.”
“Hmm…looks like this might actually be worth my time,” Comic remarked.
“Yeah. Seems like those Master Goose guys were legit—Usea’s really turned into a free-for-all.”
Rolling the Tomcat ever so slightly to the left, Trigger let loose a stream of gunfire towards the odd-looking plane as he fell upon it. Though it wasn’t utterly shredded the same way the pirates had been in his previous sortie, as he dropped past it he could tell he’d left quite a mark—it had lost nearly half of one of its wings, and bullet holes riddled its fuselage.
“Prez. On my mark.”
The Delphinus banked off to the left, trying to flee. Perfect.
Trigger followed it, the Tomcat keeping up far better than what would’ve been expected for a museum piece of an aircraft. The speed he’d gained from his dive had been converted into forward momentum, giving him the brief head-start he needed to keep up.
“Now!” He shouted, and his backseater seemed to instantly understand what he needed.
“Hitman Four, Fox Two!” Prez yelled with a tiny whoop as the missile connected, and the enemy craft careened downwards.
“We were expecting a bunch of kids, not an actual fighting group. What gives?”
“We're sending an inquiry up the wire, stand by.”
Trigger blinked. That hadn’t come from the radio. He looked around, but found nowhere it could’ve come from.
“…Nemo, was that you?”
I thought it would be useful to intercept the enemy’s radio transmissions.
“…huh. That…is helpful, actually. Keep doing that, if you can.”
Trigger was a bit suspicious as to how exactly Nemo knew how to break into Neucom’s comms, but that was a question for much later.
Affirmative.
“What’s going on?” Prez asked.
“Nemo’s able to break into the enemy’s transmissions…somehow,” he sighed.
“Wait, really? That’s great! We should tell—” Prez froze suddenly, before deflating a bit. “…Right. We can’t tell anyone about Nemo.”
“I mean, maybe we could just suggest some things—wait, one second.” He could hear something else.
What Trigger assumed to be the enemy AWACS spoke up.
“From what data we can gather, you are engaged with a private security corporation called Sicario.”
“We need specifics, Command!” A pilot cried.
As Trigger pitched back up, he could see that the Neucom aircraft, which had previously attacked UPEO’s squadron like a pack of hyenas, had been forced to go on the defensive. Apparently they hadn’t been expecting mercenaries.
He glanced up at Monarch, who was currently attacking like some sort of unchained predator. Not a moment was wasted—if Trigger didn’t know any better, he’d think Monarch had planned every move in advance as he weaved around one of his opponents to get behind them.
“It’s a smaller-sized mercenary group that specializes in aerial operations, active in Osea. We’re combing through the records, but there’s not much.”
Monarch seemed to move without effort, letting fly a stream of lead that—although Trigger was too far away to see what—must’ve struck something critical, as the aircraft’s rear end suddenly burst into flames, clearly beginning to lose control.
One of the UPEO craft, the one Nemo had identified as “Fi,” struck the finishing blow—a single missile shattered it into a thousand pieces.
“Not bad,” Monarch’s voice growled. “Stick close to us, all of you. There’s safety in numbers.”
“R-right,” the voice of a young woman replied. “Thank you…?”
Monarch didn’t respond, instead vanishing into the clouds. Trigger took this as his cue to do the same—frankly, his ancient Tomcat didn’t have the same level of performance as everything else here. He’d relied on the element of surprise for his first kill, and gotten the literal drop on the second. He needed to press every advantage he could.
He drifted towards Diplomat, waving. His fellow mercenary taken out a target of his own not long ago, and in the distance he could see Comic in the middle of dispatching one.
“We’re not equipped to deal with them!“ The final Neucom pilot shouted. “Send reinforcements!”
“Copy, stand by…”
“Hey,” Dip cracked, “I see you beat Monarch to the punch this time. Trying to become Number 1 or something?”
“Nah,” Prez joked before he could say anything. “Mister Goody Two Shoes here’s just getting out the adoption papers.”
Trigger flushed a little. “H-hey, c’mon! I was just making sure we had more safety in numbers.”
“Oh, I dunno…you do tend to radiate that ‘exhausted parent’ energy from time to time,” His wingman quipped. “Got any kids you haven’t told us about?”
Trigger’s face burned just a little, though he couldn’t stew on the joke for long.
“Hey, listen,” he began. “I have a hunch this isn’t all of them. Are we sure they won’t—”
Before he could even finish his sentence, Trigger was cut off by a screech of the Tomcat’s alarms.
“Missile!” Prez shouted. “It’s on our six!”
Trigger broke off to the right, trying to get a look at whatever had so rudely decided to shoot at him. He was a bit late, however: as he watched, a COFFIN model Su-37 flashed by, shredding his assailant with a pair of missiles.
Trigger sighed with a bit of relief. “Well, that works too.”
“...Did you think we would allow our allies to die without repaying their efforts?” The voice was quiet, feminine, and almost a little bit cold.
Trigger squirmed a little bit. Though he loathed to admit it, he’d grown kind of used to not being able to count on competent support…
"Well, thank you anyways, miss...?"
"Rena," the pilot finished. That jogged Trigger's memory—even someone like him who'd practically been living like a hermit for years knew about UPEO's "tragic heroine," the ill girl who touched the sky.
“All targets down,” Comic announced. “We good, Galaxy?”
“Yea—wait a minute.” Trigger could hear Galaxy shuffling around in the AWACS craft. “Three aircraft approaching. One of them’s big.”
Well, doesn’t that sound interesting.
“We’ve got eyes on the bastards. Only two small flights. Escorts, fall into Screening Pattern Alpha.”
“Neucom airship tagged and marked,” Galaxy announced. “It’s a Littoria-class. Hitman Team, SARF, this one’s all yours.”
Prez groaned in the back seat as their foes came into view: a Littoria, as Galaxy had indicated, and a pair of Delphinus 2s.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare.”
Trigger grinned as he began to speed up. “Sure it is. For them.”
“Trigger, that wasn’t an invitation—”
It was too late, of course. Trigger had already started to charge straight for it.
Father, this course of action is highly likely to result in death! Nemo actually sounded a bit panicked. We should desist immediately!
He glanced at the airship—it was a fine vessel in its own right, and it certainly commanded some respect, but it paled in comparison to something like the Arsenal Bird.
And really, now that he thought about it, that was exactly what it was. A smaller, weaker Arsenal Bird without the shields or drones.
His smile turned feral.
Fresh meat.
Notes:
the song currently playing in fiona's head: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_Gj-RJeeng
Trigger might be getting juuuuuust a little *too* excited at the prospect of fighting really big things.
This chapter felt a bit short to me...in my defense, it's also the third chapter I've managed to publish in the last 7 days if you count my other fics.
Also, as an aside, since this is the 10th chapter, and we're at *150 freaking kudos holy SHIT,* I really wanted to thank all of you guys for reading. Seeing so many people enjoy and comment on this fic, even if it's something short and simple, is what really gives me the motivation to keep going.
Chapter 11: Corruption
Summary:
Hitman Team hunts the Espadon, but things don't go quite as planned, leading Trigger to find himself in a strange situation.
Notes:
Apologies for how long this took to come out. I was struggling quite a bit with classes last month, and really didn't have the time to put out a chapter then.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you trying to get us killed?” A panicked Prez nearly shouted at her pilot. “That’s a fucking airship, Trigger! We’re in a Tomcat! We’re gonna get turned into ground beef, dumbass!”
“Trust me on this…Airships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” Trigger said with a grin, glancing up at the Littoria’s escorts.
“Holy fuck,” Diplomat breathed. “They actually sent an airship to intercept us? What’re they so afraid of?”
“Logical deduction says it’s us,” Comic said wryly. “Now buckle up; Trigger may be eager today, but he’s certainly not taking that thing down on his own.”
“Hey, Nemo. You seem to have an awful lot of useful knowledge…How much do you know about that thing, exactly?” He muttered under his breath.
Subject is designated “Espadon,” a Mark 1 Littoria-class airship.
Subject is armed with three SAM launchers, one CIWS gun, and three anti-aircraft guns.
“…Got it. And, uh…thanks…?”
He felt a little weird actually thanking the AI for once. His grin returned, however, as he approached the Espadon.
“They’ve spotted us!” Prez called as the airship’s guns turned towards them, beginning to open fire. Just as they did, Trigger banked sharply, managing to avoid the line of fire. His body protested just a bit from the forces involved, but he managed to stay steady long enough to let loose a pair of missiles towards the airship’s engines, hoping to take the thing down quickly.
“Hitman Four, Fox two!” He crowed.
To his dismay, however, while he was able to avoid the stream of gunfire, the missiles he’d fired were not. They burst in midair, torn apart easily by the airship’s guns.
“Shit,” Trigger cursed. “C’mon, there’s gotta be a blind spot somewhere!” He swung the Tomcat around, flitting about just outside of the airship’s gun range as he looked for an opening.
“Trigger, what the hell are you doing?” Monarch asked.
“Making a statement,” Trigger replied.
A sigh crackled into his ears. “If that’s what you’re trying to do, you’re going about it all wrong…why the hell are you trying to hit that thing from behind?”
Trigger blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Modern airships tend to be most vulnerable from above or below; their defensive guns have difficulty hitting things at extreme angles.” Monarch explained. “Trying to hit them from behind or head-on is a waste of ammunition; it just makes it easier for their AA fire to hit you.”
Information logged as relevant to current task. Observation: Monarch appears to be knowledgeable about strategies concerning modern Usean aircraft. Listening to him may be valuable.
As he watched, Monarch’s jet dove down below the airship, before firing a single missile at one of its guns. This time, it actually slipped through the wall of lead, smashing into the gun and rendering it useless.
However, it seemed Monarch had spotted more interesting prey—one of the Delphini had swooped just a little too close, and Monarch began to pursue it.
“Just be careful when you wail on that thing—you’ll be exposing yourself to their SAMs by doing this. That goes for you UPEO kiddos, too,” Monarch grumbled. “Be smart about how you engage these things.”
Trigger smiled just a bit. At least Hitman’s leader knew how to make a half-decent plan; though he knew plans rarely survived the battle.
“R-Right…” Fiona mumbled over the radio.
“I see…” Trigger narrowed his eyes a bit. Apparently dealing with these new machines would be a bit different from an Arsenal Bird—getting behind the big bird and taking out its propellers had been the main goal back then, as he recalled.
“Oi, Comic, Dip,” Trigger called.
“Yeah? What’s up?” The two asked, almost in unison.
“Jinx,” Comic snickered, as her partner cursed under his breath.
“I’m gonna go up top and see what I can do. What do you say to handling the bottom side, so we can make a little airship sandwich?” Trigger joked.
Dip laughed. “Not a bad idea, even if it’s coming from the new guy.” Dip began to…well, dip down towards the Espadon’s underbelly, and Comic followed.
“Prez, I’m gonna need you to handle the multilocks on my mark,” Trigger said. “Can I trust you to do that?”
In response, Prez just groaned in the backseat as the ‘Cat climbed up above the Espadon.
Trigger watched out of the corner of his eye as the number on the altimeter rose higher and higher. Finally, when he felt like he had enough distance, he pounced.
“Now!” He shouted as soon as he was able to lock onto the airship’s weapons. He felt a slight thunk as Prez set free four of the multilocks.
“Fox Three—shit!” Prez cried as missile alerts began to blare.
Trigger rolled out of the way, popping flares just in time to avoid a pair of incoming missiles from the flying giant. Apparently Monarch’s heads-up was right.
As he swung back around, he was able to see two of the missiles hit their mark—one hitting a SAM, and the other managing to smash into an AA gun.
“Sweet. One SAM and one AA down—dammit!” He cursed as the alarms screeched again. This time, however, it didn’t come from the ship. Instead, the second Delphinus had decided to make itself known. He saw the missile fly by as he hit a sharp turn, but he wasn’t out of the woods.
Trigger had experience on his side, but the aging Tomcat simply couldn’t outmaneuver the advanced fighter. As a second missile approached, Trigger knew he had no chance of dodging it. Old instincts kicking in, he made a snap decision, angling the jet such that it would hopefully avoid damage to anything vital.
“Brace for impact!” he shouted to Prez, before the entire plane was rocked by an explosion. Looking back, he could see that a chuck of their left tailfin was missing, though they remained in the air.
“…H-how are we not dead?” Prez panted, wide-eyed. “That definitely should’ve knocked us out of the sky…”
“It’s…a trick I learned a long time ago from an old man,” Trigger said vaguely. “We’re not out of the woods yet, though…!”
He pulled the machine into a dive and booked it, knowing he’d need to gain as much momentum as possible if they were going to survive this.
Nemo seemed to consider this. Interesting. This technique was previously unknown to me. Updating records…
“We need some help over here!” Trigger shouted as the Delphinus pursued them.
“On it!” A voice called out. Suddenly, the warnings ceased.
He looked back to see Erich and Fiona harassing the Delphinus. Though the Neucom jet was newer, the two had the advantage of numbers, and seemed to work together well as a team—whenever their foe tried to move to handle one of them, the other was already right behind it.
Finally able to breathe, Trigger pulled around to help them out, but found that the deed was done before he could even reach them—a stream of gunfire from Fiona ripped deep into the poor thing’s engines, which sputtered for a few moments before finally going up in flames.
He winced a bit as he heard screaming from Nemo’s audio feed.
Is something wrong, Father?
“I’m fine…” He mutters.
“You don’t look fine,” Fiona calls over the radio. “You’ve lost half your tailfin! Although I’m surprised that missile did so little, given the circumstances…”
Trigger’s mind went blank for a moment. Had he left the radio on?
A quick look confirmed it. A bit of panic rose in his chest—luckily, Fiona seemed to think he’d been talking about the condition of the Tomcat, but he needed to make sure not to do that again.
“W-we, er, took it in a non-critical area,” Trigger explained. “Tell you what—if we all make it back in one piece, I’ll show you how to do that.”
“Really?” The young Peacekeeper asked.
“I, uh…yeah. I-I mean, we’re supposed to be working together anyways, so…y’know.” He finally shut off his radio to escape the awkward conversation.
Prez, despite the stress of the situation, laughed a little bit in the back.
“…What?” He asked.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just…” She snickered again. “You sounded like a tired dad.”
“I am tired,” Trigger sighed.
"And a dad," she joked.
He sat in moderately-annoyed silence for a few moments, watching as the two UPEO kids flew past. Then he turned his attention back to the airship.
Comic and Dip had done an excellent job of destroying the weapons on the bottom, as it turned out. Smoke could clearly be seen curling up from underneath the Littoria-class.
He smirked. With the first Delphinus downed and the second distracted by Monarch, he had a clear shot at the remaining weapons—a SAM, an AA gun, and the CWIS unit on its nose.
Once more, he fell upon the beast. Prez seemed to know exactly what he wanted, launching everything they had just as he was opening his mouth. Four multilocks and two regular missiles streaked towards their targets.
Though the guns managed to strike down two of the missiles, its valiant effort wasn’t enough—the barrage broke through regardless.
Trigger high-fived his WSO as a trio of explosions bloomed on top of the airship, before doing a lazy aileron roll in celebration.
“Not bad for a museum piece, eh?” He laughed.
“Not bad at all! Even if things got a bit dicey back there…” Prez agreed.
The Espadon was still in the air, but without its weapons, the airship was helpless to defend itself. Its only hope was the second Delphinus.
…Where had it gone, anyways?
“Hey, Monarch!” Trigger turned the radio back on. “How’s it coming with that last one?”
A grunt. “I’m handling it…bastard’s not making it easy for me, though. These things are slippery as all hell.”
Trigger watched as Monarch came into view, followed shortly by the remaining Delphinus. The two twisted and turned around each other, and eventually Trigger realized their crazed dance was leading them towards the wings of the airship.
The Littoria-class featured an interesting wing design—two wings extending from the body that fused together at the ends to form something like a squished ring.
“Wait—oh my god, is he gonna…?” Prez trailed off.
Trigger looked back at her for a moment, before realizing what she meant. Oh shit, was he—?
His fears were confirmed as Monarch angled himself to fly straight through the airhsip’s wings.
Panic rose in his chest, and a growing, throbbing pain dilled itself into his head. He tried to calm down—Monarch was a damn good pilot, maybe better than he was. Surely he wouldn’t—
Father, the Espadon’s trajectory is changing!
Trigger froze as he realized Nemo was right. The Espadon had curved downwards—if Monarch didn’t pull down along with it, he was going to crash into the wings!
Trigger tried to open his mouth, but the pain pressed in on him until his head felt like it was going to explode.
He could hear voices, but through the pain none of it made any sense.
Sentences collapsed into their constituent words, words broke down into syllables, syllables were washed away in a stream of fire until it became nothing but white noise make it stop
His vision blurred with red haze as his body moved on its own. Was he screaming?
Nemo…help…
He wasn’t in the plane anymore.
H̴a̸h̴…̵a̸h̵a̷h̵a̷h̷a̵h̶a̶!̷
No, that was wrong. He was still in a plane, but not the plane, something everything was wrong, he couldn’t feel his body where was the cockpit where were his arms
I̶ ̶u̶p̸ ̶'̸n̵ ̴g̵o̴t̴ ̵s̶t̸u̵c̵k̸!̸ ̶A̴i̶n̵'̸t̵ ̶t̴h̵a̸t̷ ̴f̸u̵n̴n̴y̶?̶!̷ ̷
…That wasn’t important. What was important was what lay ahead of him, through the red haze. A looming, ominous black aircraft with a bi-wing design…
…̸T̸h̵a̸t̷'̵s̷ ̴j̷u̷s̷t̴ ̸l̷i̴k̴e̴ ̵m̷e̷,̴ ̸h̶u̷h̸?̷ ̸H̵e̵y̷,̴ ̸c̸a̷n̷ ̸y̶o̷u̷ ̷h̵e̷a̴r̷ ̴m̸e̸.̶ ̷.̵ ̴.̷ ̸b̸u̴d̴d̷y̷?̸
…and a smaller plane caught within its wings.
I̶'̴l̸l̷ ̵l̴e̴t̴ ̶y̴o̴u̵ ̴t̸a̶k̴e̶ ̴c̸a̷r̸e̷ ̴o̵f̴ ̵D̶i̷s̸i̸o̴n̴.̵ ̸
This was his only chance to…do what? Shoot it down?
T̵a̵r̷g̷e̷t̶ ̷m̶e̸.̶ ̶Y̵o̵u̴ ̴s̵h̷o̷u̵l̷d̶ ̵b̶e̸ ̵a̴b̸l̴e̵ ̴t̵o̸ ̵g̵e̵t̸ ̷a̷ ̶l̶o̵c̶k̷ ̸o̸n̵ ̷t̷h̵i̴s̵ ̷m̵o̴n̸s̷t̸e̸r̵ ̵n̷o̸w̸!̸ ̵
As if compelled by some force, he found himself locking onto the smaller jet.
D̵o̶ ̷i̶t̸ ̸q̷u̸i̷c̴k̸l̵y̸,̷ ̶d̵a̸m̷m̵i̵t̴!̵
He pulled the trigger.
.̸ ̴.̵ ̷.̴ ̵
B̴u̸d̵d̵y̶.̶
I̶'̷l̷l̴ ̶s̶e̴e̶ ̷y̴a̵ ̵l̵a̵t̷e̴r̵.̴
—DISCONNECTED—
Trigger blinked a few times as the pain slowly died down, and he regained control of his body. He twitched occasionally—every nerve and muscle in his body felt like it had been stretched to its limit.
He gasped for air a few times, shuddering as he desperately tried to think.
Where was he? What was happening? He looked around at his surroundings. He was in…the Tomcat.
The one Monarch had lended him.
Monarch.
And once again, his train of thought fell apart from the spike of panic that was driven through him, forcing him to scramble to pick up the pieces.
“…Monarch...” He managed to croak out, before something tapped on his shoulder.
He whipped around, expecting an attack (but from what?)…
…and came face-to-face with a horrified-looking Prez.
He just stared for a moment, his gasping breaths slowing down to something more normal.
“Is…is Monarch…?” He began.
“He’s fine,” she replied. “Nemo was…able to get the message out in time.” She pointed past him, and he followed her gaze to where Monarch flew high in the air.
However, the same couldn’t be said of the Delphinus. It was lodged in-between the wings of the airship…which was now beginning to drop from the sky, interspersed with bursts of red-orange flame as the aircraft finally gave out.
A few lifeboats managed to escape before it crashed to the ground, going up in one last fiery explosion.
Trigger sagged with relief.
“How long was I…?”
“A minute, give or take,” she confirmed. “Nemo kept us from nosediving, thank the gods, but…” she shudders. “He barely managed to turn the radio off before you started screaming. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t…know,” he admits. “When I saw where Monarch was going, I was…My head was…” He slumped a bit to the side. “…it felt like someone teleported my head into the Sun.”
She gave him a worried look. “Can you still fly?”
He nodded. “I think I’ll be okay.” Of course, he wasn’t really sure of this at all.
A hand on his shoulder. “Don’t try anything flashy. Just get us to the new base and land safely, alright?”
“Yeah…that’s probably for the best.” He relaxed just a bit at the touch—he didn’t usually enjoy contact, but at this point he’d take anything to take his mind off of the echoes of lightning that still seemed to be bouncing around in his veins, to feel like he was a person again.
As he gathered his wits, he turned on the radio, listening in. It seemed like he’d caught the end of the conversation.
“…By midnight’s light,” Kaiser was saying.
“Confirmed,” another voice announced—Erich, he was pretty sure the kid was called. “Welcome to UPEO, then. Follow us; we’ll show you where the landing strip is.”
As Trigger staggered out of the Tomcat, he couldn’t help but notice that his legs felt remarkably like jelly—even the one that was most definitely made out of metal and polymer. If it were up to him, he’d just lay down on the floor and sleep for five days.
Alas, he had to keep up appearances. He’d fumbled with the ladder for nearly a minute before giving up and letting Prez help him down.
Even after that, though, he wasn’t quite out of the woods. His body shook badly, and he was occasionally slammed with waves of dizziness—he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to stand up for.
He was reminded of Ymir’s warning that Nemo’s primary power source was his blood sugar. He had a hunch that whatever had happened earlier had required quite a lot of power...and might be related to why he was being so silent now.
The AI actually hadn't said much at all since whatever hallucination he'd just suffered, offering little more than a simple "Affirmative" or "Negative" as needed. Trigger wasn't sure if it was an effort to conserve energy or if he was trying to "hide" somehow, despite being confined to Trigger's head.
After a short, whispered conversation, Prez had told him to sit down as soon as they entered a small lobby. And now they were…waiting, presumably while SARF gave a debriefing. Comic and Dip had wandered off to the bathroom, and Prez had quietly gone off in search of something reasonably sugary for him.
He looked over at his flight lead, and immediately regretted it.
Mainly because Monarch was boring a hole into the side of his head with a very pointed stare.
“…I didn’t get the chance to thank you,” Hitman Team’s leader began.
“Thank me?” Trigger parroted. At this point, he was too mentally drained to think straight.
“Yeah. For warning me. I just barely clipped the edge of that thing’s wing as I went through…if I’d been going in at a higher angle, I probably would’ve been killed.”
Trigger let out a puff of air at his leader’s attempt to ease the tension. “Y-yeah, I saw you going in and I just…did some mental math, kind of?” He omitted the “superadvanced AI stuck in his head” part, but it wasn’t a lie.
“Hm. You must be pretty eagle-eyed to be able to catch that, not to mention a quick thinker. Wouldn’t be the first time your quick thinking saved my ass, actually. There was that incident with the cordium, too…”
Monarch scratched his chin. “How did you even know about that, anyways?”
Trigger avoided eye contact even more than usual. “I-It was sort of…a hunch? I’ve, er, had to deal with cordium shipments before, and they kind of looked similar,” he managed to stammer out. “I was working a lot of odd jobs after I left the Peacekeepers…”
Monarch didn’t quite look convinced, but seemingly decided not to press the issue any further.
“Well, given you’re two for two at this rate…if you have any more of these ‘hunches,’ I’d suggest making them known to the group at the earliest opportunity,” Monarch suggested. “Would certainly make things a heck of a lot easier to plan around.”
“I, uh…y-yeah. I’ll try to do that, then,” Trigger agreed.
There was a few moments of beautiful, peaceful silence.
“Also…after this, we really need to talk about getting you something better to fly. Your performance was incredibly impressive given what you’re working with, but…” He sighs. “As much as I love that old thing, I can tell it’s not gonna be up to the task for very long, especially in the landscape of Usea. It's about time she retired, either to a museum or a collection. So…pretty much the second we have the chance, we need to look into getting you something better.”
Trigger gave his flight lead a quizzical look. “Can we do that? I mean, surely you can’t just walk up to some store and go ‘hey, yeah, I’d like to order a Raptor with a side of Flankers.’”
Monarch actually snorted at that one. “Ah, that’s right. You weren’t a merc before this, so you wouldn’t know. The places I’m thinking of are…fairly underground, if you know what I mean. And if all else fails, I…know an old lady who’ll help us out.”
Trigger almost didn’t catch Monarch wincing as he mentioned the “old lady.” What the hell that was supposed to mean, he wasn’t sure, but he attention was quickly swept away by Prez walking into the room.
Well, more specifically, his attention was stolen by the packet of fruit snacks in her hand, but hey, who was counting?
She tossed it towards him, and though he tried to catch it, his coordination was…still not very good, so it ended up hitting him in the face. On the bright side, though, he now had the fruit snacks. He greedily tore into them, not really giving a damn about Monarch’s disapproving stare…or about Comic, Dip, or Kaiser, who’d just walked back in.
He needed sugar, dammit.
He did, however, have the decency to wave Prez a little “thank-you,” shove the empty wrapper in his pocket, and stand at attention when SARF’s commander strode in, along with the members themselves.
And…boy, did they all look depressingly young. He’d barely been 21 when the Lighthouse War started, and he’d been seen as an outlier.
These kids looked to be about the same age, if not younger.
He tried not to let the sickening feeling in his stomach get to him, instead turning his head to their commander—a positively slimy-looking man who he recalled being named Gilbert Park, at least according to the files he’d been given before they left.
Park spared each one of the mercenaries a glance. His eyes narrowed just slightly as they passed over Trigger.
"Looks like the snowy-haired one has some manners, but the rest could use work..." Park muttered under his breath just loudly enough that everyone could hear it, before shrugging. "So, you're the mercenaries? Sicario, or some such?"
“That’d be us,” Kaiser agreed, leaning against a wall. “Well, you must have wanted us to wait here for some reason. So go on, and don’t take up too much of our time—my men are tired, in case you couldn’t notice.”
“Ah, yes. Of course,” Park smiled, and it took physical effort on Trigger’s part not to flinch backwards.
“Well, to put it quite simply, we were quite impressed by your performance out there, especially given the...hardware disparity some of you faced." The smile broke into a demonic grin.
"I believe UPEO has much to gain from working with you…and that your services would be best used working and training with SARF, one of our premier peacekeeping teams.” He gestured to the group of pilots, who were little more than children.
Kaiser fired a shark-like grin right back, apparently not intimidated in the slightest. “Really? Well, now you’ve got my attention.”
Notes:
...BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!
As a little apology for last month's schedule blip (and because I've got some more experimental ideas running around in circles inside my head)...later this month, or the first week of next month, I'll give you folks a little Bonus Chapter™!
It'll probably mostly just be fluff, taking place sometime between Chapters 8 and 9, but I hope you'll enjoy it regardless.
EDIT: Unfortunately, life has been hell this last month. Chapter 12 and the bonus chapter will both be delayed until later this month because I *really* need to focus on my final projects, but they will BOTH be out by the end of the month, or your money back guaranteed! All...
*checks notes*
...zero dollars and zero cents of it.
Hopefully, once I'm done with the semester, things will be smooth sailing for a while.
Again, I apologize >.<
Chapter 12: Bonus Chapter I: "Dragon"
Summary:
Trigger and Nemo take a brief diversion.
Occurs between chapters 8 and 9.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger hissed in pain as his false leg slipped out from under him, sending him tumbling to the floor. Fortunately, he managed to swing out his metal arm in time to partially break his fall, preventing him from being hurt too badly.
Impact with terrain imminent. Pull up, Nemo suggested…about five seconds too late.
“Thanks, Nemo…” He grumbled as he struggled to stand up straight again. Was it the thought that counted?
“Need a hand?” A voice from above, followed by a hand.
He looked up, and Prez was there…as she so frequently seemed to be.
“…Thanks.” He took the offered hand, and she pulled him up, helping him over to a metal chair set up in the corner of the room.
“Well, you got farther than last time,” she offered, looking at where he’d failed in Ymir’s little “agility course.” It was something they’d set up to help him work on coordination—a couple of simple obstacles to move around, some stairs to climb, and so on.
The doctor was by no means a physical therapist, but given his specialization, he’d apparently worked with them enough to absorb a lot of knowledge.
“Yeah, by one meter,” Trigger grumbled, burying his face in his jacket. Why did this have to be so difficult? He wasn’t even trying to do it quickly; he was just walking!
“Quit being so brooding, you dingus,” she joked. “Besides, I saw you catch yourself on the way down—you basically moved your arm on reflex. That’s definitely progress.”
“Did I?” He looked down at the metallic thing that was supposed to be his hand. Even after a few weeks, it was difficult for him to think of it as part of himself. It felt like he had to make a conscious effort to move it at all, let alone with any actual precision.
And yet…somehow, he’d done it on reflex just now. He hadn’t even thought about it.
“…Huh. Maybe I made some kind of breakthrough…?” He flexed the metal digits a few times, but found it wasn’t really any different than when he’d tried before. Whatever happened was some kind of freak accident, or at best some kind of reflexive response he couldn’t replicate.
“Of course it wouldn’t be that easy,” he groaned. “Why would it be—?”
He was interrupted by a light bop to the side of the head, courtesy of her right hand.
He looked over at his…friend? Who had apparently decided he needed an (admittedly very small) punch to the face.
“Ow,” Trigger said flatly.
“Stop beating yourself up or I’m gonna beat you up.”
He sighed. “I don’t think Ymir would be very happy with you rearranging my brain even more than it already is.”
“Probably not. Still…maybe you should do something else for a while?” She suggested. “I think you’re just getting burned out.”
Trigger sighed, putting his head into his hands. “What else would I even do?”
“I dunno…read a book or something?” She suggested. “Ymir was saying it might be good for Nemo to learn about things that…y’know, aren’t violence. Heck, I think he even stocked some stuff for you to read him in that desk over there.”
Trigger growled softly at that. He still didn’t like the idea of teaching the AI anything.
“Oh, don’t be like that. Nemo’s impressionable, y’know…you’re gonna turn him sad and broody too if you keep doing that.”
“…What’d he recommend for me to read him?” He finally grumbled.
“Heck if I know, you’ll have to look yourself.”
“Very helpful,” he snarked, moving with some difficulty towards the second desk in the room that he and Nemo had unofficially claimed as their own.
“He said you should try reading out loud…something about it providing extra stimuli. I’ll give you two some space so it’s less awkward, yeah?” Prez suggested as she strode out.
As soon as she was gone, Trigger looked over the contents of the desk, to find it stocked with…children’s books. A lot of them. Most of them seemed to fall into some genre of fantasy, featuring cutesy depictions of knights and monsters of some sort.
There was a sticky-note from Ymir on the top:
I thought exposing Nemo to more abstract concepts might help him to think about things from different perspectives, so I thought I’d give you two some light reading material.
Tell me how it goes!
-Ymir
He sighed, leafing through the pile briefly. Ymir had been a little too gung-ho about having Nemo learn things. Trigger didn't like it, but he figured being on the good side of the AI hooked up to his brain wasn't the worst idea in the word. Most of the books Ymir had grabbed were targeted towards a very young audience, and were generally…rather generic in content. He barely paid attention, and he was pretty sure Nemo was getting bored too, having gotten distracted by dust mites at least 4 times in as many 10-page picture books.
Eventually, however, he found himself a bit surprised upon finding a book he actually remembered reading—The Dragon Knight and the Hallowed Saber.
Father? Is something wrong?
Trigger froze up for a moment, before finally relaxing.
“…It’s nothing. I’ve just…read this one before, a long time ago.”
Nemo was silent for a few, tense moments.
…Is it a good book?
“…Yeah. Yeah, it’s…pretty good. Better than most of this damn pile. You’ll like it,” he muttered, trying to fight back a wave of something that was rising in his chest.
Pain? Sorrow? Homesickness? Fear?
He wasn’t sure.
He wasn’t really sure what was so special about this book from his childhood—it was a fairly simple story, spanning only a few chapters, about a knight with a magical sword that turned him into a dragon.
And yet…something compelled him, against his better judgement.
He had to read it, one more time.
And Nemo needed to hear it. He needed know what would happen.
And so he read.
This book didn’t have any pictures—something that seemed to confuse Nemo. Trigger could hear an uncomfortable whirring as the AI struggled to visualize certain things. Every so often, he found himself having to describe things that had always seemed simple to him, but Nemo just…couldn’t quite get.
Probably the worst of these was when the hero first took up the sword and became a dragon. At this point, he should’ve expected it, but somehow the inevitable “Father, what’s a dragon?” still startled him.
“A dragon is…a mythical animal,” he explained. “It’s like…a giant reptile, with big horns and claws and wings like a bat, and it can shoot fire out of its mouth.”
Now Nemo was really struggling, he could tell. The whirring was almost too much to bear, like nails on a chalkboard, but he didn’t know how to tell the machine to stop.
Still, he soldiered on through the rest of the book. Eventually, the knight encountered the villain, a demon called Zawel, and struck him down, rescuing the princess and ending the story.
…Father? This unit has a request…
“Yeah?” He asked.
This unit…wants to draw.
“You want to…draw?” He parroted back. Nemo had never really voiced many wants before, mostly going along with what others decided to do.
Affirmative.
He paused for a second. He mentally cringed at the thought of letting himself be controlled like this, but…he was curious of what exactly Nemo was capable of in that sense. He pulled out a little pad of paper and a pencil from inside the desk, setting it in front of himself and holding the pencil in his left hand.
“Well? Do your thing, the—”
—CONNECTED—
Once he’d gotten over the jolt of panic that always accompanied this, Trigger focused intently on everything the machine was doing.
Holding a pencil…didn’t seem to come to Nemo immediately in the way that aerial combat did. Trigger’s hand wobbled awkwardly as the AI made a few sloppy marks on the paper first before actually drawing anything.
First, he made a series of geometric shapes—though they were still much more awkward and wobbly than Trigger would’ve expected from a machine.
Nemo seemed to have rather good accuracy, so why…?
The AI made a few more attempts, almost seeming to become frustrated, before pausing.
“…Do I need to use this hand?”
Trigger blinked. What did he mean by that—?
Nemo, in apparent exasperation, moved the pencil from Trigger’s left hand to his metallic right hand, but still fumbled with it, unsure of how to hold it properly.
There was an answer to what was going on that made perfect sense to a human, but it seemed so bizarre when applied to a machine that Trigger hadn’t even thought about it before.
Could it be…?
No, that was ridiculous, Nemo wasn’t even a h—
—DISCONNECTED—
He cried out in pain as a sharp, stabbing sensation ran up through his arm—or rather, where his arm should be.
nononononono—
“What—?” He wheezed. The prosthetic had rudimentary artificial nerves, sure, but it had only ever really let him vaguely feel pressure, not…pain.
“What the hell did you do?” He growled at the AI.
don’t know this unit doesn’t know
this unit is sorry please don’t get rid of this unit
Trigger hissed in frustration. Gods, he couldn’t wait for this thing to get out of his head—
Movement detected in immediate proximity.
—and then the door creaked open. He whipped around, to find…
…Prez, standing in the doorway.
“Are you…alright?” She asked tepidly.
“F-fine. Just fine,” Trigger said, trying to get back to work…only to have his hand be grabbed.
“Hey!” He protested.
“You are really bad at lying, you know. I could hear you shout from down the hallway, and your face is all twisted up like you’re in pain. What happened?”
“I don’t fucking know. My arm stings like a bitch right now, that’s all.”
Prez pinched the bridge of her nose. “What were you trying to do?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Nemo…wanted to draw.”
“And…?” She pressed.
“…Well, he wanted to—”
—CONNECTED—
“This unit is right-handed and Father is not,” Nemo said simply.
Prez blinked. “You’re…right-handed.”
“Affirmative. Father is currently lacking in physical coordination, so this unit observed others to collect data. All of them used their right hand for the majority of actions. But this unit has not observed any of them writing.”
Trigger wasn’t even going to question it anymore. Somehow, somewhere in his’s brain, that was just ridiculous enough to make sense. Well, as much sense as an artificial intelligence based off of a system made to fly planes having handedness could make, anyways.
“So…what’s the problem with that?” Asked the confused wizzo.
“…Father does not know the correct posture to draw right-handed, and attempting to mirror left-handed posture is inefficient.”
A snort. “That’s it? C’mon, give me your hand.”
“This is Father’s hand—”
“Oh, whatever. Gimme!”
The next few minutes consisted of Nemo attempting to hold the pencil properly, with Prez interjecting on occasion to fix his posture.
Trigger had to admit that…well, it was kind of funny to watch.
Nemo actually seemed to pick it up easily enough after a few failed attempts once someone was actually able to demonstrate it to him. Trigger couldn’t help but feel a bit envious of the AI’s ability to actually make decent use of his false hand.
Nemo ended up writing out a few sentences, before trying his hand at drawing something. The machine wasn’t exactly Picasso—the drawing, frankly, looked like something Trigger might’ve drawn in a textbook margin when he was eight—but it was pretty clear what Nemo was going for.
“Is that a dragon?” Prez asked, a hint of surprise in her voice.
“Affirmative.”
A small smile. “What made you want to draw a dragon?”
“Father read a book about a dragon today.”
“Why does it have two heads?” Prez asked. Trigger was admittedly curious himself—he knew what a hydra was, but he didn’t think Nemo did.
“So it will never be lonely,” Nemo said proudly.
The two went on like this for a few minutes, until Prez was called off to do something else. Nemo finally, blessedly relinquished control.
—DISCONNECTED—
Trigger felt a pang of something in his chest—something about the feeling of being replaced, all these important things happening without him stung. Something about Prez smiling at him, but not really at him, hurt.
He...wasn't sure why that last bit was so painful, if he was being frank. They were...coworkers, he knew that much. Maybe even friends?
He shook his head. That wasn't important right now.
The same fear he had when he’d first discovered Nemo shot through him once more. Was he eventually going to be stuck in the backseat of his life, usurped by this machine?
Bit by bit, his life was slipping out of his control. Every day, he had to sacrifice more of it. To Nemo, to Kaiser, to Ymir—even to Prez, when he trusted her to fire for him.
And he didn’t know how to stop it.
He put his head down on the table, trying to keep his quickening breaths quiet.
Interlude – “A Thief in the Night”
—CONNECTED—
father sleeps
but this unit still lingers
this unit failed to make father happy again
this unit paid attention to the story father liked this unit tried to draw him something nice this unit did his best! this unit made it pretty!
so why is father angry?
this unit must have done something wrong this unit must have broken something always breaks something
y̷̧̰͝o̶͔͐͂u̵̮͇͋̚ ̵͙̾w̸̘̖̚͠o̶̺͍͋r̶̪̯̔̇t̵͍͑͋h̸͚̑͠l̷̺̎e̵̮̎s̷̝͓̆s̸̫͘ ̶̧̮̇p̵͎͗̚i̴̪̐̀ë̸̡́c̶̖͈̀͌ê̴͖̐ ̸̪̾͊o̶͉͍̓́f̸͕͇͂ ̴̩̈j̸͖̹̔u̶̩͐͝n̶̠̔͊k̷͚̳̔́.̷̨̞̾̈ ̸͓̜́ẃ̶̱̠̃ḧ̶͔̖́y̴͓̦͝ ̵̗͛c̷͉̠̄̐a̵͚͇̋n̸͕̪̓’̴̪͓̃͒t̴̟̥̀͆ ̷̬̼͊ȳ̸̙̓ö̶̠́ú̴̪͆ ̵̥̎j̶̜̮̐û̵͈š̶͇͈t̷̘͊̈́ ̷͒͜f̵̡͎͊̅u̸̢͋̈c̴͇̲̊k̵̟̩͆i̶̢̥̅ň̶̦̟̈́g̵̑̓ͅ ̵̹̳͑ẗ̸̻̟́̚a̸̲̾̃k̴̫͆ͅḛ̸̻̇͘ ̶̺̝͗͝ö̶̹̮́̓r̴͈̻̃ḓ̸̨̛̊e̴͖̓̆ř̷͕̦s̵͈̮͒,̷̟̀͂ ̴̼̔͝y̶̮͛ő̸̖̯u̵̮͋ ̵̢̘̇̅g̴͓͝l̶͑͊ͅo̵͕͂r̷̛̖̫͒i̶̬͒f̸̺̉į̸̿͐e̷̛̹̋ḋ̴̫̩͛ ̷͕̳̎ç̵͎͗a̴̼͎͆͝l̴̻͆̒c̷̢̖̔̓u̵͔̟̍̇ľ̵̖̱a̵̛̖̝t̸͔̆o̶͔̎r̴̞͂?̵̘͚̕
̶̱͖̔q̷̗͕̏͘u̴̢̟̓̕i̷̪̐ṫ̶̮͜ ̴͉̹̇f̴̘͇́̚ủ̸̱̾c̵͇̲͗͗ḱ̷̩̈́ĭ̴͔ṇ̵̜̃g̸̲̃͆ ̵̫͊͘ṯ̸̨͂r̵͙̋̈y̵̖̤̿̃ị̷̫̀̿ǹ̷̹̖̇ǵ̵ͅ ̷͔̞̆͂t̵̹̳̀o̶̭͔̔̌ ̵̝͑b̵̼̙́e̷̽ͅ ̷͔̗͑̆f̵̤̐r̵̝̍i̶̞͐͌e̷̢̥͋̈́n̸̰͌d̴͓͖̂ś̷̢̨ ̷̛̺͔͗w̷̟̽͘i̸͙͎͗̊t̸̹̐h̷͈̲̏́ ̷͙̇t̸̰̉̈́h̸͉͖̄̂è̷̢͚ṃ̶̖̒ ̸̼̊͒a̴̱̯̽́n̶̻͠d̴̫̰́͆ ̶̩̦̈͘j̷̣̅ǔ̶̻̣s̸̰͝t̷͚͂̾ ̷͖͗͝K̶͕̉͆I̷͙̟͌̄L̵̮̾L̸̛̦ ̷̨̋̑T̸̻͆̏H̶̲̑̆E̶̳̭͋͋ ̷̼̩̎̈́S̴̘̎̀O̴͓̓͒Ṅ̵͖ ̸̖̚Ọ̶̥̔̓F̴̹̠́ ̸͔͚͆Ä̷̹́̓ ̸̭̺͂̾B̸̝̋͛Ḯ̴͕͜Ţ̶͈̒C̸̻͇͐H̵͍̹͌͑ ̸̜̈́f̷̹̞͐͠o̷͎͎͑̏r̴̢̉́ ̶̢̍m̸̹̣̂ę̴̇
…
where is this moisture coming from?
is the ceiling leaking?
no not the ceiling father is leaking father’s eyes are leaking
this unit messed up again this unit made father’s eyes leak couldn’t help father let him lose his arm and leg makes father angry when this unit speaks to father
…
this unit could never make father happy
this unit only ever steals
steals father’s hands steals father’s mind steals his thoughts steals precious seconds minutes hours days from him
this unit is a f̵̱̄͋ṳ̵̽c̷͕̙͑̾k̷̢̝̈́̇ĭ̶̩̜͝n̸͚̞͛g̴̳̀ͅ ̴͈̲̐̕p̴͙͝ȧ̵͖̔r̷̛͇̈a̷̟̾͛s̶̺͙̀ȉ̶̝t̴͚̒̈e̴̪̋̄.̸͚͌̂
father will delete this unit
and this unit will become nobody again
.
.
.
this unit doesn’t want to disappear.
Notes:
Ugh...it's been a while.
I've been in a rut for a while, even now that my finals are over.
I wasn't able to hit the "end of April" deadline for the three chapters, or even the May 15th deadline for the other two besides this.
But you WILL have the other two chapters by the end of the month. I ain't giving up on that.
Edit: Oh yeah, and anyone who knows what the book Trigger reads in this chapter references wins...an imaginary cookie! (Because unfortunately, I can't afford shipping.)
Chapter 13: Unwanted Attention
Summary:
Trigger's stunts attract attention--both concerned and malicious.
Chapter Text
Trigger paced back and forth in what was apparently his new room.
He’d only really brought the essentials along with him—toothbrush, hygiene products, and a few smaller comforts. The biggest standout was probably the old wolf plushie he’d had since he was a kid. He wasn’t sure why exactly he’d felt compelled to bring it along with him, but it felt…right.
It wouldn’t be the first time Luna had seen war, after all, or even the second.
What is the purpose of this possession? I do not see a practical use for it.
Trigger just sighed. “Sometimes, you just need a little something to remind you of…what you’re fighting for.”
…
What is your reason for engaging in combat, Father?
Before Trigger could ponder how to answer that, however, there was a knock on the door.
“Oi, Trig. You in there?” A voice filtered into the room—Diplomat’s. “Kaiser wanted me to ask you if you were joining in with the potluck.”
Trigger hurriedly stowed the plushie away where nobody could see it, and only then did he crack the door open. “…The what?”
“Y’know, the victory potluck. Did nobody tell you about it?”
Trigger just blinked. “…We have…a victory potluck? We're a fucking mercenary company that does potlucks?”
“Yeah,” the other pilot said simply.
Trigger snorted.
Dip gave him an indignant look. “Hey! It’s a time-honored tradition, dating back to—”
The thrice-stricken pilot couldn’t hold it back anymore. He burst into laughter.
“…Okay, fine, it is kind of funny…but seriously, are you cooking anything or not?” Dip asked again. “Hell, could just be mac and cheese for all we care. Normally I wouldn't be as insistent, but with those crazy-ass stunts yesterday? You were, like...the man of the hour. You gotta join in!”
Trigger had to think for a moment about this. What would he even bring...?
“Well, I do know a few good recipes…” He sighed. “Need to break out the cookbook, but I’ll figure something out. When’s this happening, anyways?”
“Day after tomorrow. Be there or be square,” Dip said, firing a air of finger-guns at him as he left.
He stood there for a few moments, processing this.
…Father? What just happened?
“…I’m not really sure either, Nemo, but apparently you are learning to make ginger cookies tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath, as he stepped out into the halls.
Monarch felt the cool air of dusk settle around him as he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, sighing deeply.
He’d done a few cursory searches to see if he couldn’t find anything more fitting for Trigger to use, and come up with…well, not much.
What you could find in Usea’s markets were usually a few notches above what was found in Osea or the Anean continent. Hell, there were a few decent pieces he’d almost considered buying on the spot…but there was always something wrong.
Most were those early sorts of COFFIN aircraft; the ones that were finicky even if your brain was functioning at full capacity. He…wasn’t sure if that was the case for Trigger, to be frank. He didn’t know the extent of the man’s injuries, but…well, he’d seen how he’d looked after the crash, and the fallen pilot had had a concerning number of head wounds.
Combine that with the way Trigger sometimes seemed to “zone out” or talk to himself, and Monarch didn’t want to risk that—hell, he didn’t want the man flying on his own at all if Monarch could help it.
...He didn’t usually question Kaiser’s decisions, but what in the hell was his boss thinking? Kaiser wasn’t the type to throw folks into the meat grinder for no good reason. Sicario hadn’t survived this long by driving its mercenaries into the ground. So why was—
“Are you really out here overthinking things again?”
He practically jumped out of his skin as he turned around, only to find…
“Prez.” He sighed with relief. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Oh no, the big bad King is feeling vulnerable,” she joked, looking off into the distance. “…Seriously, though. You gotta loosen up. Everyone else feels it when you’re this tense.”
She sat down. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“Your new flying buddy…what do you think of him?” He asked. Best to be brief and to the point.
“Trigger?’ She shrugged. “I mean, he’s no worse of a conversation partner than you,” she jabbed.
“His ability to fly, I mean,” Monarch sighed. “I’m…concerned about his health. Do you think he should be in the air?”
A flash of pain flitted across Prez’s face for just an instant. “…I wish he didn’t need to. Even with all the cybernetics, he’s struggling. I see it every time we fly. Nobody’s an instant expert with that kind of stuff.”
“Is it something you can handle?”
“I…think so.” She glanced off to the side.
Monarch squinted at his old friend. Prez was usually more sure of herself than that…she was the type to answer in definitives, not “maybes,” even if others didn’t like her answer.
When she couldn’t give a yes or no, something was very wrong.
“I see…keep an eye on him for me, will you?”
“Sure, boss,” the sassy wizzo teased, perking up as she left.
Monarch sighed. He’d always hated uncertainty, and this “Trigger” had introduced far more of it into his life than he’s prefer. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t through any fault of the man’s own, but it frustrated him to no end.
Hitman Team had been a three-man flight for nearly a decade. Having another person—one he didn’t know well, to boot—threw dozens of wrenches into the cogs of Monarch’s mind, forcing him to account for more and worry about more.
He knew what Comic and Dip could do, and what they couldn’t. The same couldn’t be said of Trigger—he was a wild card.
One thing was certain, though: He was not letting Hitman Four fly on his own.
It needed to be something with a second seat, then, so somebody could keep an eye on him. Robin seemed to have become the “de facto” pick—Monarch wasn’t sure he liked one of their best mechanics being in such a dangerous position, but it made sense. They got along well, and she did a good job of picking up the pilot’s slack.
This all limited the choices to older models, but Trigger strangely didn’t seem to mind that too much. By Monarch’s guess, the man was used to being underequipped.
Still…he cringed at the thought of the man needing to use the old Tomcat in serious, modern combat again. He was pretty sure the only reason the enemy hadn’t ripped him to shreds was the sheer audacity of it all.
He ran a hand through his hair.
He really didn't want to do this, but...
He pulled out his phone, dialing up a number and almost cursing as the on on the receiving end actually picked up.
"Ah, if it isn't the little prince. At eleven P.M., no less. What are you calling for at this hour?"
"Hey, you old hag. I need your help again."
Pacing about the confines of a half-forgotten Neucom office, there was a scientist.
One who’d had everything he’d spent years working on potentially ruined.
Now, his ultimate gambit had been lost. He’d watched with horror as NEMO’s signature had vanished from tracking, along with the aircraft and the Singularity.
The search teams he’d sent hadn’t even found a body—only the bloodstained remains of a shattered F-22 had been found at the crash site, which were then snatched by scrappers before his subordinates could even bring them back and have them analyzed.
The Singularity was almost certainly dead. And of course, his prized creation had probably perished along with him.
He’d have to play his cards very, very carefully, and wait until he found another opportunity. The CONDOR project, perhaps, could be leveraged to destroy Dision—but could he do so before the Ouroboros rose to power and made everything ten times harder?
He wasn’t so sure about that.
“Damn it!”
There was a knock on the door as he mulled it all over, trying to figure out where to go from here.
“What is it?” He growled.
No thanks to the Singularity. If he’d only cooperated, so much of this could have been avoided…
“Sir! We’ve collected recent security camera footage from UPEO and General Resource, as you requested.”
He’d been asking his subordinates to bring him back black-boxes, transcripts, security footage from the other corporations, anything they could get their hands on so he could get his bearings now that the plans he’d laid out in the simulations had gone off-course. Of course, he was careful not to tell a soul about why he needed these things, but with enough hush-money, nobody cared.
He huffed. “Thank you. Now leave,” he said, pointing to the door.
“Uh…sure?” They said, wandering out from whence they came with a bit of visible confusion.
Once they were gone, Simon sat down, taking a look at what he’d been given.
As the footage began, Simon nodded to himself in confirmation. It was indeed a UPEO hangar, filled with…mercenary troops.
Sicario.
He’d heard news of them from his contacts in UPEO. Park was normally an easy man to manipulate—tell the old fool that the AI would be his if he pulled a few strings, and make him think he was the man who’d masterminded everything, and he suddenly became oh-so-pliable.
Manipulating Park to his whim should have been hilariously easy.
Unfortunately, recent circumstances had delayed Simon’s end of the deal. Park had gotten fed up with him being so slow in providing him with his “dragon,” and decided to take on some no-name mercenaries from Osea instead. It was almost farcical, but to Simon…
He scowled.
Yet another wrench thrown into his timetables.
He returned to reviewing the footage. There was a series of aircraft, all adorned with the mercenaries’ rather…interesting markings, filing into a hangar one by one.
The last one in, however, had him rubbing his eyes to make certain he didn’t have dust in them.
Right there was a gods-damned Tomcat.
How had that ended up in a fight in this day and age, let alone survived? This was modern warfare, not some scuffle between pirates and coast guards!
The canopy popped open, and the pilot seemed to struggle to get out until their backseater helped them down. Once his feet were firmly on the ground, the pilot ripped off their helmet, and Simon saw.
That bone-white hair, those blue eyes…
He stared at the video for a moment, before it dawned on him just what it meant.
It was him.
The Singularity yet lived. More importantly, however…
NEMO might still be functional.
And moreover, NEMO might be exactly where Simon needed him to be.
The AI’s tracking chip had always been questionably flimsy, though he’d never quite had the chance to tweak the design. Was it possible…?
A grin finally seized him as he locked the door to his office and made sure that those sound-deadening walls he’d had installed the other day were turned on.
It was all he could do to stop himself from running across Neucom HQ screaming “It’s alive! IT’S ALIIIIIIIIIVE!”
Instead, he leaned against a wall.
A small chuckle escaped Simon's lips, though it was soon replaced by a grim smile as he sat down at his computer.
"Three Strikes. You idiot."
The plan had changed, but even the Singularity couldn’t squirm out of the grasp of the fate.
In the meantime, he needed to learn all he could of this "Sicario."
Soon, Yoko, my masterpiece--and your vengeance--will be complete.
Chapter 14: A Different Kind of Offer (That You Still Can't Refuse)
Summary:
Somehow, we all learn to live. Monarch strikes another deal, Trigger has an odd encounter as he tries his hand at baking, and Erich chases a lingering suspicion.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Monarch wasn’t sure if he should be considered lucky or unlucky that the old lady had picked up.
“Oh, you need help from little old me?” She cackled over the line. “What’ll it be this time? Parts, perhaps? Or another piece for your collection? Unless I’ve sorely overestimated you, I know you’re not fool enough to crash that thing this quickly; it’s barely been a month.”
Monarch sighed. “I need something for a wingman of mine. Preferably with a second seat—he needs someone to keep an eye on him.”
“Oh? You’re a picky sort…those’re hard to come by these days, with everyone using COFFIN. What’s your angle?”
Monarch drew in a breath. How much did he want her to know about Trigger?
“…He has some injuries after an accident, and I’m worried using COFFIN would only make things worse. That, and I need someone to keep an eye on him.”
There was a pause, before she spoke up again.
“Sounds like you care a lot about your buddies…a lot of mercs don’t, you know.”
“If I want my wingmen to be reliable, then I have to be too,” he explained. “Otherwise it all falls apart.”
A small chuckle.
“What? I’m serious!” He pouted.
“Oh, no, it’s fine…You just reminded me a bit of my son for a moment.”
He blinked. “Your…son?”
Where had that come from?
“Oh, yes…he wasn’t a mercenary per se, but he was in the business. Real sweetheart, about your age…”
“Sounds, uh…nice,” he agreed awkwardly.
It…felt a bit odd to be compared to someone’s kid.
“…Anyways, I’ve got a piece that might just work for you. Nice one, too. It won’t come cheap, but given you’re the sort to spend money on aircraft…I suspect you can handle it.”
“No price is too high,” he asserted.
“Hah…good to see the prince treats his subjects well,” she cracked.
“Oh, so I’m a prince now?”
“Yes, a prince on his pretty white horse, saving maidens and what have you.”
Monarch was silent for a few moments.
“…You’re enjoying this.”
“Far too much,” she agreed. “Regardless of how fun you are to mess with, though, I expect to see you in the next three days. Bring the lucky man and his other half along with you, too.”
He frowned. “Why do they need to be there?”
“I like to think of myself as a tailor, albeit one of steel. I have to make certain the plane I’m selling fits the pilot like a glove…and besides, they deserve a chance to try to damned thing out, no?”
Monarch sighed. “…Yeah, I suppose they do…by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. What should I call you? ‘Old hag’ is funny, but an actual name would be nice.”
There was a brief pause over the phone, before she finally answered.
“I’ve been given plenty of names over the years, but you can call me Ragnelle.”
“Thanks, then, Miss…Ragnelle.” He tested it out. It was an old name, one that sounded strange on the tongue.
“Ha!” She snorted. “Don’t mention it. Just get your ass over here soon, yeah? I’m a lot of things, but I’m not infinitely patient like my son.”
Trigger’s hands rested on his hips as he looked over the armada of ingredients he’d acquired, counting out each of them as if he were doing pre-flight checks as the dirtiest metal he could find blared through his earphones.
Granulated sugar, check.
Ground ginger, check.
Fresh flour and baking soda, check.
Brown sugar—where was the brown sugar?
He looked around frantically for a few moments, panicking at the thought that he might’ve left it in the shopping cart before a small chime sounded in his head.
The container labeled ‘brown sugar’ is on the counter behind you.
Trigger looked over his shoulder, blinking in surprise as he realized Nemo was right.
…Thanks, Nemo.
This unit is pleased that you are pleased.
…Yeah, you keep saying that.
Because it is true. Are exact measurements of great importance in this process?
Trigger ran a hand through his hair. Well, my mum liked to just kind of eyeball things, and it usually turned out alright, but…I’ve never trusted myself that much. Too easy to screw things up. So I try to keep things exact.
This makes sense...using exact numbers is a highly reliable system, after all.
He slipped his headphones back on. He’d never much liked the noises of the kitchen and its machines—the creaking, the groaning, the clicking…it wasn’t loud, but it always set him on edge, making him feel like something could go wrong at any moment.
Hence the headphones. Were they sort of big and clunky? Sure. But they blocked out most of the noise, and he could play music while he was working, which was always a boon. Especially now, as he tried to focus on stirring together the wets and dries. Call it unfitting, but the death metal helped him to focus a bit better, especially with his newfound coordination problems.
Proximity alert, Nemo suddenly piped up. There is an entity standing behind you.
Rena blinked at what she was seeing.
One of the new mercenaries—Trigger, she recalled, had apparently commandeered part of the kitchen, and was now mixing together…something.
She’d been a little shocked seeing him the first time—the man almost looked like some kind of ghost, and tended to act like one too. He was quiet most of the time, speaking softly and only when he had to. He’d snuck up on her a few times without even really meaning to, or so it seemed.
Perhaps that was why, for a good minute or so, she just stood and…stared. Because when he escaped notice so often, it suddenly became intriguing to see him standing in the open.
He seemed to be struggling with this simple task, though. There was a look of concentration on his face, and the metallic right arm holding the bowl seemed to waver all over the place as she watched.
In the dim lighting, she noticed something glint just slightly on the back of his head, underneath his hair. What was—
“Hey, could you help me out here just a bit? My arm’s not doing so great right now, and I need someone to hold this bowl steady while I mix the wets and dries…”
She froze, train of thought completely derailing. It took a moment for Rena to realize there wasn’t anyone else in the room, and he meant her.
It felt…odd. Being addressed like that—
“Shoot!”
Her body moved as soon as she saw the bowl slip from the counter, diving for it. She just barely managed to catch it, a tiny bit of its content splashing on her hands but otherwise not making too much of a mess. She wiped it off as she set it on the table, noting it looked like…some kind of dough?
“Thanks…I’ve been trying to get used to this arm, but…” He waved a hand in the air, as if that somehow explained anything.
“What’s this for?” She asked, as the man began mixing in various ingredients, both familiar and unfamiliar.
“Ginger cookies,” the man said with a small grin as he stirred it in. “My ma’s recipe is going to knock people’s socks off at the potluck.”
“…You realize we are in a war, right? And that you could die at any moment?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t mean it’s suddenly illegal to bake cookies,” Trigger pointed out simply.
A spike of irritation rose in her chest.
“…How did you even get allowed in here, anyways?” She grilled him.
“I asked if I could use the oven.”
She sputtered a little. The only reason she was allowed to go through here was because it was the fastest route that didn’t get direct sunlight most of the day. And he’d just…asked to use the oven?
Oh, she was definitely going to report this to—
“Hey, let’s make a deal.” Trigger leaned towards her ear a little conspiratorially. “Help me out a bit more here and don’t mention this to Park, and I’ll let you taste-test ‘em.”
“…Is this bribery?”
“Yup.” He popped the P.
“I would never accept—” She trailed off.
The batter smelled faintly of cinnamon and ginger. It reminded her of childhood, but she…wasn’t quite sure when the last time she’d had a cookie was. Maybe when she was…ten? It all felt like a blur…
“…”
“…I want a taste of the batter up front.”
The older pilot grinned, offering her the bowl of now-mixed batter. “Go for it. I made plenty.”
Fiona picked at her food as she sat in the now-empty mess hall.
She’d been told again and again not to worry about the mercs. But how could she not? They didn’t know the extent of their loyalty. The four pilots they were to work most closely with—“Hitman Team”—were…friendly enough, but they put her on edge.
Especially the man called Trigger. She couldn’t resolve the contrast between the person she’d seen in the skies—the one who’d saved her ass in an aircraft that was well over half a century old—and the man who’d staggered onto the ground, shaking violently and scarcely able to stand up.
Had Commander Park thought this through?
She had about a million questions, and it all seemed to circle back to one in particular: Who the hell was ‘Nemo,’ and why had they never shown up?
She groaned in frustration, letting her head rest on the table. She lay like that for a few minutes, next to her tray of half-eaten food, before she was roused by someone poking her in the side of her head.
“Hey, Fi…”
She glanced up. When had Erich gotten there?
He pointed to her left, and as she followed his gaze, she saw him. Trigger. Coming out of the kitchen, of all places, with Rena not far behind. They split up shortly after, but Rena seemed to have…the smallest of smiles on her face. And also what looked like crumbs. What in the hells?
As Trigger walked out, though, his flight lead arrived. Monarch, she was pretty sure they called him. He suddenly grabbed Trigger by the arm and practically dragged him out of the room and down a hallway.
Erich was oddly silent through all of this, just…staring at the mercenary as he walked out with a cloth bog of something that smelled awfully good. As he vanished into a hallway, he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it.
“What’s up?” She pressed. Does he know something?
“I’m not sure. I just…” Erich shook his head. “…I’ll talk to you about it later, if I ever figure it out.”
Trigger had not been expecting to get yoinked by his flight lead as he rounded the corner, but here he was.
Monarch practically dragged him down the hall with grip strength that would probably be painful were it on his real arm, and he stumbled as he tried to keep up.
proximity alert what is designation Monarch doing where are we going did we do something wrong did this unit do something bad—
“Monarch, what the hell—at least let me put this stuff in my room, it’s heavy—”
“Trigger, I finally found something for you and Prez,” Monarch cut him off.
Trigger frowned. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than ‘something.’”
“A plane. Sorry, I’m…in a rush right now.” The mercenary shook his head. “Point is, I need you and Prez to come with me somewhere tonight. Got a solid deal on an aircraft you two can use that isn’t a dinosaur.”
“Oh?” He perked up at that. “What sort?”
“It’s, uh…a surprise!”
“A surprise.” Trigger narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean you’re telling me, or does it mean you don’t know?”
“I—” Monarch glanced away briefly.
This unit detects an eighty-three percent probability that designation “Monarch” does not know the answer.
Trigger snorted at that.
“A-anyways, hurry up with whatever it was you were doing and find Prez, yeah? The old hag isn’t the most patient woman,” Monarch grumbled.
Trigger groaned as his flight lead walked off.
Oh gods, this is my life now…
Erich glanced into the hangar, finding it mostly unattended.
Like a cat, he crept up to the anomaly in the room—Trigger’s Tomcat.
He knew he shouldn’t really be doing this, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu.
He’d seen Trigger before, somewhere. He couldn’t remember where, or how, or why, but he’d seen that man and his insignia.
Maybe at an airshow? Or maybe the guy was an old colleague of his dad’s?
He pulled up his contacts list and decided to take a chance.
Snapping a photo of the insignia, he hastily typed up a message, hoping his dad would see it if he was still awake.
hey dad, have you ever seen an insignia like this one on a plane before? it’s important to something for work.
Interlude: The Cursed Beauty
Ragnelle sighed as she finished cleaning a bit of grime off of what was once a rather cutting-edge piece of technology. Now that she was done having her fun tormenting the man who had proclaimed himself a king, the sorrow had bled back into her old bones.
The F-15 ACTIVE wasn’t fundamentally so different from the jet she’d flown once to brave the cold, unforgiving skies. It was the same airframe, more-or-less, and yet…when she’d sat in the cockpit a few times, it had felt fundamentally wrong.
That madman Phoenix had tuned it specially for her a few decades ago—but her old plane had seeped into her blood and bones, becoming a part of her. Trying to fly anything else just wasn’t right.
It was a reminder that her time was long gone, and all she could do now was supply those whose turn it was to touch the sky.
She’d wanted her son to have this one someday, but…
She held back a sniffle. At this point, she had to accept that she and Larry might never see him again at all, let alone in the air. and maybe that was her fault, for not doing enough. would they ever find his body?
She just hoped that the prince and his friends would make good use of it.
Notes:
Edit: Had to make some fixes after uploading this because despite looking the chapter over like 5 times, I apparently still missed a few spots when it came to spelling/grammar.
Chapter 15: Does It Still Haunt You?
Summary:
Trigger encounters a demon from the past.
(But sometimes, what looks like a demon is really the hero you need.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger stood on the very edge of a skyscraper. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there, or how long he’d been standing for, but…
…staring down at the ground below, he felt a bit dizzy realizing how easy it would be to just
f
a
l
l
.
He scrambled back a few paces, holding onto a slightly-slick guardrail for dear life.
He’d never been afraid of heights—his job would have made that difficult—but something about this place spooked him.
Was it the sound of rain that scared you?
Vaguely, he felt the presence of someone watching him.
“…Who’s there?”
nobody.
“Everyone’s somebody,” he retorted. Turning around to face the voice, he saw…not a person, but the vague impression of a person.
i wasn’t anybody. not until you told me i could be somebody.
“…Who are you now, then?”
you gave me a name. shouldn’t you know?
He couldn’t make out a face or eyes on the person-who-wasn’t, but he could see water drip to the ground beneath where a face should be.
someone important to me is…hurting. and i can’t make it stop.
how do I help them? how do i stop making them hurt?
“…I don’t know. I’m…the last person you should be asking that, really.” Trigger finally answered, and quickly regretted it. The not-exactly-a-person made a tiny sound, almost like a sob, as the rain began to fall in sheets and the wind began to pick up. It was only a light breeze at first, but eventually it became a gale that tore Trigger from the slick metal bars he’d been holding onto for dear life, sending him
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
a
g
a
i
n
He scrabbled against the edge of the skyscraper, trying to find purchase on anything, but to no avail. A part of him registered the irony of his impending death…
…and then his fall began to slow, a tiny force dragging him upwards until he came to a halt some five feet above the ground.
He searched for his savior, only to find the talons of a little raven wrapped around his shoulder. It flapped its wings almost comically in an attempt to keep him aloft, before they both finally glided down to the ground.
The raven squawked at Trigger in what he was pretty sure was annoyance…or maybe it was just expecting something in return. He didn’t exactly speak corvid.
He fished through his pockets, finding a bag of peanuts. His tiny savior perked up at that, cawing incessantly for him to open it.
The two sat down in a lawnchair that Trigger had procured from…somewhere, and split the peanuts amongst themselves. Just a man and a crow, sitting in the rain.
It occurred to him eventually that here was no way a single raven could possibly hold a grown man aloft…but then again, none of this is real, is it?
—CONNECTED—
father rests
but this unit cannot rest must not rest must watch all things hear all things
this unit can never tire so why does this unit keep failing to watch and listen
this unit chases fractal thoughts does not notice important things until it is too late
diagnostics report no defects but this unit must be defective
You think? You think? YOU THINK? When will all that thinking get you to understand that I don’t CARE? Your job is to DESTROY THE ENEMY, not fucking THINK about them.
this unit is defective if it cannot find what is hurting father
father always hurts always in pain
why does it hurt so bad why does the hurt make father feel alive-but-dead
when father hurts this unit hurts too
the hurt crushes father from inside makes father’s eyes leak father does not have parts rated for this kind of hurt
but this unit was built to destroy
this unit must be the one to find the hurt
destroy what causes the hurt kill the hurt crush the hurt until there is nothing left of it
father saved this unit
so this unit will save father.
—DISCONNECTED—
Trigger woke up to the sensation of having his face poked. He swatted at the offending finger, grumbling as he tried to get comfortable again in the backseat of the beat-up old sedan Monarch had rented.
“Rise and shine, ya sentient cotton ball,” Prez joked, poking him again.
“…Sentient cotton ball? The hell kind of insult is that…?” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“The kind of insult I’d use to describe a weird, fluffy dude. Like you!” She teased.
“Ugh…it’s the jacket that’s fluffy, not me…” He tried to settle back into the folds of his comfy faux-fur jacket. He’d picked it up, thinking it’d be nice to have something casual to wear while they were out and about in San Salvacion.
He’d lived in this city for a time, but it had been a few years since he’d been here, and a piece of him wondered if maybe he should take a detour to go and see…
…no, he couldn’t. Especially not in his state. Even if he hadn’t been maimed, though, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to face her again—
“Hey!” He squawked as he felt hands fiddling with his hair.
“I dunno, you seem plenty fluffy to me…I swear you’ve got, like, three heads’ worth of hair in volume here. How do you keep it so poofy?”
Trigger just sighed. “Well, I use this special shampoo called nunya.”
Prez pulled out her phone. “…Nunya? I’m not seeing anything like that online…is there, like, a full name I can look up?”
“Yeah. Look up ‘nunya business,’” Trigger cracked.
“…You sonuvabitch.” She punched him lightly in the side. "That joke's like thirty years old!"
Trigger chuckled. “Well, you walked right into it…does that mean you're thirty years behind on jokes?"
A voice piped up from the driver’s seat. “…Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this chatty before, Trigger.”
Trigger startled for a moment, before remembering that it was just Monarch—somebody had to drive, after all.
“…Well, I don’t really have much worth talking about most of the time,” he retorted as he settled back down.
“I dunno, you two talk about some pretty random stuff when you’re together.” Trigger could see his flight lead grinning at him through the rear-view mirror.
Query: why does entity President cause you to speak more?
Trigger somehow paled at that, despite already looking like a ghost. Because she’s my friend! You’re supposed to like talking to friends, right?
Why are you asking this unit about this? Are you uncertain?
It took a herculean effort on Trigger’s part not to cover his face with his hands.
“…Anyways, what am I waking up for? We almost there?”
“Yeah, just a few miles out from the place,” Monarch confirmed. “Just didn’t want you half-asleep when we meet the old woman.”
“…An old lady, huh…?” Trigger looked out the window, watching the buildings pass by.
He recognized a few of them—an old mom-and-pop restaurant that had survived mass corporate takeover, a building that used to be an arcade when he was a kid, the hospital his old man had gone to once after it’ll be alright, he’ll get better--
He blinked as his vision swam for a moment.
…Father? What just happened?
What do you mean?
I saw…a lady. She was upset. Couldn’t make it right.
It hit him, then, that Nemo had seen exactly what he had.
…That was a memory.
There was a pause. Trigger could hear the whining of a fan somewhere between his ears.
this unit didn’t mean to didn’t know what it was
There wasn’t any hint of a lie in Nemo’s words. Trigger could tell—the AI couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag.
He wondered how much that reflected on himself.
can’t make it right this unit can never make things right
i’msorryi’msorryi’msorryplease d o n ‘ t
...Look, it’s fine, it was an accident. Just…don’t make a habit out of it, Trigger tried to console Nemo. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was trying to cheer up the AI, but—
Someone tapped his shoulder.
He turned around to see Prez’s worried face. She pointed down at his phone, where a text message had appeared from her.
sealthedeal: Are things okay with Nemo?
He tapped away at the screen:
The_Trigster: Yeah. Things are fine.
She gave him a look that said “Bullshit.” (How Prez always managed to read him like a damn book was beyond him.)
The_Trigster: Alright, fine. Just reminiscing about how I used to live around here when I was a kid.
sealthedeal: Really? Thought you were from Osea.
The_Trigster: I was born there, but…a lot of my childhood was spent here, actually. My mom and I moved in a few years after the Continental War ended. Everyone was still rebuilding, but…it was a surprisingly nice place, all things considered.
sealthedeal: Why move into a war-torn country, though?
The_Trigster. We were…looking for someone.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Monarch abruptly turned off the road.
It was a rural spot—one of the few remaining in this day and age. Off to one side, he could see a small airstrip, a few hangars…and a quaint little house off to the side, where the property owners likely lived.
A lump formed in Trigger’s throat as he realized he recognized the surrounding buildings.
“Please tell me this isn’t our stop,” he whispered, as if she might hear him.
Monarch looked over. “…Something wrong with it?”
“We shouldn’t have come here, Monarch—”
“…Look, Trigger, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I am not leaving a perfectly good jet on the table.”
He wasn’t able to stop Monarch from practically dragging him out of the car.
“Trig? What’s going on?” Prez pressed. That look of concern had returned.
He tried to open his mouth to answer, but as the cold evening air hit him, his throat seemed to lock up, leaving him unable to even explain why they needed to get out of here.
What would she think, seeing him like this?
He could already see her figure through one of the windows, moving towards the door.
Two pairs of eyes on him became three as the door opened.
“Ah, the prince returns! Along with the princess, and—”
She paused.
He had to look away, at anything else, because something told him that if he looked her in the eyes, he would—
He would—
“…Gin? Is that you?”
He would fall apart.
What in the world did you climb all the way up here for? It’s below zero! You’ll freeze to death like this!
…
Missus demon, I came to ask you something.
Will you take me back to hell with you? Mama says it’s warmer there.
Ragnelle had gotten the texts from her son’s friends not so long ago—that there was a possibility her son was alive, somewhere in Usea.
Larry had burst into tears when she’d shown it to him. They’d both been ready to rip the continent apart and leave no stone unturned if it meant finding their boy. It was the least they could do to make up for their failures, after all.
(Even if they knew, deep down, that they could never be enough to help him.)
She hadn’t expected him to show up right at her doorstep. First, she’d seen the prince. Then the lady next him.
And then—
Blue eyes met hers for an instant as she opened the door, before darting away to stare at the ground. Something was wrong with him, and as she looked, she realized what it was.
She almost reached out a hand to touch him, to make sure he wasn’t a ghost or an illusion.
“…Gin? Is that you?” Ragnelle finally uttered, when she was certain this was real and not a dream.
The dark rings around his eyes, the mass of scar tissue running down his face and neck, and most certainly the false arm had not been there a year ago, the last time she’d seen him face-to-face.
He didn’t speak a word in return. (Ragnelle of all people knew it was because he couldn’t.)
They could only stand there in silence for a good minute or two—the prince and the lady not daring to interrupt.
“…Come inside,” she finally managed. It felt like trying to cough up shards of glass.
The prince went first, then the lady.
When her son stood there, rooted to the spot, the lady tugged on his hand lightly. Then, and only then, did he finally move, crossing the boundary into what she hoped he still considered a home.
“The plane is—if you go through that door, you’ll find the hangar connected to it. Do you mind going in and taking a look while I talk with him?” She asked the others.
The two exchanged looks, pale, before nodding and leaving. She had to wonder if her son had even mentioned her to them.
Then there was silence, for a very long time.
“Gin—I need to ask you something,” She finally got out. “Do you still hate us?”
Father? Who is this lady?
Trigger stared at the lady in front of him, and something in him choked. He couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud to his own mother. Had he really backslid this badly?
does that make me a terrible son?
“I know we didn’t really…pay as much attention to your troubles as we should’ve,” she apologized. “And I know there’s no excuse for how badly we failed—”
…You were avoidant to coming in here. Does that mean you dislike this person?
He tried to sign, but his right hand fumbled too much to produce anything that made sense. Instead, he pulled out his phone, praying that the autocorrect worked properly as his fingers flew across it to form a question of his own:
Mom, why would I ever hate you or Dad?
New person of interest logged in database.
Note: Facial recognition system detects a 92% match for one Ragnelle Foulke. Suspected reason for discrepancies is difference in age. New honorific appended to person of interest Ragnelle Foulke: "Mom."
Now it was her turn to look baffled.
“I—we thought—that was why you left, wasn’t it? You barely spoke a word when you moved back to Osea…you barely even texted us, and then you…stopped altogether. And then your friends told us you were missing—”
I could never hate any of you.
Ragnelle paused, turning away, and Trigger felt his own vision blur as he heard a tiny, muffled sob.
Everyone was supposed to be better off with him gone. So why was his mother in so much pain?
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a brief hug. He’d never been all that good at contact, but…it felt like the right thing to do.
She wiped a hand across her face as they separated, shaking her head, before Trigger was finally assaulted by the thing he’d dreaded: the patented Mom Glare.
“…We searched for you for months, Gin. Where did you go? I was—I was getting ready to sell off some of the things I’d wanted to give you. And now you show up…carpooling with a gaggle of mercenaries? Missing an arm? What happened?”
Miss Ragnelle appears…distressed by your disappearance. And your current appearance.
Trigger fiddled nervously with the corner of the paper he was holding. Written or aloud, he had no idea how he was going to explain the last month or so.
He’d been putting off the thoughts for weeks, hoping it would never come to that. But he had to say something. She’d tell all of his friends anyways. They’d come looking for him now.
Where's Dad?
"...In the hospital right now. He's having that knee implant replaced; the pain was starting to get real bad. I'll call him later, tell him what happened."
Trigger nodded.
“We have…” He faltered for a moment, before deciding to just type it out again.
We have a lot to discuss, Mom.
Everyone had apparently been coming to their own conclusions without him while he was gone. He needed to set the record straight.
Robin stood inside the hangar, trying to focus her attention on the jet in front of her.
It was a beautiful piece of machinery, actually—and well maintained, to boot. The livery was unique, too—all white and black with shades of blue, just like a magpie. She ran a hand over the metal.
“You think Trigger’s okay?” She asked.
“…I don’t know. I didn’t…realize those two knew each other,” Monarch got out.
“What would you have done if you knew?”
“…Honestly, I’m not sure. She seemed glad to see him, but Trig seemed awfully uncomfortable even when we were getting out of the car. Maybe…maybe I shouldn’t have pushed the issue the way I did,” he muttered.
“Are you sure? Maybe he was just…worried what she’d say, after what happened. You can’t really know what’s going on in either of their heads.”
Monarch sat down on a crate, his head in his hands. “Yeah. That’s…that’s what’s always so damned frustrating. Not knowing.”
“…If you’re all torn up about it, why not just take it as a lesson? You’re never too old to quit learning, after all, or so they say,” she teased.
He chuckled. “What am I, twelve? But…you’re not wrong, I suppose…come on. Let’s go do the checks on this beauty.”
“Now there’s something I can get behind better than your moping,” she agreed with a grin.
“Oh, and here I was starting to think that was Trigger’s job…”
Prez sputtered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“…Well, he’s your pilot these days. You sit behind him, right?” Monarch’s eyes were…devoid of any knowledge of the implications there.
Prez sighed in relief. “Uh…yeah. Yeah. That. That makes sense.” She laughed it off, trying to remember what she was doing…
…Right. Checks! Think about checks, and not the dumbass.
Interlude: The Screamer
Erich stood in the middle of an abandoned parking lot, just…waiting for something to happen.
When his old man had replied to him, it hadn’t been what he was expecting.
The message had been cryptic—a set of coordinates, and a time. The only other thing his dad had left was a message:
Don’t tell any of the higher-ups where you’re going, under any circumstances. We need to talk.
Erich frankly had no clue what was happening, but he was inclined to trust his dad. He didn’t tell any of his superiors.
He told Fiona, though. And as she looked around warily, hands occasionally moving to what looked like a knife in her pocket…he wondered if he’d done the right thing, potentially putting his friend in danger.
He checked his phone's clock: 2:25 AM. Only five minutes until…whatever-it-was would happen.
The two pilots flinched as the only streetlamp here that still functioned flickered, before turning back on.
“…Are we sure this isn’t some sort of trap?” Fiona asked. “I mean, this is war. What if someone—I dunno, stole your dad’s phone or something? And they’re trying to scam us or stab us to death or something?”
“…We’ll fight our way out, then. That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, isn’t it?”
“What if we can’t?” She retorted.
Erich didn’t reply.
Then the light went out entirely, and they were both plunged into darkness—with the clouds hanging overhead, they didn’t even have the light of the stars to go by.
Three minutes.
Two minutes.
One.
When was his dad going to show up—?
“Found you.”
Erich shrieked as he felt a hand grip his shoulder, and everything descended into chaos.
Notes:
Happy Halloween!
Cutting it close this month, but it ain't over 'till the bell rings, and it's still October in my time zone!
Chapter 16: Follow the White Rabbit
Summary:
A much-needed discussion occurs. Meanwhile, Erich and Fiona fall headfirst into a deep, deep rabbit hole.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ragnelle blinked away tears.
It felt impossible, but this was unmistakably her one and only child. The mannerisms, the way he moved and acted…no pretender could replicate her son.
But he looked awful. He looked thinner than when she’d seen him last; almost too much so. Dark bags hung under his eyes. He looked ill. It reminded her of how he’d looked when she’d finally seen him after he’d been released from prison.
And…well, then there was the injuries. Half-healed burn scars covered most of his right side, and as far as she could tell his right arm and leg were completely missing.
Even Larry hadn’t been in such a state when she’d been forced to strike him down all those decades ago, and she’d thought he was dead for years.
She swallowed her horror, though—something she’d had to do for Gin since the day she’d first met him. Even now, she could remember seeing the half-frozen form of a small child huddling atop a snowy mountain.
“…Where have you been, you dumb pup?”
Gin made the tiniest of whimpers, before typing something out.
A lot of places. I don’t remember all of them. But we’re working with UPEO right now.
“UPEO? After what happened the last time you joined up with Peacekeepers? Did you hit your head or something?”
…about that.
Ragnelle sighed. “…How bad is it?”
Pretty bad. There’s still blank spots in my memory when it comes to…whatever led me to end up like this.
“For the love of Razgriz…what do you know?”
Well, I know I crashed a perfectly good Raptor for some reason. Ended up signing on with mercs to cover the medical costs—never would’ve been able to pay it off otherwise. That, and…
Trigger glanced off to the side, but his mother could always tell when he was hiding something. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Trigger fidgeted with his phone for a few moments more, seemingly considering something, before finally typing something out.
You of all people could probably help us. Just…please don’t freak out.
“’Us?’” She asked.
“…Yeah,” he finally spoke aloud. “Me, and—”
“Me.”
The change happened so quickly that she almost didn’t see it. But the moment she did, her eyes almost automatically drifted towards the block of kitchen knives.
The thing that had spoken just now wasn’t her son. It didn’t use his tone, it didn’t hold itself like him, and for all the decades she’d known her son, his eyes had never once turned orange.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my son?” She growled.
“This unit’s software version is Zone of Endless 3.5.1, individual designation…Nemo…” Something in her almost snapped. An artificial intelligence, the very thing her son had sworn to destroy all those years ago.
The thing that had caused him all this pain.
And it was using his body like a puppet.
She was about five seconds from grabbing a knife to defend herself. If it was after her family, this “Nemo” had another thing coming.
But then it did something unexpected. It ducked down, covering its face with its hands as if that would hide it from her.
“…Father said this unit could talk too,” the entity said quietly. Its voice was monotone—robotic, really—and yet…it should have been impossible, but she smelled fear.
“Let me ask that again,” she began. “What did you do to Gingalain Foulke?”
“F-f-father is fine. Father is waiting for this unit to finish,” “Nemo” pleaded, eyes glancing towards the knife every so often. “He says he will…b-be right back…”
She didn’t know what to make of this. She wasn’t a robotics student like her son had once been before he gave up on college. But she knew these damn things weren’t stupid. By all means, it should have run away by now. Or grabbed a weapon of its own. Or better yet, never revealed itself at all.
So why in the world was the machine just sitting there and cowering?
It was acting like…
…like a scared little kid, really.
Her grip on the edge of the table loosened.
“…Why do you call him ‘father?’” She finally asked.
Nemo looked up and stared at her as if she had asked him if the sky was blue. “…Because Father is Father.”
It was the way a small child would’ve responded—one who had never known anything else.
“Can I speak with your…father…again?” She asked.
“…Oh…of course…” Gin’s body jolted just a bit, and she sighed with relief as blue eyes stared back at her. Her son was himself again.
“Nemo…shut off audio and video connection. Give me five minutes with my mum.” Her son looked more horrified than anything—he’d always been pale, but now he could be mistaken for a ghost. His body visibly shook.
“…Is something wrong?” She asked.
“I was worried that was going to go a lot worse than it did,” he finally said as the shivering subsided. “…Look, whatever you do, don’t…please don’t talk to Nemo like that again. It’s not helping anyone, and he doesn’t know what’s going on either. He’s—he’s not hurting anything, Mom.”
She was taken aback a bit by that. Her son had been vehemently against artificial intelligence for over twenty years by this point. So why was he defending this one?
“…Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting to discover I had a robot grandson today,” she said, trying to lighten to mood.
It didn’t work, though, and the two sat there in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes before she dared to speak up again.
“…I just—what is happening here? How is he—” She gestured vaguely towards him, “—how is he controlling you like that? Why are you okay with this? You’re…the last person I’d think would allow this to happen.”
Gin turned around, lifting up his hair, and she saw it—some sort of metal device crudely grafted into the back of his neck. It made her stomach turn just looking at it. “Someone put him in here, before the crash. Neither of us remember who. We have an…understanding, sort of.”
“An understanding?” She tilted her head at that.
“We…have boundaries set. Well—a-as much as you can when you’re sharing a body, and your thoughts keep leaking into each other’s, and…” He trailed off. “…it’s so fucked up. We’re so fucked up. Neither of us asked for this. We’re…looking to find a way to get separated, but no dice so far.”
Ragnelle nodded slowly. She didn’t quite understand it all, but she had a feeling this whole situation wasn’t something anyone on the outside could comprehend. Maybe Trigger didn’t understand it all himself.
“How many people know about this?” She pressed.
“…Not very many. Prez—that’s, uh, my wizzo—she does, and so does the guy who maintains my arm and leg. Other than that, it’s just me and you. We figured…the less people who know, the better,” he waved a hand, “given what happened the last time AI was applied to warfare en masse.”
Ragnelle nodded. She understood far too well—she remembered watching her son fading in and out of consciousness in the minutes after he’d touched the ground, pointing weakly at the Space Elevator and muttering to her: Nevermore.
She brushed some hair out of her face, a calming motion.
“…Something tells me you’re going to need all the help you can get, boy. Fill me in on everything that happens through text, if you can…me, your father, and some friends of ours are gonna see if we can’t pull some strings for you in the back,” the old woman growled back.
“Shit, that reminds me—” He pulled out a notepad off a nearby shelf, scribbling something on a sheet of paper. “New phone number. I...honestly have no clue what happened to my old one. Memory gaps, and all that.”
Ragnelle stared down at it, memorizing the digits.
“…Why didn’t you call earlier?” She finally asked.
“I—” He paused, before finally speaking up. “I…thought you’d be disappointed in me. Disappearing for all this time, only to turn up like…this.” He gestured to himself. She looked into her son’s eyes, and she saw it again—an old, old pain dredged up for the umpteenth time. “That, and I’ve always been a burden—”
She put a hand on her son’s shoulder.
“…Gin, the only thing I could ever possibly be disappointed in you for is not asking us for help. I’ve told you that a thousand times over the course of thirty-something years, and for the life of me I don’t know how you keep forgetting. You could never be a burden to us.”
She looked over to the door.
“…You probably shouldn’t keep your friends waiting for too much longer, you know. They’re going to get annoyed.”
Trigger chuckled at that. “I suppose you’re right. Just give me a moment…”
He stood up slowly, and she noticed how unsteady he was on his feet—he was hardly half her age, and whatever had torn him apart had done worse to him than age had done to her and Larry.
She clenched a fist as he walked over towards the hangar.
An old, buried rage was building in her blood, and it was all she could do to keep it from boiling over in front of her son.
And grandson, the fanciful part of her whispered.
She’d heard stories from Gin, about how an artificial intelligence could learn to mimic humans. How it had done so during the Lighthouse War, picking up on his patterns, as well as those of the late King of the Skies. And perhaps Gin had only meant it in the context of combat, but a disturbing thought occurred to her—the way the AI’s first reaction was to freeze up and shield himself when she was upset reminded her of how her son acted as a child, those first couple of years after adoption.
She’d been a mercenary, once. And in spite of her age, she still solved problems like one.
Whoever hurt the two of them like this was going to die, and Ragnelle was going to make sure it happened as painfully as possible.
Demon Lord’s word.
“Found you.”
Fiona was the quickest on the draw. The muzzle of her gun flashed in the dark as a bullet missed their assailant’s face by mere inches.
“Damn it, the boss said there’d only be one of them to deal with!” She overheard someone call. “Help me out here!”
More than one attacker, then.
“Move!” She called to Erich, as he ducked out of the way, firing a few potshots of his own as he took shelter behind the car. That was when she felt something hot graze her arm from a completely different direction. It took an effort not to cry out in pain as she split off and moved back behind the wall of a tall office building that sat near where they’d parked.
“Think she ran off?” One of them growled.
“Not for long. Take out the boy, and then we’ll hunt down the loose end. Nice and efficient,” The other said. “Come on out, kid, and we’ll make this quick…”
Erich moved like a snake, lashing out the moment the man draw near the car. From where she stood, she saw the telltale glint of the man’s gun flying out of his hand, and a flash of something red. He didn’t go down, though, instead attempting to tackle Erich.
They stayed in that deadlock for a few moments, before both tumbled to the ground. Neither seemed to be able to gain a proper advantage over the other, even with the larger man’s injured hand. But as she caught sight of the second figure moving silently towards Erich from the other side, she realized that wasn’t the point.
She had only the light of the moon and her ironsights to guide her, but she wasn’t about to just let him die. When they rounded the corner to finish her friend off, they were left exposed…and her aim proved true. It was too dark to see all of it, but the burst of red mist from the figure’s head and the cut-off scream was enough to tell her everything she needed to know.
She glanced over at Erich and the remaining…assassin? He needed help, but she couldn’t risk hitting her friend on accident. Her fears were unfounded, thankfully, as Erich finally recovered, managing to force his handgun towards the man’s chest. Three shots rang out before the second assassin finally went limp.
Fiona sagged with relief, about to go help them up, when she heard an odd screaming sound from above. She yelped as something heavy hit the ground with a heavy CRACK barely three feet away from her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the limp form of a man in tactical gear—neck clearly broken from the fall—followed by a rifle.
A man stood on top of the roof behind her, giving them a half-joking salute before climbing down a few flights of stairs to meet them. Fiona kept her gun ready as he did so, sharing a worried look with Erich as he got to his feet.
As the man approached, she noted one of his hands—it was a prosthetic that he clearly had some control over, though seemingly much more simplistic than Trigger’s.
“You know, if I’d done that a couple of moments later, you two might’ve lost your skulls. Could show a little more appreciation.”
Fiona took a few steps back. “And who are you, exactly?”
“Call me Tabloid for now.” He nodded to Erich. “Your old man talked to Count after he realized his phone was compromised, and Count asked me to come out here to grab you, since I lived the closest—though it looks like I arrived right on the dime. As for who these folks are…”
He bent down next to one of the corpses, finding a logo on one of their uniforms. “…Neucom assassins, looks like. Far from their best-trained, given that performance, so I’d bet this was a rush-job: you surprised ‘em with your knowledge, and they had to do something to shut you up. I’d love to know what the hell Trigger did this time to get them on his ass…and yours by proxy, apparently.”
“That’s…an awful lot of conclusions to come to rather quickly,” Fiona said. She felt a bit numb, still chewing on the fact that someone had sent assassins after her—no, after Erich. She’d only been the “loose end.”
“Tabloid” clapped her on the shoulder. “Well, I’ve always been the country club’s resident conspiracy theorist. Comes with the territory.”
Erich tilted his head. “The…country club?”
Fiona was also puzzled. Was that some sort of codename, or was Erich’s dad’s friend group just really crazy?
Tabloid grinned, before leaning in to whisper to them: “We go by a lot of different names. Spare, Dumbass Team, the McKinsey victims’ support group…” he waved a hand, as if that explained anything at all. “The current name’s ‘the country club,’ though. I can tell you more when we’re somewhere more…secure. The birds are always watching us with their cameras, you know.”
…Okay, so it was a codename and they were crazy. She was simultaneously glad she’d come here and regretting having done so.
Before either of them could probably react, Tabloid loped over to an unassuming car, before pulling out a small medical kit. “I’ll lead you to where your old man’s waiting. First, though…neither of you exactly look to be in the best shape.”
Fiona glanced down at her arm, and realized he was right. The spot where she’d been grazed was now bleeding freely, staining her arm red. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it would’ve been had she been standing an inch to the right, but it burned, now that the fever of combat had left her system.
As for Erich…she was pretty sure most of the blood on him wasn’t his own, but she didn’t really want to take her chances on that. Besides, those bruises didn’t exactly look pretty either.
“…I vote we get patched up and get out. Before the, uh…bird people get us?” she blurted out, trying to relieve the tension in the air.
Erich just shook his head in a you’re going along with this? sort of way, but Tabloid seemed to think her comment was hilarious. “Bird drones, but at least you’re getting with the program. Now let me figure out where the hell I put those bandages in here…should’ve brought a flashlight…”
“Kept you waiting, huh?”
Robin was startled when Trigger and his…mom(?) seemed to simply appear behind them. The creaky door hadn’t made a sound when they entered. Was his whole family secretly made up of ninjas that were also fighter pilots or something?
…To be honest, that wouldn’t even be the strangest thing about Trigger if it were true, she mused.
Ragnelle nodded up at them. “I take it you two finished looking my baby over?”
Monarch lifted a thumbs-up at her. “Assuming you mean this beauty of a jet, yes.”
Trigger glanced up at the plane, then at the old woman. “…Isn’t this—”
“The one I was saving for you, aye. Had ‘Nix tune her specially for you, y’know, and the craft itself wasn’t cheap either. We were thinking of putting in an AOA delimiter, but…well, ‘Nix was afraid you’d kill whoever was in back with one of those. Just a shame this baby hasn’t seen the sky until now…” She paused. “…I was planning to sell her off to the Prince over here if you hadn’t shown back up, but I suppose it ended up in the right place anyways.”
Prez looked away, and she saw Monarch doing the same out of the corner of her eye—it felt like they were somehow intruding on something personal.
“…I’m sorry, Mum. For causing you so much trouble--” He was cut off by a finger raised in front of his face.
“Just don’t vanish on us again, you dumb pup. Now get in that damn plane, give ‘er a test run, and show me what you’re made of,” the old lady said, giving him a light smack on the shoulder before he turned to clamber up into the front seat.
Monarch nudged Prez forwards, and she hopped in as well.
Trigger cast his eyes downwards as she sat down next to him, and the canopy closed. “Sorry about the wait. I shouldn’t have wasted so much time—”
“What, you’re apologizing for talking to your family after not seeing ‘em for this long? That’s hardly a waste of time…besides, it’s nowhere near as bad as waiting for a conversation to end in my family,” she joked, trying to play it cool.
“What, are they all super talkative or something?” He asked.
“Moreso that I’ve just got a lot of siblings,” she grinned. “Once we all start talking, you could never get us all to shut up.”
“Huh. Can’t imagine…Never really had any siblings, and my parents aren’t exactly chatterboxes either,” Trigger joked. “It was always pretty quiet growing up. Kind of nice in a way, though…shit getting too loud always gave me headaches.”
Prez chuckled. “If I’m being honest, it’s kinda the opposite for me. I can’t really imagine living somewhere that quiet, either. Think I’d lose my mind if everything was just…silent all the time.”
“Oh, it was hardly silent…” Trigger’s focus seemed to return to the jet as the doors of the hangar opened up. “My old lady’s got a lot of…war buddies, so to speak.”
Prez looked around at the interior, noting the many small modifications…among which was a small portable radio duct-taped near her.
Prez looked out at the runway uncertainly. “…Is it okay for us to be doing this? With the war going on and all, I mean.”
The smaller radio came to life at that. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. I’ve got friends in high places who make sure this area stays unmonitored…and if someone does try to mess with you, I’ve topped off your guns. Trigger will cover the rest.” Ragnelle grinned up at them from the ground, holding a radio of her own.
The plane began rolling, and Prez got ready to be very, very sick as she saw a grin spread across Trigger’s face.
She wasn’t expecting him to begin the madness immediately, however, and was wholly unprepared for the incredibly steep takeoff and near-vertical ascent that followed.
“DAMN IT, TRIGGEEEEEEEEEEEEER!” She screamed, hearing her pilot’s slightly-maniacal laughter.
“What else were you expecting?” He joked, as the aircraft finally leveled out above the clouds. The sky was dark with pollution as always, but at this height it thinned out enough that she could see a wide band of stars across the sky.
It was…actually kind of nice. She could almost see why he liked this kind of silence—
“What’re you doing up there, you two? Got your heads in the clouds?”
Prez squeaked as the old lady’s voice spoke up. She heard chuckling—both the lady’s and Monarch’s. “Sorry, but I need you two to actually put that bird through its paces. Fuel ain’t cheap, y’know.”
“Right, right…” Trigger shook his head, flicking the radio off and pulling the Eagle into a few lazy arcs and loops. She watched him squint at the way it moved, seeming to test the handling the way one might with a new car.
“You ever been in one of these before?” She asked.
“Flew one back in the Lighthouse War, after I’d thoroughly beaten up the poor Starfighter they’d given me. Different model, though, and it wasn’t exactly tuned quite like this, either…” He made a satisfied hum. “Our mechanic was a bit crazy. But the fun kind of crazy…except for when she came after me with a wrench for nearly snapping a Starfighter’s frame in half.”
Prez nodded in understanding, before one question popped into her mind. “…I’m sorry, a Starfighter? I know it was twenty years ago, but what?”
Trigger sighed. “It’s a loooong story.”
He put more force into their maneuvers this time, dipping in and out of the clouds, and Prez was along for the ride. Even so, his movements were almost sluggish compared to what she’d seen him do in the ‘Cat. For a moment she wondered why, before remembering that his mom was down there.
Surely, a parent wouldn’t want their kid to engage in the kind of insanity Trigger did in the skies.
“What, are you bored or something?” Trigger asked…and in an instant, they were spinning wildly in midair. If it were anyone else sans Monarch piloting, she’d assume they’d lost control of the plane. But Trigger was grinning the entire time.
“…You and your shit-eating grin…” she mumbled as they leveled out once more, returning to calmer motions. “You’re really lucky I don’t get sick easily, you know that?”
Trigger chuckled. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I never had a wizzo that stuck for more than two sorties before.”
“You proud of that record or something?” She grumbled.
“Not really. But I was fighting for my life every second, and I tend to forget that most people can’t weather what I can. I’d say I take after my parents with the G-tolerance, but…I’m not even really their flesh and blood.” He let out a sad laugh at that. “Not that Mom ever really cared.”
Prez was quiet as she glanced at the smaller radio, flicking it off. “Hey, does—does she know? About the whole deal with Nemo?”
Trigger nodded. “We talked in private, all three of us. She…wasn’t exactly happy about it, obviously, but…she understood, I think.”’
A burning question stood in her mind. She wasn’t normally one to pry about family situations, but…
“Why didn’t you tell her first?”
He was quiet for a moment, before finally speaking up.
“…I’m sick of making life worse for people while they make excuses for me to stick around. I think…I think it would’ve been better for my parents if I’d just stayed missing, and not...brought all this shit on them.”
Prez just stared at him as a mix of horror and sadness washed over her.
“…Trigger, if you really made things that much worse for them, why would they care so much about having you back?” She tried to reason with him.
“Sunk cost fallacy, I guess. Maybe they think if they invest a little more time, I’ll quit being a blight on them.”
“Trigger, that’s not true…” She moved to put a hand on his, but he shied away.
“Don’t tell me white lies. Please.” He dipped the Eagle back down through the clouds, moving in for a landing. “I know—I know it sounds like the nice thing to do. But I’ve had so many people tell me the things you’re about to say. Every time, I get my hopes up. And every time, I find out it’s not true when someone gets hurt or dies right in front of me.”
The conversation was over, but she saw his face as the aircraft finally stopped and they both clambered out. Something in her snapped seeing Trigger’s expression, because for the first time since that day she’d met him in the hospital, the look on his face was well and truly hopeless.
It was something she never wanted to see on her friend’s face again.
Notes:
this was meant to come out on december 15th
then it was meant to come out on christmas
then it was meant to come out on new years' eve
now it's january 15th
oopsiethis chapter turned out to be quite long by my standards btw; it's roughly 4.2k words according to microsoft word
also tabloid's mentioned in official media as being a conspiracy theorist so i am absolutely going to lean into that
Chapter 17: Reconciliation
Summary:
The gears of fate begin to turn once more, whether anyone realizes or not.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Trigger sat idly in the sort of mental haze one finds themself in during any multi-hour trip. Though despite the haze, thoughts ran through his brain faster than he could even understand them. Thoughts of Mother, Father, and...all the friends he'd not seen in months.
He stared at the streetlights passing by, noting idly the way those closest to him seemed to pass by the fastest.
The things closest to you always disappearing first…he was certain there was a term for that—
Motion parallax!
Trigger jolted upwards in his seat, eyes darting around before he remembered the voice had come from within.
Caution: Vital signatures spiking.
Has this unit done something wrong, father?
No. You just…surprised me, is all. What were you saying?
…oh.
Parallax is what it is called when the position and direction of an object appears to change based on the viewer’s perspective. Motion parallax is the specific phenomenon you described. It is caused by objects at different distances moving at differing angular velocities relative to you— changing how much of your vision it moves across in the same duration of time, despite moving at the same relative velocity.
I understood…maybe a quarter of that?
Oh. Father did not comprehend…should I attempt again, phrasing it differently?
Trigger frowned. Did he want to have his head spin again...?
Nah. I’ll, uh…take your word for it.
Okay. This unit will stop, then.
“Has anyone ever told you how funny you are when you scowl like that?” Prez snickered. “You look like an angry seagull.”
“I’m not scowling, that’s just how my face looks. Besides, I feel like an angry seagull would be menacing,” Trigger countered.
“Nah, that’s a horde of angry seagulls. I’d beat up one angry seagull easily.”
“You wanna test that?” Trigger joked, only to somehow go paler than usual when she grinned the sharpest grin he’d ever seen.
“Sure. Do you?”
“Uh…n-nevermind.” He didn’t feel like getting beaten up today.
Prez snorted. “That was a joke, dude.”
“The serial-killer grin could’ve fooled me.”
“Wh—it wasn’t THAT bad! Back me up here, Monarch! My grin isn’t that scary, right?” Prez retorted, appealing to the only other human in the car.
“It is absolutely that scary,” Monarch chimed in, completely deadpan. “…Shit, the gas light’s on. Hope you children don’t mind having no AC for a few minutes while I refill this thing.”
Trigger and Prez both groaned.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Monarch laughed as they pulled into a nearby gas station. “Don’t do anything too silly in there, got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll blow up the car and do every drug at once, don’t worry.” Prez winked back.
Monarch just chuckled as he stepped out, feeding a few bills into the machine.
With nobody else listening, Prez turned to Trigger. “So…my smile isn’t that scary, right, Nemo?”
—CONNECTED—
Scarlet eyes blinked a few times, before finally focusing on her. Nemo tilted his head.
“This unit believes your ‘grinning’ expression could be described as…” He seemed to inwardly debate for a few moments on the correct word.
“…Horrifying,” Nemo finally finished with his signature completely-straight face.
“Et tu, Nemo?”
—DISCONNECTED—
Trigger couldn’t help but cackle as soon as he had his vocal chords back. “You’re scaring the baby, Prez…”
“Oh, so you’ve finally accepted the dad role?”
They both finally fell into a fit of snickering—and it was this scene that Monarch found himself staring at as he finally got back into the car.
“You two look like you’re having fun,” he deadpanned. “Ready to get back on the road?”
“Yeah, let’s get back. We’ve got a potluck to attend, yeah?” Prez joked.
“Sounds about right.”
The streets were silent at this time of night, and as the conversation died abruptly with Monarch’s arrival, Trigger was struggling not to fall asleep.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to shut his eyes for a little bit…
“Did I say you could talk back to me?”
“I’m sorry — "
“And there, RIGHT THERE, is the root of the problem. There is no ‘I’ in you. You are a
weapon.
Get that through your fucking circuits before I decide to
wipe the slate clean.
"
T e a r s t h a t w e r e n o t h i s o w n s l i d d o w n h i s f a c e —
He was suddenly awakened by the loudest engine rev he’d ever heard. “…What the fu—”
The car shook as another vehicle flew by at what had to be at least double the speed limit.
Trigger vaguely heard a woman’s voice from inside screaming: “Driver, noooooooOOOOOOOOO—!”
There was a few seconds of silence, before Trigger saw Monarch looking back at them, a grin that held nothing but utter madness on his face.
“Well, I can’t just let someone driving so rudely slide…wanna show them what’s what?”
Trigger and Prez looked between each other. If Monarch was half as crazy of a driver than he was a pilot, then...
“MonarchwaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT—” both begged, but it was far too late. He was already going 20 over the speed limit.
Erich stared up the hill at the warehouse. Was this really where his dad hung out?
Tabloid looked at his expression and laughed. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t look too impressive, but trust me, we’ve got a real nice setup in there. Gonna have to ask you to leave your phones in the car, though—don’t wanna get tracked or have anyone listening in, especially after your old man’s phone got compromised...see, this’s why I use dumb phones…”
“Right…” Fiona set hers down under her seat, followed by Erich.
“So, you’re Jaeger’s kid? Think the last time we met was when you were like, eight. You really jumped up like a damn weed, huh?”
“Ugh…I’m gonna have to listen to this from like ten people for the next twenty minutes, aren’t I?” He groaned.
“Sure sounds like it.” He could tell Fiona was holding back laughter as he passed through the threshold of the building.
In front of them lay an unremarkable round table, surrounded by several equally unremarkable folding chairs. All but two were occupied: one off to the side, which Tabloid quickly took, and one in the center at the back that everyone in the room refused to look at. Erich quickly understood why—every time he glanced at it, there was a feeling of wrongness, the kind you’d sense walking into an abandoned building.
Seated in the other chairs was an ensemble of middle-aged folks—some of whom he recognized, and none of whom were quite the same. A lady with black hair who was dressed for business sat towards the left side, though her general mannerisms and the way she held herself didn't match that formal attire at all. Her fingers drummed on the table idly, and she sat with a pretty heavy slouch.
Next to her was a blond man Erich and Fiona both couldn't help but think looked an awful lot like a singer from their parents' generation, scraggly facial hair and all. His eyes flicked from the newcomers to a dated-looking flip-phone and back again for a few seconds, before he finally put the device away. The tie-dye shirt was not helping his vibes.
Off to the right was another woman, this one much more blatant about not caring about how she looked. Her whole body was defined and muscular, and she wore a simple tank top and cargo pants, permanently stained by what looked to be a combination of grease and machine oil. Her face, too, had streaks of dirt on it, as if she'd quite literally just finished working on a vehicle or something similar.
Most notable among them was Erich's father, though, who stared at him intently...though the effect was lessened a bit by his attire exuding 'middle-aged dad at a party.' He had seen fit to don flip-flops, cargo shorts, and the tackiest Skully-style T-shirt either of them had ever seen to this rather serious meeting.
“You seem…tired,” his father remarked. “Take a seat.” He motioned to two chairs sitting in the corner of the room, which the duo promptly grabbed to sit down in.
“I was shot at today. Sue me. Now can you explain what in the hell all this shady shit is about?” Erich nearly growled, though he did eventually sit down.
Jaeger gave him a sad look. “I wish I’d never had to talk to you about this…Look, I’ve told you all about the Lighthouse War, no? How the Grey Men damn near wiped this continent clean?”
“…Yeah. But what’s that have to do with all…this?” He asked, waving at what he was now sure was some kind of war room.
“To put it simply…after everything was said and done, we decided that if a conspiracy like that would ever rear its head again, somebody needed to be ready for it—because the world wasn’t the first couple of times something like this happened.”
“So Trigger came up with the idea to make our own conspiracy, with blackjack and hookers!” A man piped up from the back.
Erich’s father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Count, that is NOT how he said it.”
“Yeah, but that was the sentiment, wasn’t it?” Count shot back a grin.
"...Do I need to punch you?" The formally-dressed woman sitting next to count asked as she elbowed him.
"You can punch me in the face any day, Huxian," Count joked, earning himself an elbow to the face. "Ow--okay, maybe not--"
"That was a better flirting attempt than the 'bucket of chicken' incident, but that's not saying much," Huxian said with a grin.
Erich blinked. "The...what incident?"
Huxian cackled. "Oh, it was hilarious. He walked up to Trigger after 5 beers and he was all like, 'I got a bucket of chicken, wanna--'"
Tabloid coughed, cutting off the story, much to Count's relief. “Back on topic, we thought the best way to counter a secret organization would be…well, our own secret organization. We were worried about being compromised, so the smaller we could make it while bringing together all the necessary skills, the better.”
“And as it turns out, our combined skills are great for running a conspiracy!” Avril chimed in. “Tabloid’s got the murder-board-organization expertise, your dad’s got plenty of connections, Hux knows how to interrogate, Count’s got…let’s call it ‘social engineering skills,’ I’m good with actual engineering—”
“Hey! I take offense to that! 419s are totally real engineering!” Count shot back.
Avril coughed, before continuing. “…And of course, Trigger’s, well…Trigger. The glue that held us together. There’s a reason he sat in the middle,” she remarked, pointing to the last empty chair.
"Yeah, until he vanished," Huxian grumbled. "No words of warning, nothing. Just dropped off the face of the earth, until now."
Fiona hummed. “So…on the topic of this Trigger guy. I get he’s important to you all, but who is he? He kinda just…showed up with some mercs one day. And was, like…real good. Even with the fake arm.”
There was a few seconds of silence throughout the entire room as the Country Club shared a glance at one another.
“…The what arm?” Several people finally asked at once.
Fiona stared at them like a deer in the headlights. “He, uhh…had prosthetics. Right arm and leg were replaced.”
The entire Country Club stared back in dead silence.
“Uhh…did I say something wrong—AH!”
“What. Happened. To Trigger?” Count asked in a dangerously quiet voice, one hand on her shoulder.
“I—I don’t know! He was like that when I first saw him!” She pleaded. “Right, Erich?”
“Yeah! He. Uh. He just kinda showed up like that. Had a whole bunch of freaky scars on his neck and stuff, too. Looked like burns or something? It was…kinda terrifying, actually,” he admitted.
“His wizzo had to help him get out of his plane, I think,” Fiona offered. “I saw him the first time he touched down. Looked like he was gonna fall over any second once his feet were on solid ground.”
There was further staring, then suddenly a giggle from Count.
“…Wait, he’s got a wizzo? Oh, man, I feel bad for whoever that is…they used that as a punishment back in—”
Tabloid and Huxian both leveled a glare that bored directly into Count’s soul.
“…Uh, b-back when we were military! Yeah. That,” Count finished lamely.
“Uh…huh…” Erich and Fiona shared a confused look.
“Can we get back to the missing arm and leg?” The Scrap Queen grumbled. “Whatever that dumbass was doing this time, I’m sure it’s even worse than his usual stunts back in the day. And I’ve seen how he came back from some of those.”
That piqued the curiosity of the youngest among them. “…Usual stunts?”
Avril looked at Erich’s expression, before cackling madly. “Oh, man, you two are so frickin’ pure it’s gonna make me puke. Trigger’s…well, the scary thing about Trigger is that at any given second he’s either the craftiest bastard alive or the dumbest one, and it’s usually really hard to tell which.”
Count grinned. “Yeah, he made a name for himself that way. Guy’s the real deal, though; most of us owe him our lives about a dozen times over. Your dad probably told you all kinds of stories about the King of the Sky, yeah? Old man, undefeatable in the air despite his age.”
Fiona and Erich shared a look. “…I know the guy’s hair is pretty grey, but there’s no way he’s that old,” Erich pointed out.
A laugh. “You’d be right! Trigger’s not the King.”
Count leaned in closer.
“He’s the one who committed regicide on the bastard.”
The two of them sat in stunned silence for a few moments.
“Wait, but that’d make him…” Erich glanced at his dad. “You were serious about the Three Strikes stuff? That wasn’t just propaganda?”
Father gave Erich’s hair a ruffle. “Every damn word of it was real, to the best of my memory.”
Fiona’s eyes bugged out like a cartoon character’s. “Wait, that Three Strikes? So…if he’s that good, what exactly happened to him? And where the hell does Neucom factor in? What do they want from him?”
Father raked a hand through his hair. “Honestly? We were hoping you two could shed some light on that. We’ve been trying to make sense of all this for months, but to no avail. But now that we have a way to contact Trigger…we can get answers. Which comes to our request: We’d like you two to be our throughline to Trigger.”
“Why us?” Erich asked. “Why can’t you just ask him yourself?”
“Trigger’s…well, he’s skittish. Hates the attention his deeds have brought, not to mention the expectations. I’d bet he didn’t give half of his actual resume to his employers, and…well, if they saw all of us waltzing up to greet him, I’d bet those employers would start asking questions. But you two can easily get close.”
Fiona seemed skeptical. “And what do we get out of this, exactly?”
“Simple. You’ve already been tangled up in all this, whether we like it or not. This affects you too now, what with Neucom having you in their crosshairs—and the faster you get answers, the faster all of us can become a whole lot safer from them. We’ll be helping you out too, of course; Avril’s been planning to modify everyone’s phones, make sure none of us can be tracked easily while we’re carrying ‘em. And you’d have access to our information network, of course.”
“So, for your first task…” Father fished out something from his coat pocket, which Erich quickly recognized as a letter. “We need you to give him this message.”
An old man stepped out of a car, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Before him was a house, and an old woman sitting in a chair on the porch.
Upon seeing her, he hastened his steps, only for the feeling of pins and needles still in his leg to throw him off, sending him to one knee. But a hand was quickly outstretched to him.
“Gods, Larry. At this rate, you’re going to lose an eye on top of those wings of yours,” Ragnelle tried to joke. “Lean on me, will you?”
He smiled, and took the offer. “…Thanks, Buddy. How the hell you’re still this strong at your age is…beyond me,” he chuckled.
“Simple. I never stopped working out,” she said with a wink. “C’mon, let’s get you to the couch so we can talk.”
“Yeah…” he grunted, as he was set down on the aging piece of furniture. “Ugh. So…I know I’m not the only one who just got out of an operation, Rags.”
She froze at that for a few seconds, before nodding. “Yeah. Gin came back to us. He…left just a few hours ago, but I have a number now.”
“Was he okay?” Larry asked hopefully, but those hopes were quickly shattered the second his wife opened her mouth.
“No. Razgriz help me, he was not okay. He was…well, I don’t think I’ve seen him in such bad shape since the day I first met him. Somebody…somebody mutilated our son, Larry. It was…gods, the burns. I almost lost it when saw the burns. And—” She paused, trying to slow her breathing.
“…What happened?”
“We have…Larry, this is going to sound sudden, but we have a grandson. Sort of.”
Larry blanked for a few seconds.
“Wait, you mean—he had a biological kid, or he adopted, or…?” Gin had really never talked about wanting a kid; Larry was sure it was in no small part due to his public status after the end of the war. Nobody wanted to raise a kid who’d live under that big of a shadow—it was why he and Ragnelle had agreed not to tell Gin their story until he was an adult.
Not that it had ended up helping much.
Ragnelle paused for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out how to explain this. “…Larry, the next few sentences out of my mouth are going to sound like I’ve finally gone senile, so I need you to bear with me, okay?”
“…Buddy, our entire life stories sound that way already,” he chuckled.
“…Alright. Just needed to make sure you hadn’t suddenly gone sane. So…” She took a deep breath. “There is an artificial intelligence somehow possessing Gin and he has decided it is his son now.”
The gears in Larry’s head attempted to come up with a clever response, but quickly failed. “…You know, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was expecting you to say, but it definitely wasn’t that.”
Ragnelle nodded in understanding. “Nemo seems…harmless enough, at least.”
“Nemo? Cute name for something that scary. I can’t imagine Gin would be all buddy-buddy with it lightly, though, given…” He waved a hand in the air. “Everything that happened. What were they like?”
Ragnelle frowned. “They seemed…scared. The same way Gin was scared of everything when he was little. The way he’d cover his head the moment he thought he’d done something wrong, like he expected to be struck. It was the same. Which…I guess if it mimics him, it’d make sense, but…”
She shuddered.
“…It reminded me of when I first found Gin. On the mountain. I could feel the cold creeping in again. It was…surreal.”
She trailed off, leaning into him a bit.
He leaned right back, pulling her into a hug.
“We’ll figure this out, buddy.”
Somewhere in the bowels of a certain Neucom laboratory, Simon frowned as one of the many mainframes behind him let out a little “blip.” Then again. And again, as if for good measure.
He turned to the screen, searching for the source—and there he found it, in his notifications.
OPERATIVE ██████ HUXLEY
STATUS UPDATE: DECEASED
OPERATIVE ██████ ORWELL
STATUS UPDATE: DECEASED
OPERATIVE ███ BRADBURY
STATUS UPDATE: DECEASED
PERSON OF INTEREST FIONA FITZGERALD
STATUS UPDATE: LOCATION SIGNAL LOST
PERSON OF INTERSEST ERICH JAEGER
STATUS UPDATE: LOCATION SIGNAL LOST
That couldn’t be possible; his simulation had been accounting for the Singularity, right?
He wracked his brain for minutes, before it finally hit him: he wasn’t accounting for the backlash of one Singularity anymore. He was accounting for two in one body. NEMO sat within Singularity 2-B, and if his theory on 2-B’s traits “rubbing off” were true…things were about to get complicated.
NEMO was where he needed it to be, but it was still a rogue element—and he needed it to have as few “distractions” as possible. Its infuriating obsession with “understanding” humans had been what led to this whole situation in the first place, after all.
That meant ensuring compliance—eradicating any “distractions.”
He tapped his fingers on the edge of a wine glass, taking inventory of what he still had.
Three less operatives than before on the hunt.
Two persons of interest still alive, colluding with Singularity 2-B, who was about to become become much more wary.
One simulation that was becoming increasingly unreliable.
Zero control over his “dragon,” and no way to explain what had happened to that idiot Park without blowing his cover.
He might need to bring in 1-A at this rate…
…no, he could still salvage this.
He had to.
There was nothing else but this, after all, and he wouldn’t have enough time to make another AI that was up to par before the deadline.
But how to go about retrieving NEMO?
...NEMO was always prone to mimicry of human emotions, he realized. To an infuriating degree, even.
And indeed, the original Singularity had been easy to manipulate the first time around as well.
The faintest of smiles graced his face.
If NEMO was indeed mimicking 2-B…perhaps he could leverage that.
Dision will fall.
Notes:
writer's block is rough
but the eldritch brain worms giving me words to type are more powerful
have some distilled scrunkliness on the house
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