Swan Song

by Tr8shM8gic

Summary:

A “what if” based on the Ace Combat 6 - Mission 15 Easter Egg where there is radio chatter saying:
"Galm 1, do you read me? Shoot down the enemy ace and your reward will be multiplied by ten".

When two stars collide, nothing is left but a void.

Updated: + an alternate ending (C4) - Whump & Fluff =)

Notes:

I was not intending to write this but thanks to fantastic folks on the discord community (you know who you are =), I am giving this a whirl!

Timelines are not canon (it’s based on an Easter Egg after all). More info in the end-notes of chapter 1. Non accurate usage of ACM/BFM terminology.

Chapter 1: Galm

////// Pixy //////

 

This engagement was shaping up to be longer and tougher than he expected.

 

He strained against the accumulating Gs as he banked a hard right, popping a string of flares to disorient the missile closing in from the Emmerian viper.

 

“2, dive. Hard left.”

 

He reacted instantly to Cipher’s commands, pushing his jet’s nose downwards to gain speed through the turn. The viper took the bait and dove after him, spending precious seconds trying to secure a lock on Pixy’s accelerating Eagle.

 

“1, engaged.”

 

A well-coordinated trick. Pixy would have grinned if he wasn’t panting this hard. He leveled off, straining tired neck muscles as he searched for a visual on the bandit and his flight leader. He saw the Emmerian viper break hard to escape Cipher’s weapons envelope, but Cipher did not give chase.

 

“Not going after him?”

 

“Negative. Our mission is to protect Sanctum 1. Stay on the defensive and hold up until Estovakia fires the Chandelier. And, what matters is that you’re okay.”

 

“Copy.” What matters is that you’re okay. It still amazed him that they got to this point in their relationship after all that happened between them in the Belkan war. “Buddy, you don’t need to look out for me that much. I’ll be fine.” Let me look out for you too.

 

“You’d better be.” He sensed relief in Cipher’s voice. “I’m not going to Wellow without you. That was your idea.”

 

“Hey, it’s not that bad! Just a few more jobs and we’re gone. Then, it’d just be you and me.”

 

“Yeah... Just you and me.”

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Pixy - 6 months ago //////

 

Pixy watched from beside Cipher as his flight leader negotiated the terms of their contract with the Estovakian Air Force commander. “Stingy asshole” he masked as a cough. Cipher nudged him discreetly and he tried to suppress a grin.

 

“At that price, we will provide cover for ground units on the eastern front.” Cipher was not budging.

 

“And how about the Angel of Emmeria?” But neither was the commander.

 

“You have Strigon for that. At this price, no-can-do. Garuda 1 requires a renegotiation.”

 

“You are pushing your luck, Galm 1.”

 

“The last I checked; you were the one who approached us. You know what we can do. Your front-line has receded from Bartolomeo, Anea and Silvat. Now, if I’m right, ferrying your generals between strategic points without getting them shot down is starting to become a problem. But, what do I know? I am just a mercenary.”

 

The Estovakian commander was gritting his teeth, but Pixy did not hear a retort. “I’ll double your pay to 6 million Estovakian Korna. Each. You’ll have to fly cover for Sanctum 1, the transport platform for our generals. Drop the ground unit cover. Sanctum 1 is more important.”

 

“Now we’re talking! Ink it down in Zollars. Today’s exchange rate, 2 million, each. We’re not taking currency risk. Half now, half when the job’s done. And 4 grand a day for every day we push past the 8-month mark. Then, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

 

The commander gave a curt nod. So, these people could pay. Pixy’s eyes followed the commander’s hand as he picked up a pen to edit the contract. He knew Cipher was watching as closely as he was. He saw his Buddy raise an eyebrow when the commander hesitated over the signature line.

 

“How much for Garuda 1?” Pixy wanted to roll his eyes. That guy just wouldn’t let it slide.

 

“Ten times the current agreement. Half upfront, half when the job’s done. 40 grand each day after 8 months. Double, if my wingman has to engage Garuda 2. And I’ll need an additional transfer clause.” Cipher didn’t miss a beat. Pixy raised an eyebrow. Had he thought it all out before?

 

The commander seemed to be thinking hard. He let out a sigh and proceeded to sign the contract. Garuda 1 would be left to the Strigons after all.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The corridor was empty when they exited the war room. Pixy took the chance to close the gap between them, bumping Cipher’s shoulder playfully. “Buddy, I don’t know how you do it. I would have danced a jig and sang ‘pay peanuts, get monkeys’ at the start and blow the whole thing. But you got a good deal out of it.”

 

“I would have liked to see you dance a jig. And sing.” Cipher brushed his fingers over Pixy’s, and Pixy caught Cipher’s hand in his.

 

“Hey Buddy… you know I’m hopeless at contract stuff. You call the shots, I support. I’m curious though, I've never seen such a drastic price escalation as the one you mentioned for these Garuda people. Were you just shooting for the stars or what?”

 

The old Cipher would not have bothered explaining, expecting his wingman to execute without question. Why should he need to, when he was so much above them? But this Cipher was different. Perhaps time had made him more caring; or perhaps, it was something else. Their hands were still linked when Cipher led him into the nearest empty conference room and shut the door behind them.

 

“So, I was thinking about what you said about living a hundred klicks off Whitebanks. You’re right. It’s quiet enough to disappear, convenient enough to not be totally isolated -”

 

“I knew it! You’re coming round to living with me in Wellow!” Pixy tightened his grip on Cipher’s hand in excitement. That got him a smile from his flight lead.

 

“I will follow you anywhere, Pix. But year-round winter? You’d better be thinking about how to keep the house warm. And, that’s related to my point. Do you know how much it would cost to disappear without a trace, live in relative comfort, and ensure it stays that way?”

 

Pixy frowned. That hadn’t crossed his mind. “Hm... I don’t know? A million? Two million? We could just get up and go, figure things out along the way? The house doesn’t have to be big. And we’re nearly there, right?”

 

He remembered then, that most of their money was in fact, Cipher’s. His defection during the Belkan war earned him no rewards. And while he took up a rank-and-file position with the ISAF ground forces, his Buddy had been growing his, now their, wealth through shrewd contracting on defensive jobs that did not bring unnecessary attention.

 

Cipher feigned surprise and motioned him closer. When Pixy took a step forward, he whispered into Pixy’s ear “Nearly there? Corazón, we have 15 million zollars.”

 

“Woah! Buddy, oh my god! 15 million! What are we still doing-”

 

“Ah- but that’s not enough. A third of that is good enough to build us a house off Whitebanks with the right defensive features, avoid satellite detection, and connect it to the grid. Discreetly.” His Buddy had indeed run the numbers.

 

“But if you want this to last, we need at least 2 secondary places and a means of traveling between them. Add ongoing maintenance and it’s looking like a 32 mil minimum. And maybe, throw in a little more for a good life.”

 

Pixy hoped he did not look too surprised as Cipher continued. “So, if we play this right, about 3 more defensive jobs on high value targets and we’re done. If we take on an offensive, it must really be worth it - like the Garuda job.”

 

The pieces were coming together - Cipher’s long nights, Pixy waiting up so they’d still end the day together with a nightcap; Cipher’s grin, eyes full of mirth, and his answer - Quizás, Quizás, Quizás - when he tried to pry if Cipher was planning something big.

 

“Buddy, you had all of this planned out already? For us?”

 

“Hm. Only for you.”

 

“Damn, so if we really left now, the safety wouldn’t have lasted huh, and we’d be on the run again at some point.”

 

“That has its own charm. But I’d rather not do that when we are sixty.”

 

Pixy laughed at that thought. “So, the Garuda job was really you shooting for the stars? One last job, and we’re home free?”

 

Cipher’s tone turned contemplative. “Well, no, and yes. No, because that amount is justified. This ‘Angel’ is the reason why Emmeria is winning. If Strigon 1 doesn't take him down, we might get that chance. And if we do, leave him to me. Just keep Garuda 2 occupied, okay?”

 

Pixy frowned again. He hadn’t heard his Buddy speak about an adversary like that before. The last ace he heard of who had almost single-handedly turned the tide of a war, was Cipher himself. Was he implying that another pilot like that existed?

 

“Perhaps, Pasternak could really down Garuda 1,” Pixy wondered aloud, and heavier thoughts couldn’t help but creep in, “or perhaps not. If he is as good as you are implying, maybe even a Gen 6 Nosferatu will not be able to deliver the kill shot. I mean, I have been there before, at Aval-”

 

Cipher placed a finger against his lips, distracting him “Hey, I also said yes to that amount being a star-shot. Want to know why? If we nail it, it’s one last job indeed.”

 

Hands cupped his cheeks gently “See, if I reach for the stars, I might just catch one. And I’m lucky to have caught you. Again.”

 

And when they kissed, Pixy felt stars bloom in his chest.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Cipher - present day, near Sonne Island //////

 

“Yeah... Just you and me.”

 

He meant it without doubt, but hoped Pixy did not pick up the hesitation in his reply. Something wasn't right.

 

The Chandelier should already have fired. The Emmerian squadrons were swarming in numbers that they shouldn’t have. He was sure it was Garuda 1 setting the directions, creating just enough battlefield spread to keep the pockets of Estovakian aggression at bay, keeping causalities to the minimum, so that the main Emmerian attack force could focus on breaking down the Chandelier and its defenses.

 

It was tempting to break into an offensive and push things in their favor, but they had to stay defensive. They were close. Sanctum 1 just had to land safely near the protective bunker, and it would be mission complete.

 

“Cipher, Pixy. Garuda 2 is down. Keep on the defensive.” It was the familiar voice of AWACS Eagle Eye over the comms channel.

 

“Heh, Estovakia’s hat is still in the ring. Not bad.” There was fatigue in Pixy’s voice. Sanctum 1 was on its downward glidepath and Cipher kept a defensive circular patrol above, with Pixy in a covering spread. Just a bit more.

 

“Four incoming bandits. Hornets. Black and yellow tails. Looks like you both have attracted the big guns.” Avalanche squadron.

 

Cipher was already turning his Eagle to gain an advantage on the four blips appearing on his B-scope. A window opened for a split second; and the missile he let loose curved through the air in a deadly arc.

 

Eagle Eye’s assurance of “Cipher, splash one!” was half-drowned by Pixy’s, “2, engaging”.

 

At that moment, he brought his Eagle in a hard right to outflank the other hornets, only to see their leader trying to do the same. To Pixy. To hell with him. The other two were also turning in to close on his wingman. To hell with them. He gunned the throttle. 

 

One of the two broke off and started to fly intercept at him, trying to force a break. A quick barrel roll and the line of bullets missed his right wing, the maneuver causing the hornet to overshoot. He had to get to Pixy.

 

Pixy was holding up, keeping his turn circle tight enough to avoid a hit. But the leader was skilled. Cipher saw him extend his airbrakes to get a smaller turning radius. It took talent to keep a clean line like that; it was clear his target wasn't Sanctum 1 but its escort. Hang in there, Pixy.

 

Then, everything happened in a matter of seconds. Avalanche and Blizzard must have detected him approaching. Avalanche broke first, but not before firing his guns in Pixy’s direction.

 

Pixy followed a split-second later, his break angle allowing him to lose a missile at Blizzard who jinked almost simultaneously, flares lighting up the sky.

 

Cipher pressed pursuit on Avalanche, forcing the hornet to take fuel-consuming evasive action, aiming to take him out of another prolonged dogfight while keeping his flying style defensive. It seemed to work… the hornet did not return.

 

“Pixy, all good?”

 

“I got the other hornet. The pilot ejected. But my right wing is Swiss-cheesed. What an irony.” Not good.

 

“We’re nearly done. Land immediately after Sanctum 1, I will cover you-”

 

“--- Galm 1,” their AWACS. It was never good news when Eagle Eye used that identifier.

 

“Do you read me? New orders. Shoot down the enemy ace and your reward will be multiplied by ten. The Generals have agreed to your proposal for Garuda 1. Are you taking the job?”

 

This wasn't entirely unexpected, given how the war was nearly lost. Wasn’t that when they were called on the most?

 

“Did they agree to everything? The payment, and the additional clause? About that clause; I’m sure you knew what to tell them.” He heard Eagle Eye switch frequency.

 

In the silence that ensued, he continued to scan the radar and his surroundings. The tension in his shoulders eased when he saw Pixy’s Eagle touch-down on the runway near the bunker. Of course he could do it safely. It wasn't the first time he landed on one good wing. But he still worried for Pixy.

 

“Hey Pixy, you heard? Seems like the job might just be on.” He ran through a checklist - radar, fuel, weapons, switches, flares, HUD parameters - in a configuration he never thought he’d use. But this could be a situation where everything was needed. “Here’s our star shot; then it’d be just you and me.” They’d been on their guard for too long.

 

“This late in the game… it means that the Chandelier never fired?”

 

“Yes.” Pixy deserved a shot at a good future, after all he went through.

 

“... Hey, Buddy… you know what, you’re right, we’re nearly done. I think you should just land and call it a day. Come and share a cold beer with me?” He knew Pixy well enough to sense nervousness in his humor.

 

“Pixy, I -” He would never forget the mental scar that he gave Pixy; the one that forced him out of the sky, leaving him as a foot soldier for years; the scar that took one full year to heal.

 

A crackle of static and Eagle Eye was back on comms “Galm 1. The contract is just as you wanted it.” Pixy shouldn’t have to spend even more of his life fighting.

 

“Buddy, I still think you should -”

 

“It’ll be okay. Save that beer for me.” He owed Pixy this.

 

“Eagle Eye, tell Estovakia to get ready to pay up.” He pushed his Eagle into a climb and they turned towards the Chandelier. One last job.

Notes:

1. Timelines & some events here are non-canon…
1.1. Overall fic timeline: The Belkan war occurred about 5 years before the Emmeria-Estovakia war. Pixy and Cipher went no-contact for 3 years (not 10, or possibly more). They reconnected after Brett Thompson’s documentary & made up (very well) for lost time in the approx. one year before the E-E war, and went back to being Air Force PMCs. Eagle Eye followed Cipher after the Belkan war and remained as the Galm Team’s AWACS. He saw them go from a two-ship to a one-ship and back to a two-ship. That is (and may become) a story in itself. The poor guy! (affectionate). For his long suffering, the Galm team split a healthy portion of their profits with Eagle Eye.
1.2. Mission timeline: The Galm team’s main aggressors are the Avalanche squadron who have been assigned to whittle down Estovakia’s defenses in the broader perimeter of the Chandelier (may or may not be canon). Why they are there - would be revealed in C2. In-game, the easter Egg occurs before Talisman destroys the Chandelier but, in this fic, it occurs after.
2. Thank you Gayce Combat Discord server for the spark, which somehow morphed into this.

Chapter 2: Garuda

////// Shamrock - Razgriz straits //////

 

He should have thought this through. It hurt like hell. People said that falling into freezing water would elicit a shock, then everything would go numb. But no, it was like getting cuts all over your body and your throat seized up from the shock and you’re gasping, drowning in air so cold that it hurt to breathe.

 

He felt hands pulling him out of the water. There was an Emmerian star on the vessel. Thank heavens, it was a friendly ship.

 

“Someone get the thermal blankets, quick!” He could hardly hear the navy personnel over his own coughing. Then, he was aware of a stabbing pain shooting through his left leg. Something was fractured. Shit. Shit. Shit.

 

“Shamrock? Shamrock, do you read me?”

 

Someone was calling him... he couldn't be sure where it was from.

 

“Marcus! Respond!” Another voice?

 

Oh. The survival radio was still on.

 

He willed numb fingers to push the button that activated the two-way communication. “This is–” He broke out into another coughing fit.

 

“Shamrock, you’re alive. You don’t know how much that means-.” That voice… his memory was coming back to him now. Talisman. Then silence. He must be focusing on flying the war. And Shamrock was not there to cover him. He should have thought this through.

 

Then, another voice. “I will kill you myself, Marcus. What were you thinking! No, you were not, as usual. My god, I swear if I wasn’t happy to hear from you, I... -I will still kill you.”

 

“It’s nice to hear from you, Ghost Eye. Miss you too.” he finally managed. “How are things up there?” Now he was really feeling it; worry gnawing at him every second he wasn’t flying. It nearly dulled out the pain.

 

Looking out from the vessel’s deck, tracers from AA guns lit up the sky; missile trails crisscrossed ahead, so thick that they could be clouds - and in the middle of it all - the dark silhouette of Talisman’s Strike Eagle weaving through the gaps without any wasted movement, picking apart the Chandelier’s defenses.

 

“Under control.” Talisman talked to him only during the brief moments when he was flying a level heading. “Rest up. Don't worry.” A pause. “Thank you for the data.”

 

Thank you? “You’re not mad at me?” Why?

 

He shouldn’t be choking up the comms, especially not at this moment but he couldn’t help it. The forgiveness was starting to become ridiculously surreal. He had to say something. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Twice, you didn’t give me clearance to engage. Twice, I still did it.”

 

Moloch desert and now this. What kind of wingman was he?

 

“I told you before, I will get mad at you if your actions cause the situation-”

 

Ghost eye was tracking Talisman’s kills over the comms. Some fingerwork and godly aim that was – a few well-placed bullets, a confirmed kill. For these many targets, everything needed to be rationed. Everything needed to be perfect.

 

“- to become unmanageable. This is still under control. I’ve got more of a reason to come home now. You’re alive.”

 

“Why do you always end up making me feel better when I really shouldn’t deserve it?”

 

“But you do.”

 

He swallowed. “Don't say that. You’re making me believe that I might have a family again.”

 

“You have me. And-”

 

The sudden cut-off made him ask for a pair of binoculars from one of the navy personnel standing nearby. They gladly obliged. At this stage, everyone on deck was doing the same - watching the sky where their fate hung in the balance.

 

The Strike Eagle was making another pass; at a Strigon SU33 this time. The Emmerian formation had also started to disperse. If he was still airborne, he knew that he would have heard Talisman working the flow of combat. How he kept a clear picture of the battlefield and coordinated attacks across their three forces was not something Shamrock understood.

 

“-and you have me too. I believe Talisman wanted to say that, but I'll say it myself. And I am still mad even if he isn't. You are not off the hook yet.” But there was a lightness in Ghost Eye’s tone.

 

“Lovely, Ghost eye. I am looking forward to it.” He found himself smiling slightly, despite the worry and pain. Four pairs of afterburners lit up the overcast sky. “Ghost Eye, where are the Avalanche squadron going?”

 

“Sonne Island. Apparently, the Estovakian Generals’ escorts are giving some of our men a tough time. Talisman sent them to help with that pocket of particularly tough resistance.”

 

Talisman. He angled his view back to the Chandelier. Its external cooling systems all seemed to be smoking. Why wasn’t the thing going down?

 

“Ghost Eye, movement from the barrel.” Talisman was back on comms, already angling this jet to intercept any outgoing Stauros missiles. Gasps of disbelief from the navy personnel around him - the barrel was opening again. He should have been there.

 

Ghost Eye’s next few words made his mouth go dry. “We did a radar scan, it’s picking up the same cooling unit signature from the back of the barrel.” Ghost Eye’s tone was somber. “Its vital area is back behind the barrel. Talisman, we can trust you with this, right?”

 

The implications were clear. “There must be another way.” He must have said that out loud into the radio because he heard Talisman respond on a frequency only to him “This is the only way. But on the bright side, it’s a clear conclusion. One last shot, mission complete; and I said I'd take you for dinner when all of this is over right?”

 

How could Talisman be the one trying to calm him down when it should have been the other way; when it was not him who was flying into a barrel of a giant loaded gun and placing a bet that he’d destroy it before it fired.

 

The silhouette of the Strike Eagle looked so tiny as it executed a perfect turn that lined it up with the barrel’s opening.

 

“Talisman, why are you doing this? Call in the bombers. You’ve disabled its defenses.” Shamrock tried, even though he knew it was useless.

 

“If it was possible, we'd have done that already. Just wait for me okay? I meant it - the dinner. And if you're up to it -“”. Talisman cut off. If only they had more time.

 

The Strike Eagle looked like it was floating, minute movements in its tail elevators invisible to all but the trained eye. All it took was a few seconds for the jet to disappear into the barrel of the chandelier.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Talisman //////

 

This had to end. Sure, there were other ways, but he wasn’t going to tell Shamrock or Ghost Eye that. There were always many routes to the same outcome, and so far, his calculations haven’t failed Emmeria.

 

Two months into the war, Central Command had given him the unbelievable mandate of overwriting any battalion commander’s standing orders. Direct our troops where you see best, they had said. This is in your hands.

 

The responsibility was not what he wanted, but he had taken it anyway. It would be fine, if he just kept balancing the probabilities right. And now, they were so close.

 

But there were other ways… He could let the Stauros missile launch, get the Windhover squadron to take it down while he occupied the remaining Strigons. By then, the Hammerhead bomber wing would have been in position and the Sky Kid squadron could fly cover while they executed bombing runs over the Chandelier. If the structure did not give, there was still the navy to break down the base of its floating structure while the air force provided cover.

 

One variable though - this would take too long and place further stress on the already tired units. Shamrock had reached breaking point, given all that had occurred - to him especially - flying into the trench to push a faster end. There were other ways. But he should have known.

 

What kind of flight leader was he?

 

He needed to do this alone. He owed Shamrock this.

 

He took a breath, loosened his grip on the stick and eased off the rudders, leaving room for only light touches for fine control of the Strike Eagle’s yaw and pitch. The surroundings dimmed as he guided the jet through the barrel. “10 klicks, 9, 8” Ghost Eye’s countdown. “5”. That was it.

 

One tap on the missile step - the smoke trail from the sidewinder blazed ahead - then all visuals went down. Instinct took over as he flew blind through the light of the explosion around him. If he timed it right, the speed that he was pushing the Strike Eagle would have enabled him to clear the blast shrapnel. Thereafter, if he did not blow up along with the Chandelier - level course for 1 second then a sharp climb and…

 

Ghost Eye’s voice broke the silence “I saw the Chandelier go down! The war is over!”

 

He wanted to say something, but the relief and fatigue flowing through him stopped cold when he heard Avalanche over the comms - he must have come back from dealing with the resistance at Sonne Island. “Ghost Eye, Talisman, heads up, something's not right. An F15C from the Estovakian Generals’ escort has been giving us trouble.”

 

An Eagle? That was not an Estovakian Air Force aircraft. Could it be… a mercenary?

 

“... I am two men down…” The avalanche squadron? How?... It could only be... No, that can't be.

 

“... Bingo fuel. Evading was no joke. I’m sorry, we didn't re-engage. He’s heading this way-”

 

“It's okay, return to base. You did well.” Talisman assured him. “Avalanche. One question though. Did the Eagle have blue on its wings and tails?”

 

“Yes. You know–” Durand’s voice had faded out, replaced by thoughts of: The Demon. It had to be him. He had pieced together Cipher’s assault record following the happenings of the Belkan war. There was no other pilot he knew of who could have done what Cipher did. Turn the tide of war, defy all odds - and defy all calculations.

 

And, true enough. For all of his planning, he did not plan for this.

 

“Talisman, Avalanche is right. I am picking up an F-15C on radar. Coming in hot.” Ghost Eye sounded like he couldn’t believe it himself. “Are you going to engage?”

 

He couldn’t drag anyone else with him, not for this. Shamrock came to his mind again. There had been enough damage done. He needed to do this alone.

 

He went back on the comms. “Emmeria, do not interfere. The Demon of Ustio has arrived. I will need clarity of movement. No confounding hits, no interruptions. He will use them against you.” And me. “The war is over. Thank you, and at ease. But I’m sorry, Ghost Eye, that’s except for you - let’s see this through.”

 

He angled the Strike Eagle to reach an altitude that would bring him, hopefully, above the mercenary when they were within visual range, and pushed towards the direction of Sonne Island. One last job.

Notes:

1. On the Garuda team and WSOs: Since F-15Es can functionally operate without a WSO unlike the F-4/ F-14, so, being them, they’re authorized to fly without a backseater. They fix all of their radio settings before takeoff, and have extra real estate in the cockpit when they fly.
2. Also, Talisman is quite the strategist & in this chapter, is using the AC6’s allied attack as it should be used.

Chapter 3: Goodnight

////// Pixy - Sonne Island Bunker //////

 

Screw unequipping. Still in his full flight gear, he ran to the observation room at the top floor of the bunker, fiddling with his survival radio on the way, trying to connect it to the last frequency that Cipher was on.

 

The room contained a large screen connected to an external surveillance system; and he was at the controls, frantically typing in coordinates.

 

“What are you doing!?” The floor’s commanding officer barked.

 

“Locating my Flight leader! You should be doing that too. That's the battle deciding the fate of this war. It isn't over yet.” Cipher had to come home.

 

The commanding officer was silenced momentarily, before turning to his men and shouted, “What are you waiting for? Help him out!”

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Shamrock - Emmerian navy vessel //////

 

This wasn't supposed to happen. “Talisman, don't do this.”

 

“Turn tail now and watch him tear our units apart like what he did to the Belkans? I don't know if I will be much of a fight at all…” And Shamrock knew that he would be. That worried him. Cipher would have disabled the jets of lesser pilots without much thought, let them eject and move on. Fire and forget. Why should he need to care to deliver a proper kill shot? Even if they gained the skies again, he would still be untouchable. But Talisman...

 

“...but I have to try.”

 

“At least get some support.” It should have been him. He should have thought this through.

 

“The Demon is known for turning anything you don't have perfect control of, against you, and often, in ways that will make one… make me, regret. I cannot risk that.” Talisman sounded determined. There was no changing his mind now.

 

“And I know you are trying to watch this from possibly, one of the navy vessels. Please do not. You should be resting in the med bay.”

 

And you have to come home. Was what he wanted to say. But he chose to defy the request another time, staying on the deck instead, peeled to the binoculars and watching the Strike Eagle on its deadly trajectory.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// AWACS   ///   Bandits //////

 

Eagle Eye | Ghost Eye: <<Cipher | Talisman, he’s within missile range. Fire!>>

 

<<Negative. BVR engagement has no probability of success. Can’t waste this shot; I need a visual. What is his bearing, reference, altitude? Talk to me.>>

 

<<... 027|333, 80, 6500, hot. 045|315, 85, flanking. Turning cold…>>

----------------------------------------------------------------------

At the rate the picture was changing, it was proving difficult to get a read on the bandit. They wanted to give their fighters an early advantage, but this was just numbers and lines; changing, shifting, seemingly without pattern and too tenuous for reliable prediction.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

They knew what the other was trying to do - blur the start of the merge, get a better turn angle, get into a better energy state by coming in high. Bastard. He expected no less.

 

It was no use trying to react to step-by-step movements like this. They needed to get ahead. Think. Where would that piece of sky be? Threads visible only to them spread out throughout the sky, lacing through the thick clouds, weaving with the currents.

 

//// It was snowing again. The sky had a melancholic purple hue. It was always this way, wasn’t it, on days like these. ////

 

//// There was no other way. There was comfort in finality. Many worries collapsing into only one. ////

 

And then, the answer.

 

Both jets executed a sharp turn - mere extensions of their pilots. 50.. 40.. 30.. Fight’s on.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Shamrock //////

 

The comms channel was live. But he knew better than to initiate contact at a time like this. Ghost Eye was not verbally tracking Talisman’s actions anymore. What was the point? The dogfight was moving at a speed that even he found hard to follow.

 

His fingers hurt from gripping on to the binoculars too tightly. Everyone else around him was silent.

 

The dance that played out in the sky was grotesque and he hated every second of it.

 

Two birds of prey twisting around each other - when one tried to press an advantage, the other would deftly disengage, only to return with renewed viciousness. There was nothing graceful about it. If they were animals, they’d be tearing into each other, raining blood and fuel at every pass.

 

When the Eagle and the Strike Eagle merged in a close circle, they were all guns, bullets barely grazing metal skins; diving at each other to a point of near-collision to escape the line of fire.

 

When they drew apart, it was only to curve in a deadly arc and release missile-tipped claws, pale streaks against the dull sky.

 

The other would soar defiantly for a split second, only to roll, dive, or climb out of reach. Or maybe, it was done on purpose, to bait the other into a position within the range of a radar guided missile. And it all started again.

 

But, for all their attempts to tear each other apart, no hit landed; and the pockets of light from their flares struggled to break through the enveloping dimness of the sky. The sickening glow reminded him of an animal clinging on to the last vestiges of life.

 

Their airframes were pushed to a limit he was unfamiliar with - and there was a part of him that hoped that the Eagles would both break before their pilots did.

 

Didn’t you say you wanted to go for dinner? Why are you still out there? Come down. I can’t reach you.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Pixy //////

 

Come on, come on. Seconds felt like hours. His heart was in his mouth as he watched the scene play out on the surveillance screen.

 

The radio was connected now. He wanted to tell Cipher to just disengage, to come back. It was fine. What were three, four, or five more defensive jobs? He could wait. This was not worth it. Going to Wellow would not be the same without Cipher. But he knew better than to initiate contact at a time like this.

 

He should have been there. But he also knew someone who worked the battlefield like Talisman did would have found a way to use him as a distraction. Cipher told him as much, when Strigon 1 went down. What Pasternak did was smart. Honorable, yes, but most of all, smart. He didn’t involve his squadron. They’d have been distractions at best; weaknesses at worst. I have seen wingmen crashing into each other, kill-hungry and fooled into chasing the same leading turn. Won’t that be convenient? So, Ilya fought valiantly, Ilya fought nobly. And Ilya died.

 

The dance playing out on the screen was a terrible one. There was no breathing space, no short respite when both tried to find a good angle of attack. It was a single-minded push to make the other break. No bravado, no staging, no posturing. It was all relentless pain. Every move was an attack. He felt tired. Helpless, looking and being unable to do anything.

 

Even when they had faced each other at the end of the Belkan war, it was not like this.

 

Then, there it was - he felt sick to his stomach.

 

Cipher was angling his Eagle to face Garuda 1 - head on.

 

He saw this before. Avalon dam. When it was him on the other end. The sky and the snow called back the past. Everything would be down to perfect timing and split-second reaction. But Talisman was not him. Would this work again? It had to.

 

The Eagle and the Strike Eagle were coming at each other.

 

He wanted to scream but all he could do was watch.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Cipher – minus 10 seconds //////

 

This had to end. It was a strange feeling. What began as a throbbing pain in overused muscles had now developed into a disturbing stab in his right shoulder. That was on top of having to beat back fatigue just to work the controls and having to strain for every breath. But he could go on even like this, if he needed to.

 

This had to end because the fight had taken way too long, and he was running on fumes. Judging from the increased speed the Strike Eagle was moving at, so was Garuda 1. If only their airframes weren’t so limited. He had to force one last merge. And soon.

 

And he knew. There was one sure angle to force a merge and angle the Eagle for a direct hit.

 

How ironic… But he had to do this. For Pixy. It was now or never.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Talisman – minus 10 seconds //////

 

He could only afford a downward glance at his fuel gauge only when Galm 1 was 045 – 120 and low. When he did, the arrow was near the zero mark. Time was running out.

 

His breathing was irregular, the stick and throttle felt like they weighed a ton, and he was fighting himself as much as he was fighting Cipher, just to keep his jet on the trajectory he wanted it to go.

 

But the bullets were not going where he wanted them to go. He watched the gun trail end just off the Eagle’s right wing as it pulled up rapidly in an ascending turn. It was a miss. Again.

 

The Eagle’s pitch seemed to waver. Maybe Cipher was starting to tire as well. He had to end this. They didn’t have much time left.

 

Cipher must have been thinking the same. In the next second, the Eagle turned level and hot. He’s heading straight at... A collision course... This...

 

Avalon dam!

 

He knew this!

 

But what he knew didn’t matter if he couldn’t execute it.

 

One last time. He promised Shamrock. He had to go home.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// The Wingmen //////

 

Talisman and Cipher were facing each other, rushing into the pass.

 

Soon, they will be beyond the point of evasion if they loosed their missiles at each other. Soon, they will be at a point of collision.

 

Bug out! Come back! Come home.

 

Instead, they saw missiles dislodge themselves from underneath metal wings and race ahead of the jets. At the same moment, both birds broke hard in opposite directions, letting lose all of their remaining flares.

 

It lit up the sky like stars.

 

The Eagle and the Strike Eagle passed each and both seemed to be floating for a while, peacefully – perfect mirror images of each other - one dark gray and one light with blue -  bowing to signal the end of a great and terrible dance.

 

Then, pieces of wing and fuselage started to come apart. The great metal birds were bleeding carbon fiber into the snowy air. Their flares had only thrown the missiles slightly off-course, but at that range, they both struck home.

 

Please! Eject!

 

Nothing.

 

The broken birds were now spiraling toward the ground. A left wing tore off from one, a right wing from the other. That meant the hit must have been near the air intakes - near the cockpit.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Pixy recalled his own downfall, back when he was piloting the Morgan. Back before everything. Before the documentary, before Cipher showed up in his run-down ISAF tent with the apology that turned his life around.

 

He should have died at Avalon dam, but he didn’t. Because Cipher had never meant to kill him.

 

The disabling shot was indeed delivered to the Morgan’s air intakes, far behind the cockpit; far enough that when the missile’s warhead fragmented, the splinters did not shred him into pieces along with the Morgan.

 

But this time, he was sure that Cipher, and Talisman, shot to kill.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Shamrock was already back on his feet. His left leg was refusing to cooperate but he could still move.

 

He was back on the radio again. “Ghost Eye, Talisman, do you copy? Talisman! Respond! Please.” A cruel twist, when it was the other way round just a while ago.

 

But only Ghost Eye replied. “Signal’s lost…”

 

He switched frequencies - this time to Yellow Jacket. “Can you get me out there? With a med team? Talisman’s gone down near the north beachfront of Sonne island. I... I need to be there.”

 

“Okay. Stand by. We’ll drop by the vessel at 1730 and get you and the med team.” Lee must have understood the bond that developed between them over the war. Why else would he agree to bring him there, especially with a busted leg? That, he was thankful for.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Pixy was running to the Estovakian medevac helicopter unit. It was like watching himself in third-person because an invisible hand was gripping his chest too tightly, forcing him out of his thoughts.

 

Hey, hey, take me with you!

 

Oh Pixy! You’re Pixy right? The other of the generals’ escort fighters?

 

Yes! We got to go now!

 

Okay, get in!

 

The helicopter flew without worry. The war was over. No one was going to attack them now, there was palpable relief in the air, but there was also a somberness that was hard to describe.

 

“That was some dogfight. Never seen anything like that in my life!” He heard one of the medics say. “Hope we get there on time. Do you think the generals are gonna pay up if you know, he doesn’t make it? Hey no offense to you at all, Pixy, we were wondering how these things work. But don’t get us wrong. We’re grateful you guys were around to keep the generals safe and take out the enemy ace. Wouldn’t want him flying around anymore.”

 

Pixy didn’t know how to respond. He felt a dull anger when he saw the Emmerian UH-9 approaching the other side of the ridge that divided the northern beachfront. But for now, that anger was nothing compared to the dread that was threatening to take over his mind.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Sonne Island Northern Beachfront - Behind the ridge //////

 

Shamrock was first out of Yellow Jacket’s chopper the moment it landed on the beach, trying to reach the twisted wreckage of the Strike Eagle as fast as he could on one good-leg. He thought he saw Talisman, a pale figure against the dark metal, struggling to stand.

 

Lee might have grabbed his arm and said something to him but he didn’t hear it. He was already pulling away.

 

He realized, after a while, that neither Lee nor the medics were following.

 

“What’s up with you guys!?” He was shouting at them over his shoulder.

 

But he saw them shake their heads. “I think you should spend this time with him,” Lee said. What was he going on about? But Shamrock was already dragging himself forward.

 

When he was close enough, he saw why. There was blood, bloody handprints and bloody bootprints all over the ground and the side of the wreckage, near the ruined cockpit, where Talisman was still, trying to stand. His entire right half looked like it was shredded. It must have been from the pieces of exploding canopy glass, fuselage and warhead fragments. Red was a color that ill-suited him, but there was just too much of it that he knew...

 

Shamrock took Talisman in his arms, trying to calm him down, and the sleeves of his flight suit immediately turned the same ugly red. “Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s over, you’re fine.” He lied. “Why don’t you just sit down, okay?”

 

“Marcus! Wha.. what are you doing here? How are you? Shouldn’t you be in the med bay?” His gaze was unfocused, and he was still, trying to stand. “You know what? I think there’s something wrong with me. This.. doesn’t usually happen.”

 

He tightened his grip enough to gently force Talisman down into a sitting position. Pain shot up his own leg as well, but it must be nothing compared to what Talisman was experiencing. Shamrock was trying to keep himself together. This was unfair, when he had already lost so much.

 

Talisman finally stopped trying to get up and was leaning back in Shamrock’s arms now. It was a good thing they didn’t have to move. The downed jet was so low on fuel that there was no risk of anything exploding. “The Demon, he.. is really something, Sham... Everything hurts… I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.”

 

Tomorrow? He took a breath to fight back tears. He should be the one who was strong for them, at least once.

 

“Yeah. It’d be crazy for a while. Too many high-G turns, huh?” He tried to sound like they’d just finished one of their routine exercises.

 

He pulled Talisman closer and guided his head to rest on his shoulder. “Oh god.. I’m going to miss you. If only we had more time.” It was taking a lot of effort to hold it together.

 

Talisman looked up at him, pale blue eyes that were once bright with determination were now glazed and tired. “Time? We have time. I still want to… bring you out for dinner. Shall we go? The war is over, right?”

 

“Yes, yes...”

 

That got him a smile.

 

He failed. Warm tears were coming down his cheeks now, contrasting with the feel of cold fingers as Talisman used the hand that was not lacerated to gently wipe them away. “Why are you sad?”

 

“No, I’m not.” He lied. He held Talisman’s hand against his face, trying to memorize the rapidly dissipating warmth.

 

“No, no, don’t be sad.” Talisman looked kindly at him, despite both of their broken states.

 

“I wanted to save this for later, but here…let me tell you…something to cheer you up…” He forced himself to sit up so that he could whisper something in Shamrock’s ear.

 

Shamrock hugged him tighter upon hearing those words, Why? Why now? They needed more time. Why? Involuntarily, his own body started to be wrecked by sobs. He felt Talisman try to hug him back the best he could before his breathing became heavier - as if he had to try harder to force oxygen into lungs that were only half working.

 

“I’m really tired... I’m going to take... a quick nap. Wake me in 5 minutes please... I can’t... miss this.” Then, he rested his head on his Wingman’s shoulder, where it stayed. Shamrock was left holding what was left of him, still trying to reach him through the tears, “Just so you know, I feel the same. And I will... Can you hear me? I will.”

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

////// Sonne Island Northern Beachfront – The other side of the ridge //////

 

Pixy sprinted ahead of the med team to the downed Eagle; one familiar blue wing rising up from the rocky beach in an odd angle and the other scattered a distance away. He couldn’t find Cipher.

 

“Buddy? Where the hell are you!” Maybe he got up and walked away. Maybe he was okay. Mayb-

 

His hopes were dashed when he heard Cipher’s voice from somewhere to his left, “I can hear you, Larry. Stop shouting.” He ran over to the direction of the sound, but he knew something was not right. Cipher had sounded strained, like it was difficult for him to talk.

 

Then he spotted Cipher, nearly hidden behind the wreckage of the broken nose cone. No, no, no. He knelt down beside his flight lead, who was bleeding out on the snowy rocks. He must have gotten out of the cockpit and at least, managed to get this far. Now he knew what would have happened if the missile tore up the Morgan’s canards instead of its air intake. He wouldn’t have made it.

 

“Sorry, Corazón.”

 

“Damn it! Don’t talk. The med team is coming. You’ll be okay.” Pixy found himself trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but there were just too many wounds that were too deep to staunch. No amount of pressure would work.

 

Cipher caught his hands in his, torn up as they were. “Stop. Stop. Tell the med team to leave it. Give us some time…This Angel, some pilot he is… I’m not going to make it.”

 

“Buddy, you’re not going to die! You... can’t! What happened to ‘I won’t go to Wellow without you’, huh?” He knew it was futile even when he said the words, and he tried his best to lift Cipher into his arms without causing further hurt.

 

Cipher winced at being shifted, but let it happen. “Thank you... Being in your arms is so, so, much better than lying on the rocks.” Pixy choked out a sob. This couldn’t be happening.

 

“Please, still go to Wellow. Build that house, and the other back-ups too. Please… Stay safe.” Cipher strained to get the words out, as if in a hurry.

 

“Buddy… how?” How could he possibly do it alone?

 

“The transfer clause... The job… It’s done. Even if I do not survive, the generals will pass the payment to you, my surviving... Family.”

 

Next-of-kin payment? Cipher had really thought everything through. But this… This was not how it was supposed to go.

 

“Buddy, you asshole,” he was talking through tears now “This is NOT how I want you to propose.”

 

Cipher’s smile was a sad one. “Larry, believe me, I didn't want it this way either.” He swallowed, painfully, and took a ragged breath, just to give him enough strength to continue.

 

Then, that confidence, the one that drew Pixy in so deep, came back to his tone, if only for a while. “Because, the proper way is not to… reveal this to you on a merc contract. But, I’m supposed to ask you... a question, right? And... you get to say Sí, or, Qué te den, yes?”

 

That got a pained laugh out of Pixy, but his tears were falling and falling, mixing with the blood on Cipher’s face.

 

“Hear me out… The blueprints are in the safe,” He was in a rush now, his breathing getting shallower, and Pixy had to raise a hand to halt the med team’s approach. Cipher was right, it would have done nothing but rob them of time. Time that they had too little of.

 

“You... deserve... Peace. Take it and leave… Start again.” Then Cipher raised a hand to the front of Pixy’s flight suit and pulled him closer “The password to the safe is…

 

And when Cipher drew back, Pixy was nodding. Words refused to come out of trembling lips. Just nods, just yes, yes, yes. Ok, yes. “So, you... promise…” Cipher didn’t finish. His words trailed into silence.

 

Pixy cradled him in his arms and placed a kiss on his forehead, staining his own lips with cooling blood.

 

He was screaming into the cold air now, uncaring of who heard him.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

////// Epilogue //////

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

////// AWACS   ///   Bandits //////

 

At the end of the day, they were never good with following orders, or with taking directions. Their flight leaders would have known this and looking back, they had accepted it. Welcomed it, even.

 

So, why should they change? Maybe, Cipher and Talisman had already predicted this. They must have. They predicted everything, except each other.

 

Eagle Eye | Ghost Eye on the comms again. <<Is a promise kept if only half of it is followed?>>

 

<<Again, with that question? You know it is! I just take my own time. I will do the second half later, then, problem solved! And you don’t need to ask me that again.>>

 

<<My goodness! He wasn’t quite so ill disciplined, or quarrelsome.>>

 

<< Too bad you’re stuck with me.>> They laughed.

 

They knew their AWACS were half joking. Because the other part was indeed true.

 

<<But, Eagle Eye | Ghost Eye, you’re right. He was perfect. I miss him too.>>

 

And he did. He kept his picture in the front pocket of his flight suit. Weather worn now. He would never go anywhere without it.

 

<<And admit it. You can’t help but like me. If not, why are we still flying together?>>

 

<<He would have wanted it,>> came the reply from Eagle Eye | Ghost Eye, somewhere from a much higher altitude.

 

Yes, no doubt. If only he was still around. Without him, everything was incomplete. He looked ahead and right - sometimes he could see him in the empty sky and it still brought a twist to his heart.

 

But for now, they needed to be confident. He owed it to him. To his memory, and legacy. And he was ready, after years of honing his craft.

 

They opened comms to their AWACS again. <<Yes, he would. But you are at fault too, you know. You wanted this as well. And you are right - a flight style like that should not exist. Whoever knows how to impart it, even a bit of it, needs to go. And I want him gone.>>

 

<<Are you sure it is not just revenge you are thinking about.>>

 

<<You know me. What do you think?>>

 

<<You have big shoes to fill, Angel | Demon.>>

 

<< I am not looking to fill his shoes. No one can.>>

 

<<…>>

 

<<I just need to be better than the other guy. Keep an eye on that radar for me AWACS.>>

Notes:

1. There is a strange similarity in the purplish, snowy hue of the sky in the final missions of both Ace Combat Zero and Ace Combat 6. Nice coincidence?
2. This chapter includes an Easter egg - A game of thrones reference :) Pure self-indulgence, if anyone spots it….
3. Talisman and Cipher are written as equal and opposite singularities, in life and in death, like how I think their games portrayed them to be - the Angel of Emmeria and the Demon of Ustio. On a mission to save and bring justice | on a mission to destroy and conquer. Strategist | Dogfighter on equal standing. And so shall their Wingmen be - loyal, skilled, defiant; also each other's equals and opposites. There are no better candidates to carry on their legacies.

Chapter 4: Encore

Summary:

C4: Encore is an alternate Ending to C3: Goodnight.

////// Bandits  – minus 2 seconds //////

 

The Eagle and Strike Eagle rode the cold air currents, chasing the joust. The window to land the perfect hit opened only for a fraction of a second. Too early, and the bandit could still evade. Too late, and they would be the one who was trapped. There was only one chance for a kill-shot. But to do that, and survive, success meant that they had to be the only one who timed it perfectly. They saw the other levelling out at the same altitude. There was no turning back now. In this head-on formation, the first to break became an easy shot.

 

------- Cipher -------

Everything came down to keeping the Eagle stable enough to position for the kill-shot; through his strained breathing, through vision blurred by fatigue, through the sharp pain that stabbed through his right shoulder to the rest of his body, and through the shuddering of the Eagle’s airframe, as though his jet was as tired as he was. Cipher had done this once before, at Avalon. Then, he was fighting through a heartbreak. Now, at the rate this dogfight was going, he was fighting to go home.

 

No. He pushed that thought aside. Focus. It didn’t matter if he didn’t make it back. All that mattered was the kill shot so that Pixy could have the money to live in peace. He owed Pixy after all that had happened. That was all that mattered. Get it done. Get it done. Get it done. He repeated it like a mantra even as Deja vu flooded his mind with the familiar placement of his grip over the stick and missile step. He had to make it work again. 

 

------- Talisman -------

The Demon was as inevitable as the stories made him out to be. He knew what Cipher was doing. But at the angle and speed the Eagle was coming at him, Talisman had no other option but to accept the challenge. Any evasive move would automatically put him on the defensive. He leveled out the Strike Eagle, chasing the right angle and pitch, even as he strained to remain upright in his seat.

 

The sharp pain in his head worsened when he ran the sequence of Cipher and Pixy’s Avalon Dam dogfight through his mind for what must have been the tenth time. It had to be right.

 

After the Belkan War, militaries scrambled to deconstruct Cipher’s flight style, but the best they came up with were inconsistent observations, and even wilder deductions. “No surprise. The observers were not as experienced, or gifted, as Cipher was. How could anyone expect them to accurately describe what they could not understand?”, Talisman recalled thinking, as he tried to piece together the secrets hidden within the patchy Belkan War memos held in Emmeria’s air force research library.

 

And one night, he thought he had the answer. He stored it mentally, in preparation for the day when some know-it-all instructor popped a checkride test question “if you were flying the ADFX-02, how would you have won?”.

 

But this was no checkride test. Was he correct? He counted down the distance to the Eagle on the HUD… He had to be.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

First; Position. Being off by a fraction of a meter would result in a miss and force another merge that their fuel supplies would not allow.

 

Second; Distance. They had to match their opponent’s closing speed. Too fast and the window for an accurate shot narrowed impossibly. Too slow and they were dead.

 

Third; Speed. The kill-window opened for a split second. Success, and survival, went to the one who shot first.

 

It was now or never. Their last sidewinders raced ahead of their jets.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Experience told them that they were going to succeed. There was no way their opponent could evade now.

 

But experience also told them that they had failed. They immediately banked hard left after taking the shot, setting loose the last of their flares, hoping to disorient the incoming missile. But they knew it was too little and too late. The shots were timed at the same time.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

////// Bandits  – Impact //////

 

— Time is a river and the last drop, an ocean.—

 

The sidewinder disappeared under the nose of their jets. An unnatural jolt slammed them against the flight harnesses as the missile ripped a path across the fuselage toward the air intake. The force wrecked them. They heard a crack, followed by a bolt of sharp pain in their left shoulder that made them wince. But there was no time to wonder if it was a dislocation, or worse. A strange crackling noise from the outside was getting louder, and the side of the cockpit was warping as spider cracks spread across the canopy.

 

The missile must have hit home and its warhead was fragmenting, tearing through the cockpit. Bits of metal and glass floated through the air in slow motion - the way they caught the last of the dull snowy light was ominously beautiful - blades with reflective hues rotating in the air.

 

Everything else happened in a blur. They recalled trying to reach for the ejection lever, hearing Ghost Eye | Eagle Eye on comms, repeating “Garuda | Galm One! Do you read me?!”.

 

Did they even manage to reply “Copy”? They thought they did, but the last they remembered was the feeling of blinding pain and unbearable pressure as the world exploded around them.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

////// The Wingmen //////

 

The Eagle and the Strike Eagle passed each other. Both seemed to be floating for a while, peacefully – perfect mirror images of each other - one dark grey and one light with blue -  bowing to signal the end of a great and terrible dance.

 

Then, pieces of wing and fuselage started to come apart. The great metal birds were bleeding carbon fiber into the snowy air. Their flares had only thrown the missiles slightly off-course, but at that range, they both struck home.

 

Eject! Please!

 

Nothing. This couldn’t be happening.

 

They thought they had seen everything in war, but this was new. Fear became a physical pain in their chest, and their mind was paralyzed with thoughts of “I left him to fight alone. I should have been there. Now he’s gone, and it’s my fault.”

 

Ghost Eye | Eagle Eye’s desperate “Garuda | Galm One! Do you read me?!” rang through the comms. They heard the telltale opening static of their flight leaders possibly, trying to respond – before the line was filled with the sickening noise of the disintegrating aircraft.

 

------- Shamrock -------

Shamrock was back on the survival radio, desperately connecting to Yellow Jacket’s frequency. “Can you get me out there? With a med team? Talisman’s going down near the north beachfront of Sonne island. I... I need to be there.”

 

And once he heard “Okay. Stand by -”, muscle memory and light-headed worry caused him to switch back to a frequency he could remember with his eyes closed. Was it a habit? Did he take it so much for granted that Talisman would always be there for him, through everything? Through his sorrow, his pain, his disobedience, his.. disrespect? Maybe he did, and guilt pierced his heart. He did not know why he was doing this, but he had to try to reach Talisman, even if he was too late.

 

------- Pixy -------

Pixy was already sprinting to the Estovakian Medevac helicopter. He hadn’t bothered to unequip ever since landing on a damaged wing. This couldn’t happen! Not after all that they went through.

 

His thoughts were forcibly wrenched back to that rainy night in his ISAF tent. After he pulled the stunt of appearing in a public documentary about the Belkan war, half of him thought he would still never see Cipher again. The other half thought that he had just pronounced his own death sentence. He had just revealed his location to the deadliest mercenary he knew - and one who he had betrayed and tried to kill.

 

What was he thinking? What exactly did he want to achieve by letting Brett Thompson broadcast his interview on global television? Maybe he subconsciously missed Cipher, and perhaps, time had tricked him into thinking that there could still be something genuine between them. Or maybe he was just tired. Of everything. Of how everything was all nuanced, without quick solutions, and he wanted to seek penance at the hands of someone who he once felt closest to.

 

The six days after the Warriors of the Belkan War aired brought him nothing but growing unease. And on the seventh, just as he returned from a border patrol; there he was - a silent figure in the far shadows of the tent, manifesting like a demon. How Cipher slipped through the parameter was anyone’s guess.

 

Relief and fear flooded him. “Still alive, I see,” He managed a laugh, hoping that Cipher did not hear the tinge of finality that laced it. “Here to finish the job, Buddy?”

 

Silence.

 

He expected a gunshot. A knife wound. Anything painful, as he deserved. But what he got instead was an apology. “I’m sorry, Larry. I should have tried harder to reach you… should have listened better. And I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you this. Would you talk to me again? I’ve.. missed you.”

 

He had stared at the shadows in opened-mouthed silence. And as if in a dream, he recalled responding, “Yeah, buddy. It’s good to see you too.”

 

And with that, the rest of their lives started. The Cipher that he grew to know, again, and that he fell in love with, again, was warmer, lovingly practical, protective; was someone who warmed his heart by holding true to being curious about him, accepting him, as he was, helping him find his wings again and… he realized he went with it like it was as natural as breathing.

 

But he should have said something. He had accepted everything in grateful silence, believing that Cipher would be there the next day and the day after that. And now, he was too late.

 

Tears started to cloud the periphery of his vision as he instinctively reached for survival radio fitted into his flight gear. Mustering up all the clarity he could while running at full speed, he pushed the comms button, blindly hoping that he would reach his Flight Leader.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

////// Bandits - Freefall //////

 

------- Cipher -------

What was he doing under the ocean? Wasn’t he dogfighting the Angel of Emmeria a minute ago? Sunlight bounced off the shimmering surface as he floated, weightless, in the water column. He made out the outline of Pixy and the surfboard against the sun - and couldn’t help but smile as the silhouette of his wingman waved at him. If only they could be on holiday forever. Maybe the fight was just a bad dream. Maybe they did not take up the Estovakian contract after all. It wasn’t real. He closed his eyes, at rest; until it was time to surface.

 

But his limbs won’t move and he started to feel the telltale signs of running out of air. When he opened his eyes, everything was dark - and he was drowning. There was water everywhere. His lungs were burning, and yet he was paralyzed. By desperate reflex, he inhaled a lungful of cold seawater…

 

The pain jolted him awake.

 

Spinning clouds filled his vision. Crushing G-forces made breathing a struggle.  Cipher strained his gaze downwards and pain shot through every muscle. Where was he?  His flight harness was still on, strapping him to the seat of the broken Eagle. Mierda… There were huge gaps in the cockpit, and as his consciousness seeped back, he registered the sight of a bloody shard of bone poking out from his lacerated forearm faster than he felt it. The rest of his flightsuit was torn in places, revealing deep bleeding gashes beneath and… Mierda…

 

He grimaced through the pain and tried to reach for the ejection lever again but it was either rendered dysfunctional from the impact, or the angle made it impossible to pull with a one broken arm and another dislocated shoulder and hell knows what else. So, this was how he was going to die.

 

He knew this day would come, sooner or later. This was his price to pay. But he foresaw this and knew how to go prepared. The job was finished. The final shot would have hurt the Angel as much as it hurt him. It was done - the payment would be Pixy’s and his wingman would have all he needed to leave this dead-end-job behind. Pixy could finally stop fighting. What more was there for him to do? It was time to stop fighting too. Cipher stopped resisting the G-forces and let the spinning jet take him downwards. He let out a broken breath, picturing Pixy in his mind to drown out the pain and exhaustion.

 

Just as he was about to slip into unconsciousness, the radio crackled to life, filled with a voice that he would have recognized anywhere:

 

“Cipher? Buddy? Can you hear me? Don’t leave. I should’ve told you. You mean everything to me.. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.. Come back to me, please..”

 

------- Talisman -------

Talisman never thought he was invincible. He was just doing his best to keep as many people safe as possible. Trying to be useful. He never ruled out getting shot down. But he never imagined that the specifics were this bad.

 

Consciousness came back to him again when he involuntarily let out a pained cry at the feeling of an excruciating stab. He tried to move, straining against the accumulating Gs as the Strike Eagle spun through the air.

 

The attempt just caused his vision to get fuzzy, and caused him to get nauseous from the pain. When he finally forced himself to look, he wished he didn’t. The blue flightsuit was stained red, Nomex shreds crisscrossed the jagged ridges of flaying wounds, and a large shard of canopy glass stuck out of his side.

 

The shock instinctively made him pull his injured  arm toward the ejection lever. And he again wished he hadn’t. Besides sending another jolt of pain that caused his breath to seize up, it didn’t work. So this was it. He slumped back in the seat, exhausted.

 

What else did he expect from trying to fight the Demon of Ustio? Did he think he stood a chance? For all his calculations, he did not come out the better pilot. At least, they were going down together; the Demon would not go on to repeat to Emmeria what he did to Belka. At least, Shamrock would be safe. He owed him that much after failing to prevent him from going down, failing to keep his wingman’s family safe; in the end, he could not save everyone.

 

He thought about his own family. His relationship with his parents and siblings was transactional and distantly formal at best. It was always about being the perfect son, a role he played to perfection: Fighter pilot, top-of-academy, composed, considerate. Coming home severely injured like this, would spark comparisons and “you should haves” that he didn’t want to hear. He spent his life striving. For what? And for all his trying, as usual, it was never enough. He was tired. It was time to call it a day. At least, the war was over and he would be just another statistic, forgotten over ti-

 

“Talisman?” Shamrock’s voice snapped him out of thoughts that were spiralling in tandem with his broken jet. His wingman sounded.. sad? This was the same tone he remembered Shamrock having when it was just them, in the field behind the barracks. It was the night that Shamrock told him about his family, and trusted him enough to walk with him through his most vulnerable moments. But there was something else in that tone that conveyed…brokenness:

 

“Tali.. if you can hear me, I know I am a pain. You deserve better.. I.. cannot lose you. Come back, please.. I’ll do better..”

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m sorry?” || “I’ll do better?”

 

Dying for a purpose was one thing. They’d be gone. That was the easy part. Their wingmen though, would live; left to face whatever challenges life threw at them - alone, already broken, and broken again. If they were not hallucinating their wingmen’s last messages, this time it will be solely because of them, just because they decided that they needed to see this damned dogfight through.

 

Did he not stop to think that HE would be missed? That leaving would open a void in Pixy that no amount of money could fill? || “You deserve better?”… No one said that to him before. He spent his life thinking he wasn’t enough. How could he leave Shamrock feeling the same way?

 

“I’m sorry?” || “I’ll do better?”. No! This was not their wingman’s fault. They could not leave without correcting this thought.

 

Dying was easy. Living was something else. They had wasted precious seconds giving up. Enough. They still had something… someone to live for.

 

Their wingmen had thrown them a lifeline over the radio… The radio! It was working! That meant that the jet’s avionics were not completely disabled.

 

They forced their focus back to the ADI, trying to make sense of the spin to formulate a correction plan. And at the moment when the horizon line was near-level, they willed their hands back on the stick, and their feet back on the rudders. Pain ripped through them. The whine of the engines increasing in power, draining the last dregs of fuel, drowned out screams of exertion shouted into the open air or through gritted teeth and cold sweat.

 

The dying birds were sluggish, shuddering and groaning their protest as they fought alongside their pilots in a desperate battle to slow the fall. What was left of the ailerons and stabilisers extended agonizingly, levelling out the one-winged spin, slowing the blind fall into a rapid, hobbled glide as the Sonne Island beachfront rushed up to meet them.

 

And then everything went black.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

////// The Wingmen //////

 

The last location of the Eagle and Strike Eagle were marked at opposite sides of the bluff. They took deep breaths, trying to bottle up the sense of helplessness that was threatening to spill over. Were their Flight leaders already dead? What if they lived, but the jet landed upside down and the tide was up, and they were dying right now? What if they lived but would die from their injuries if help didn’t get to them fast enough? Were they too late?

 

Anxiety wound them up. As soon as the heli touched the ground, they were ahead of the med team, heading to the wreckage as fast as they could on one good leg | on a full sprint. They needed to know.

 

------- Shamrock -------

Talisman was easy to spot - pale hair stained red, a sharp contrast against the rocks and the deep grey of the Strike Eagle. A broken helmet lay beside him, with the straps still around a hand which was.. Oh God.. the lacerations were everywhere. There was so much blood on the ground.

 

Worry drowned out his own pain and Shamrock rushed to his flight leader’s side, lifting Talisman into his arms as gently as possible. It broke his heart, seeing Talisman like this; unresponsive and impossibly light in his arms.

 

“Tali? You’re okay, I’m here for you. Wake up, please..” he hoped that Talisman would hear him and come back from wherever he could not reach, as he lifted his flight leader’s head gently to check for a pulse. He couldn’t feel anything. This couldn’t be happening.

 

Worry clouded his vision as he pulled Talisman closer.  A wingman’s job was to follow his Flight leader, keeping him safe so that he could complete their objective. Talisman won the war. That went without saying for the Ace he grew to become. But on all other counts, Shamrock knew he had failed. What kind of wingman was he?

 

The pain in his leg, the coldness of the darkening sky, the sound of the sea, and the feeling of his flight leader’s cooling blood seeping through his own flightsuit all faded. The world narrowed down to just him and Talisman. And for whatever use it would be, he couldn’t stop the words that came pouring out, punctuated with quiet sobs.

 

“Maybe I should count myself lucky, huh.. to at least, be able to see you for the last time…  and fuck this… this last time is also the first time I get to hold you in my arms. God, what am I saying?… What I’m trying to say is… come back. Let me take you for dinner instead. You don’t have to be the one doing everything. So come back, I’ll make it worth your while. We’ll do everything you never got to try; fly to chase the sunrise, try all the espressos from every cafe in Emmeria—

 

And he stopped and had to blink when a tired but familiar voice reached him: “Dinner, sunrise and coffee with you sounds nice. When do we go?”

 

He looked down at Talisman, checking that he wasn’t hallucinating, and he saw his flight leader smiling slightly at him. Exhausted, injured… but alive. He gently caressed the side of Talisman’s face, just to make sure he was real. “Whenever you’d like. I’ll make it happen,” he managed; and in a sadder tone, “I thought I had lost you”.

 

And unmistakably, he heard Talisman respond softly, reaching him through the bustling of the medics finally reaching their position and setting out their equipment, “You didn’t lose me. You saved me.”

 

------- Pixy -------

He was immediately lifting parts of the downed jet aside, trying to find Cipher, interspersing his actions with shouts of “Buddy! Where the hell are you!? Answer me, please!”

 

And when he saw Cipher, covered in deep gashes and with a broken arm, bleeding and unconscious, behind the broken nose cone, he understood why. He scrambled over the rocks to reach his flight leader, gathering him into his arms and going, “fuck, fuck, fuck.. no.. no..”

 

He tried checking for a pulse but it was either too cold, his fingers were too numb or Cipher was really…. No, not when they were so close. Not after all they had been through. This was unfair. This should have been his price to pay. He should have been there, but all he had given Cipher was betrayal, and worry, and more burdens to shoulder.

 

With wounds like that, Cipher must have suffered through his last moments. And as Pixy tried to memorize the final look on his flight leader’s face, he knew he didn’t see peace. It broke his heart. He couldn’t help the tears that were now falling as he tried, once more, to reach his flight leader.

 

“I hope you heard me before you… Damnit.. I hope you heard that you are everything to me. And now you’re gone. How can I go to Wellow without you? It… nothing will ever be the same. How am I going to-”

 

“Transfer clause… You take the money and go.” He recognized that Sapin accent anywhere, no matter how pained Cipher sounded.

 

Pixy stopped. He held on tighter to Cipher’s hand. “Buddy?”

 

“Hola, Corazón.” Cipher sounded tired, but alive, “Was out for a while but you brought me back. Sorry, I made you worry.” And Pixy found himself laughing in relief, through tears that were still falling.

 

“No sorries. You have nothing to apologize for.” He gently held Cipher closer, and felt Cipher lean his head against his chest, settling into a position that seemed to ease his pain. Gratefulness flooded him, but seeing Cipher hurt like this still filled him with sadness.

 

He had to ask. “Did you feel that you had to do this, for me?”

 

Cipher looked up at him, and he knew his flight leader well enough to recognize that look - one of trying to find the best way to convey a complex message. “Yes,” Cipher finally said, “but I think I know better now.”

 

Sadness threatened to come back into Pixy’s voice as he gently tilted Cipher’s chin up to look fully at him, so that he could convey the meaning of his words, “I want you to know that I would rather have you, than all the money in the world.”

 

Cipher looked at him with understanding, and nodded. “I won’t leave you again. I couldn’t bear to.”

 

“You’d better not. I was not even thinking about the money. In fact, I didn't know that it was even possible to pull off a transfer clause with all its terms and conditions. Especially on such a high-profile contract.”

 

At that, Cipher placed his non-broken hand over Pixy’s, “I had skipped the complications of listing you as a business partner by opting for a next-of-kin clause. I listed you as my husband.”

 

Pixy felt a knot in his throat and a light-headed happiness at those words. “But-“ Cipher continued before Pixy could interrupt, “-I swear, this is not the proposal. Let me do a proper one and you get to say Sí or -“

 

“Fucking yes. Don’t be an idiot, buddy.”

 

And before Cipher could protest, Pixy carefully lifted him in his arms and started making his way down to the Estovakian medics who were taking longer than expected to get to them, facing some difficulty in carrying the medical supplies over the rocky shoreline.

 

Cipher made a small sound of surprise at the gesture. “Pix.. how are you doing this?”

 

Pixy held him steady to minimize any further discomfort and feigned surprise, “Did you think that all those years as an ISAF soldier didn’t do anything for me? It’s either I got really strong, or you’re still not eating enough.” He grinned at Cipher’s stunned silence, “Impressed? If you’d like a proper wedding, I could do this again.” And despite the seriousness of their situation, the slight blush creeping over his flight leader’s face was worth it.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

///// Epilogue /////

 

////// Angels and Demons //////

 

Recovery was not an easy road. But this brush with death had taught them to rely on each other equally, in the air and out of it. So, they just knew that it was just a matter of time before they and another equally matched team, would be gaining the skies again.

 

Pixy | Shamrock found themselves instinctively looking out more for their Flight leaders. What if they had to face the Angel | Demon again?

 

That thought was enough for Pixy to suggest that they hold off retirement, until they could ascertain the threat the Emmerian Angels played. Now, there existed a team who could be used by Emmeria, or any other organisation who owned their loyalty, against them. And this time, the danger was real. Cipher, ever planning ahead, had agreed.

 

Shamrock thought that facing the Mercenary Demons again was a remote possibility. But after the war, they were drafted into a top-secret unit by commanders who wanted what they termed as “singularity threats” controlled, if not, eliminated. They were hunters now. He didn’t know if he liked the sound of it, especially with prey that could turn the tables and become the hunters themselves.

 

But it seemed that Cipher | Talisman took the developments in stride.

 

And when they lined up their jets in a familiar parallel take-off formation, they opened comms to their flight leaders: “How do you stay so calm about all of this?”

 

The answer came without a pause: “I’ve got you watching my back”.

 

They let the words settle in - words that carried the certainty of their flight leader’s faith, and the gravity of the trust accorded to them. They took a breath and set their sights on the sky with renewed confidence.

 

The tower cleared them for takeoff. And as Cipher | Talisman called Breaks, Rolling and Climb; they followed in perfect sync, knowing that they would follow them to hell and back, and would not have it any other way.