Chapter 1: Rift-Line Protocol
Chapter Text
Mount Elgin Subterranean Research Annex – Erusean Airspace March 3rd, 2023 – 04:21 hrs
The cold was different beneath the mountain—sharper somehow. It didn’t bite the skin, but wrapped around the lungs, tight and insistent. Like the air itself resented being disturbed.
A low hum filled the server room—not from machinery, but from the mountain itself. It was subtle. Residual. As if the very stone had learned to listen.
Dr. Alena Vos tightened the folds of her coat, trying to block out the bite of the lab's unnatural chill. Frost spread in delicate webs across the edges of the interface’s central prism—an eerie phenomenon given the warmth of the subterranean facility. The chamber lights dimmed as the pulse of the Chrono-Rift Node intensified. Encased in crystalline glass, the device resembled a turbine wrapped in layers of static light. Its core pulsed in quiet rhythm, each thrum aligning perfectly with the readings dancing across surrounding monitors. Neural waveform plots flickered alongside electromagnetic spectrographs and archived combat footage, parsed in real time. The system consumed history like a living thing.
"Initiate Layer Phase One,” she said calmly, her voice carrying into the room through a ceiling speaker.
A reply came from the console deck: “Confirmed. Splicing telemetry from Operation Ravine. Cipher flight log—timestamp zero, Belka engagement.”
Alena didn’t move. She stared down as the data converged, two combat pathways snaking across the interface’s display wall, diverging, converging again, until the simulation stilled.
"Overlay matched. Predictive recursion locked. 87.3% sync," came Renik's voice. A good result. Too good.
Vos crossed her arms. “Run until entropy breach. Do not pause at spike events.”
The Ghost Code
They had named it Project Chrono-Rift. On paper, it was a fusion of historical combat intelligence—a glorified prediction engine. But beneath layers of protocol and cold war leftovers, it became something else. A way to understand instinct. Not through statistics, but through signal resonance—coded impressions left behind in radar sweeps, cockpit black boxes, even corrupted audio logs buried in forgotten archives.
The first success was Cipher’s maneuver data. Belkan war archives were notoriously patchy, but they pulsed with unfiltered emotion: precision evasion, kill-loop spirals, sudden stalling tactics that no textbook could explain.
But what no one expected was the signature echo. A second aircraft. Galm 2.
Not in the dataset. Not loaded. Yet present.
Testing Log: March 5th
Subject: Cipher Neural Overlay Result: Full synchronization Anomaly: Secondary pilot behavior shadowing test flight, initiating maneuver correction unprompted
Vos tilted her head at the ghost trace, glowing red on the terminal.
“Run it again,” she said. “I want to see what choices Galm 2 tries to overwrite.”
Renik hesitated. “We didn’t upload Galm 2’s data. It shouldn’t exist.”
Vos stepped forward, voice low. “Then this is something new.”
Sequence 03: Scarface
Ten days later, after another round of bureaucratic delays and one hushed reprimand from the Erusian security liaison, the team received encrypted packages from an Ustian subcontractor.
Inside: raw telemetry from 2004—Scarface 1, from the Usean Continental War.
Scarface’s flight data was different. Where Cipher darted like a blade, Scarface flowed like a current. In testing, Riftline overlaid his evasive maneuvers with near-perfect fluidity. But at minute 43, something changed.
The interface shimmered.
Renik gasped. “Stop the run, it’s glitching.”
“No,” Vos whispered, eyes wide.
The screen twisted, two trajectories spiraling into each other. The second aircraft—a fighter unknown in Scarface’s time—appeared out of sync.
A voice cracked through the speakers, faint and torn by static:
“I’ve got two on me—clearing space for Phoenix.”
Vos staggered back. “That name… that’s not in the log.”
No one spoke.
The Moment of Fracture
On April 1st, against advisory, Vos conducted an unsanctioned splice—using combat signal data pulled from an errant drone sweep outside Selatapura. The file was incomplete, encoded with burst transmission markers and electromagnetic frequencies far beyond current tech.
The Riftline interface responded violently.
Screams of distortion bled from the speakers. The lab’s lights flickered. Fire alarms tripped with no smoke. Radar feedback from the nearest airbase recorded an unregistered aircraft flying inland at Mach 2—then disappearing mid-flight.
Most alarming: its callsign appeared on base logs for twelve seconds before vanishing.
STRIDER 1
Vos didn’t sleep that night.
Final Entry – Vos Archive Log [Redacted]
I thought we’d simulate ghosts. Instead, we summoned something far more dangerous. Time doesn’t remember neatly. And pilots like these… they leave wounds. They came with missions. They came with emotion. They will come again.
A lone display in Lab 3 flickered awake. The interface glowed, no longer reactive—aware.
And far above the mountain, barely visible through a break in the clouds, a contrail crossed the sky. Pure, silent, impossible.
The Riftline Interface remained quiet.
The cobalt prism, once pulsing like a nervous heartbeat, now hung motionless in its magnetic cradle, suspended like a frozen eye. The lab was dark except for the glow of half-functioning monitors, each whispering static into the silence. Alena Vos hadn’t moved in hours.
She stood with her back to the control wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Behind the reflection in the glass, she could still see it—that streak across the clouds. It had come and gone too fast. No engine flare. No sonic boom. No source. Just movement.
Below her in the trench, Renik paced quietly, headset looped over his neck. He held a folder with diplomatic seals—Ustian navy blue, Erusian crimson. The top was labeled in bold red: Inter-Theater Observational Committee (ITOC): Contrail Event 003.
“AWACS unit out of Cape Rainy logged it,” he said, voice flat. “Tagged it transient and moved on.”
Vos exhaled, slow. “They’re burying it.”
“Like all the others.” Renik flipped open the folder. “Osea filed a weather pattern interference memo. Yuktobania sent a poetic warning.”
Vos raised an eyebrow.
He read aloud: “Do not reach into the sky for ghosts. The living are always watching.”
A pause.
“I think they know.”
Vos turned to the terminal and ran her fingers over the keys, lighting up a new data folder: Residual Echoes – Peripheral Effects. The interface hissed softly, recalibrating. She glanced at Renik.
“They might know something’s wrong,” she said. “But we’re the only ones watching what happens to the ones it touches.”
Renik leaned forward, staring at the notes. “It’s not just showing data anymore.”
Vos didn’t respond. She watched a replay of a flight path skimming across Usean airspace—one not in any recorded mission. It ended with the aircraft pulling a maneuver neither Cipher nor Scarface ever executed. Yet it bore both their imprints.
She whispered, “It’s learning from them. It’s writing tactics that never existed.”
He stepped beside her. “Or they’re writing from somewhere else.”
Three encrypted transmissions hit the Annex’s terminal in succession:
-
Yuktobanian Foreign Affairs Office→ Subject: Unnatural Combat Precision Recorded Near Akerson Hill
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Osean Defense Directorate (Internal Memo)→ Subject: AWACS Redshift Logs—Unexplained Aircraft Maneuvers
-
Ustian Emergency Commission→ Subject: Immediate Termination Request – Chrono-Rift Classification Upgrade to Level 7
Renik skimmed them, frowning. “They want us shut down.”
Vos shook her head. “They want the Riftline contained. There’s a difference.”
He gestured at the console. “We’ve pulled everything. Cipher, Scarface. And the Scarface overlays are starting to self-edit. We’re out of material.”
“No,” she murmured. Her fingers hovered over the interface.
Renik hesitated. “What are you thinking?”
“We reached into the past,” she said. “It’s asking for what comes next.”
Renik went still. “You mean the future?”
Vos tapped a sequence into the console. A new folder loaded, marked Uncatalogued Signal Fragments—data bursts salvaged from Erusian AWACS surveillance east of Selatapura. No known aircraft matched the telemetry. No timestamp correlated with past missions.
At the bottom, a line of comms crackled faintly:
“Strider 1 to Long Caster… just dodged a railgun. Again. They just don't stop, do they?”
Vos stared at the screen, hands trembling.
Voice Log – Alena Vos (Private Entry)
"April 4th. I thought ghosts haunted the past. I was wrong. We reached backward—and found memories with names and callsigns. But what frightens me now isn’t what we summoned. It’s what wants to be summoned. I don’t believe we’re alone in this airspace anymore."
The Riftline hummed. Not randomly. Not in cycles.
It pulsed like it was breathing.
Vos stepped back. On the nearest monitor, a faint flight silhouette appeared—blinking, unverified. It traced a climb pattern resembling a Strider tactical ascent.
Renik whispered, “It knows we’re watching.”
Vos didn’t blink. “No,” she said. “It knows who’s missing.”
She tapped the final key.
Chapter 2: Enter: Cipher
Chapter Text
Belkan Airspace June 30th, 1995 — 17:47 hrs
The engines purred beneath him, smooth and unbothered. The war had ended with less ceremony than it deserved—no parades, no declarations. Just a Dam half-flooded and a silence thick enough to choke on.
Cipher's F-15C banked gently left, tracing a wide arc over Avalon’s southern edge. Below, floodlights flickered across twisted steel and shattered concrete. Smoke still clung to the ridgelines like ghosts refusing to leave.
His instruments read clean. Airspace clear. AWACS long gone. Pixy… gone.
He hadn’t said a word since the engagement. Not to ground control, not to his wingman—not that he had one anymore.
Galm 1, you are cleared for return to base. Transmission stable. Wind 12 knots, east-northeast.
Cipher tapped the throttle without speaking. The sky was fading violet—the kind of color that reminded him of quiet summer evenings before the war, when the sound of jet engines belonged to distant drills, not death.
He wanted to be angry. Or relieved. Or just... something. But all he could feel was the pressure in his ribs—the kind of ache that came from flying too long with your heart clenched shut.
His altimeter blinked.
Just once. Then again.
Then it froze—3,000 meters.
Cipher glanced down. Instruments still reported clean, but his engine readings showed a sudden drop in atmospheric density. No turbulence. No climb.
Just—displacement.
He blinked, trying to refocus. His canopy view twisted slightly, like the horizon was bending. The clouds ahead shimmered with a faint blue hue—not lightning, not flares.
Something in the air wasn’t air.
He flipped the comms switch. It was dead. AWACS gone. Radio tone… flatlined.
Galm 1—confirm altitude correction. This is… standby…
The voice didn’t sound like anyone he knew. The static overtook it fast. Then silence.
The sky pulsed.
Cipher’s HUD flickered, showing systems he didn’t recognize. “EWS LINK ACTIVE” pulsed in unfamiliar font. His radar briefly painted an aircraft directly in front of him—no IFF, no echo—then it vanished.
For a moment, he thought he was falling.
But the stars above him blinked sideways.
The sky was wrong.
Cipher knew that first—not from his instruments, which had rebooted in unfamiliar fonts and pale blue color codes—but from instinct.
The light was colder. The clouds moved differently, layered thin like wisps of oil on water. Below him, the terrain looked familiar but rearranged—mountain ranges curved where they shouldn’t, rivers cut differently. Landmarks he’d learned to trust were missing, replaced by strangers in the dirt.
He kept flying.
Throttle nominal. Altitude steady. Fuel readout… off. His canopy reflected too much light, as if the sun had shifted slightly out of place.
Cipher’s pulse was stable. That was the dangerous part. Not calm. Just numb.
AWACS comms cracked into life.
“Unidentified aircraft, you are entering restricted airspace. I repeat: divert course and prepare for escort.”
Cipher flinched. The voice was crisp. Neutral accent. No IFF from Galm, no Osean codes. Just protocol.
Then:
“You do not match any current fleet designations. Identify immediately.”
Cipher didn’t respond.
A formation of twin-engine fighters cut through the clouds ahead. Sleek and unfamiliar. Not Belkan. Not Ustian.
Three aircraft. Coordinated intercept.
Their lock-on signals blinked yellow across his HUD.
They weren’t here to greet him.
Cipher’s breath slowed. His pulse didn’t rise. But something inside cracked open—the part of him trained to react when surrounded.
He banked hard left, pulling into cloud cover. Missiles trailed but didn’t bite. His radar picked clean engagement arcs—predictable, rehearsed.
They weren’t veterans. They were executing a protocol.
Cipher slid beneath the lead jet and loosed a missile into its belly without hesitation. No callout. No second warning.
The second fighter banked wide to flank—he anticipated the maneuver, drifted across its arc, and rolled above into guns range. One burst. Clean fire. Debris fell like ice.
The third jet lingered too long in the edge of his targeting reticle.
Cipher hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then fired.
The sky cleared again, all three jets gone. Cipher angled west, deeper into the cloud belt. The air grew heavy with moisture, and his instruments flickered again—oxygen calibration adjusting without command, the onboard radar hunting for terrain it didn’t recognize.
He flew low, skimming the edge of an unnamed ridgeline. The mountains here weren’t familiar—not Belka, not Ustio, not anything he’d charted before. His HUD pulsed with shades of blue and silver, clean but clinical. Surveillance-grade.
Even the stars felt different.
No broadcasts came. No AWACS calls. No enemy radar locks. Just a horizon laced in fog and suspicion.
Cipher banked hard and dipped into a valley obscured by dusk. Beneath him, the outline of an old military airstrip curved against the hillside—a half-collapsed tower, two hangars with roofs missing, and a scorched tarmac half-swallowed by encroaching forest.
That’ll do.
He throttled down gently, guiding the F-15 into a stealth descent. His landing wasn’t elegant, but it was precise—wheels biting into fractured concrete, dust billowing around the fuselage like mist kicked up by a ghost.
The engines whined low, then faded.
For the first time in hours, Cipher sat still. Inside the cockpit, he peeled off one glove and stared at his hand. It trembled—not from adrenaline, but from restraint.
He should’ve taken a breath when Avalon was behind him. He should’ve felt closure.
Instead, all he felt was absence. Pixy was gone. The war had ended. And the world had changed without permission.
Cipher reached over to the console and flicked through the interface. Maps failed to load. Flight logs had rewritten themselves. His kills from the prior sortie were gone—replaced with today's, here.
Like the system was trying to make sense of his new myth.
The hangars offered no shelter, just twisted rebar and sheets of rusted alloy. He climbed down, boots scraping against moss-slick pavement, and swept the area with quick glances.
No power. No cameras. No visible movement.
He’d stayed alive through wars by trusting reflex. But this… this felt like exile.
He hoisted a broken fuel drum upright and flipped a panel from his cockpit onto it—sat down, elbows on knees, helmet beside him.
Silence pressed in.
Then, a sound. Distant. Not an aircraft. A hum.
The Riftline, somewhere far beneath another horizon, surged again—its pulse matched Cipher’s heartbeat now.
Something had opened the door, and he’d stepped through.
The abandoned base clung to silence as if it feared being noticed. Twilight crawled across the valley, swallowing the ridgeline in gradients of gray. Cipher sat hunched on an old maintenance panel, scanning the horizon like it might whisper answers if he stared long enough.
His F-15 loomed behind him, still warm, the faint scent of scorched air clinging to its fuselage. It felt strange to see it grounded. Stranger still to realize that the world around it had moved on without him.
He flicked on his portable receiver, fingers gliding across the frequency wheel like they had a hundred times before—but this time, nothing locked. No OADF traffic. No Ustian command bands. Just static, then silence.
Cipher leaned back and stared upward.
Stars blinked without pattern. The wind whistled down through the empty comms tower like it was trying to speak, but couldn’t find the words. He pulled his jacket tighter against the cold and turned toward his aircraft.
It looked alien now—its paint chipped in this strange light, its silhouette too clean against the twisted ruins.
He circled it once, then climbed back into the cockpit. Not to fly—just to feel grounded.
Above him, the sky had gone clear, but the silence lingered, heavy.
Chapter 3: Not the Sky I Remember
Chapter Text
Location: Fort Grays Island Command Center – Usean Continental Air Force
Date: July 3rd, 2005 – 09:14 hrs
The briefing room was quiet, save for the hum of the projector and the occasional shuffle of papers. Colonel Rainer stood at the head of the table, arms folded, eyes locked on the satellite image flickering across the screen.
A contrail. Isolated. Unmarked. Cutting across restricted airspace near the Ceres Ocean.
“Third sighting in two weeks,” he said. “No IFF. No heat signature. No known flight plan.”
A younger officer leaned forward. “Could be a drone?”
Rainer shook his head. “Drones don’t fly like this. Not even ours.”
He tapped the screen. The image zoomed in—revealing a blurred silhouette of an aircraft banking hard into a climb. The maneuver was textbook—but not modern.
“Telemetry matches a Belkan-era F-15C. But the pilot’s flying like he’s still in the war.”
Major Lorne stepped up next, holding a slim folder marked Echo Protocol – Internal Eyes Only. He flipped it open and began reading.
“Recovered signal fragments from Erusian airspace suggest a breach in temporal telemetry. We believe someone—or something—is pulling combat data from historical conflicts and projecting them into live airspace.”
He paused.
“Not simulations. Not drones. Pilots.”
The room went still.
“Belkan signatures. Usean war patterns. Even one trace that matches Scarface 1.”
A general scoffed. “Scarface is a myth.”
Lorne didn’t blink. “So was Mobius. Until he flew through seven squadrons and ended a war.”
Rainer stepped forward again. “We have a leak inside Erusian REXIS. They’ve confirmed the existence of a project called Chrono-Rift. It’s not just data compression. It’s displacement.”
He clicked to the next slide: a blurred image of Cipher’s aircraft mid-flight, taken from a recon drone.
“This pilot appeared out of nowhere. Engaged three of our interceptors. No comms. No hesitation. He flew like he was still in Belka.”
A pause.
“Then he vanished.”
The final slide showed a single name.
MOB-1-U5
The room shifted. Even the skeptics leaned in.
“He’s still active,” Rainer said. “Still flying. Still loyal.”
A voice from the back: “You want to send Mobius after ghosts?”
Rainer nodded. “He’s the only one who can match them. If these anomalies are real, we need someone who understands the sky they came from.”
Lorne added, “We won’t tell him everything. Just enough. He’ll think it’s a rogue pilot. A threat to stability.”
Another officer frowned. “And if he recognizes them?”
Rainer didn’t hesitate. “Then he’ll do what he always does.”
Classified Directive – MOB-1-U5
Mission Code: Skycleaner Objective: Intercept and eliminate unidentified aircraft operating outside sanctioned timeframes Authorization: Full engagement clearance Briefing: Minimal. Maintain operational ambiguity.
Outside the briefing room, the wind howled across the tarmac. A lone aircraft sat prepped for launch—its tail marked with a designation that had once ended wars.
Mobius 1.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, Cipher waited.
Location: Fort Grays Island – MOB-1-U5 Briefing Room
Date: July 3rd, 2005 – 14:02 hrs
The room was smaller than Mobius remembered. No fanfare. No flags. Just a projector, a steel table, and a manila folder with his designation printed in bold: MOB-1-U5 – Directive Skycleaner
Colonel Rainer stood at the far end, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Mobius sat quietly, helmet resting on the table beside him. He hadn’t flown in three days. Not since the last patrol over the Ceres corridor. Not since the contrail.
Rainer clicked the projector to life. A grainy image appeared—an F-15C banking hard into cloud cover, its tail code unreadable, its maneuver unmistakable.
“This aircraft appeared over restricted airspace near the Ceres Ocean. No IFF. No comms. Engaged three interceptors. All downed.”
Mobius leaned forward. “Belkan pattern.”
Rainer nodded. “Telemetry matches Cipher’s combat profile.”
Mobius didn’t speak.
Rainer continued, “We’re not asking for confirmation. We’re asking for containment.
Mobius flipped open the folder. Inside: satellite images, signal fragments, and a flight path stitched together from AWACS logs. The aircraft had vanished into a valley west of the ridge—an abandoned base, long since decommissioned.
“He’s hiding,” Rainer said. “We’ve got recon drones circling the area. No movement. No comms. But the aircraft’s still warm.”
Mobius scanned the data. The maneuvers were precise. Familiar. But something was off.
“He’s not flying like he’s in a war,” Mobius said. “He’s flying like he’s lost.”
Rainer didn’t blink. “That’s why we need you.”
Location: Western Ridge – Recon Drone Feed
Time: 14:37 hrs
The drone hovered silently above the valley, its thermal sensors sweeping the ruins below. The F-15C sat parked near a collapsed hangar, its canopy sealed, its systems dormant.
Inside the cockpit, Cipher remained still.
He hadn’t moved in hours.
The receiver beside him crackled faintly—signal fragments looping again.
“…Mobius inbound… anomaly confirmed…”
Cipher’s eyes narrowed. He adjusted the dial. The signal shifted.
“…Skycleaner authorized…”
He didn’t recognize the voice. But the word hit like a missile.
Mobius.
He leaned back, breath shallow. The world was folding in on itself.
Cipher reached for the throttle.
Location: Western Ridge – Usean Airspace
Date: July 3rd, 2005 – 16:02 hrs
The valley trembled beneath the roar of twin engines.
Cipher’s F-15C tore through the cloud cover, climbing hard into open sky. His HUD flickered with unfamiliar overlays, but his hands moved with muscle memory—throttle, rudder, roll. The world below was foreign, but the sky? The sky still spoke his language.
He didn’t know where he was going. Only that he couldn’t stay.
Behind him, a second aircraft surged into view—sleek, dark, and unmistakable. Its silhouette cut through the haze like a blade.
Mobius 1.
Cipher’s breath caught.
Mobius locked radar. No IFF. No response.
“Unidentified aircraft, this is MOB-1-U5. You are ordered to land immediately.”
Cipher didn’t respond. He banked hard right, pulling into a defensive spiral. Mobius followed, matching his movements with eerie precision.
Missile lock. Cipher broke it.
Gun pass. Cipher evaded.
Mobius narrowed his eyes. The pilot wasn’t just skilled—he was familiar. Every maneuver felt like déjà vu. Every dodge like a memory.
He opened private comms.
“You’re flying like you’ve got nothing left.”
Cipher flinched. The voice was calm. Steady. Not hostile.
“I don’t know who you are,” Cipher replied, voice low. “But I’m not going back.”
Mobius pulled alongside, just out of guns range. The two aircraft danced across the sky—neither firing, both circling.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Mobius said. “But I don’t think you chose this.”
Cipher’s hands trembled on the stick. His eyes scanned the terrain below—no safe landing, no allies, no escape.
“I shot down my best friend,” he whispered. “And now the world doesn’t make sense.”
Mobius didn’t respond immediately. He adjusted formation, flying parallel.
“Then let’s make sense of it together.”
Cipher hesitated.
The sky held its breath.
Then—he cut throttle.
Mobius mirrored the descent.
The two aircraft landed in tandem on a stretch of cracked highway just outside the valley. Dust kicked up around them, engines winding down like sighs.
Cipher climbed out slowly, helmet tucked under his arm. His large red ears twitched in the wind, eyes scanning Mobius with quiet suspicion.
Mobius stepped forward, scarf fluttering, expression unreadable.
They stood in silence.
Then Mobius spoke.
“You’re not a threat. You’re a pilot who got pulled out of time.”
“I don’t know what I am anymore.” Cipher looked away.
Mobius nodded.
“Then let’s figure it out. One flight at a time.”
The wind rolled across the cracked highway, carrying dust and silence. The two aircraft sat cooling in the late afternoon sun—Cipher’s F-15C, scarred and weathered, and Mobius’s jet, sleek and pristine, like it had never known defeat.
Cipher stood a few paces from his cockpit, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one elbow. His red eyes flicked between Mobius and the horizon, scanning for movement. His fox ears twitched at every gust, every distant echo.
Mobius approached slowly, hands empty, scarf fluttering in the breeze. He stopped a few feet away, giving Cipher space.
“You flew like you were trying to disappear,” Mobius said quietly.
Cipher didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ground, then up at the sky.
“I was returning from Avalon,” he said. “The war was over. Pixy was gone. I thought… I thought I’d finally land.”
Mobius nodded. “But you didn’t.”
Cipher’s voice was low, almost hollow. “I was mid-flight. Then everything shifted. The clouds bent. My instruments changed. I was somewhere else.”
He looked up, eyes sharp.
“Where am I?”
Mobius exhaled. “Usea. 2005.”
“That’s not possible.” Cipher blinked, actually looking at his man's appearance. Despite the youth of his face, there was an older air about Mobius, compared to Cipher.
Mobius shrugged gently. “Neither is you flying through three interceptors like they were training drones.”
A pause.
Cipher stepped forward, tension in his shoulders.
“You were sent to kill me.”
Mobius didn’t flinch. “I was sent to intercept an anomaly. But I saw how you flew. You weren’t hostile. You were scared.”
Cipher’s jaw clenched. “I don’t get scared.”
Mobius tilted his head. “Then what do you call flying without a destination?”
Cipher sat on the edge of the highway, helmet beside him. Mobius joined him, both staring out at the valley.
“I’ve heard signals,” Cipher said. “Voices. Pixy’s. Yours. Names I don’t know. Strider. Phoenix.”
Mobius nodded. “You’re not the only one.”
Cipher turned. “You’ve seen others?”
Mobius hesitated. “Not yet. But the brass is nervous. They’re tracking anomalies. They think you’re dangerous.”
Cipher looked away. “Maybe I am.”
Mobius shook his head. “You’re displaced. That’s not the same.”
A long silence followed.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Cipher said. “I just wanted to land.”
Mobius stood, offering a hand.
“Then let’s start there.”
Cipher looked at it. Then took it.
Chapter 4: The Sky We Now Share
Chapter Text
Location: Fort Grays Island – Usean Continental Air Force Command
Date: July 4th, 2005 – 08:02 hrs
The hangar doors groaned open as Mobius taxied in, his aircraft gliding to a stop with practiced ease. Behind him, Cipher’s F-15C followed—older, louder, and unmistakably out of place. Its paint was faded, its silhouette sharp against the morning haze.
Ground crews froze.
Cipher climbed out slowly, helmet under his arm, red eyes scanning the base with quiet calculation. His canine ears twitched once, then stilled. He didn’t speak.
Mobius dismounted next, walking straight toward the command building without waiting for orders.
Colonel Rainer stood at the head of the briefing room, arms folded, expression unreadable. The room was smaller this time. Tighter. Less curious, more cautious.
Mobius placed his helmet on the table and spoke before anyone else could.
“I made contact with the anomaly. He’s not hostile.”
Rainer raised an eyebrow. “You engaged him.”
Mobius nodded. “He defended himself. But he didn’t escalate. He didn’t flee. He landed. We talked.”
Major Lorne leaned forward. “And you believe him?”
Mobius didn’t blink. “I watched him fly. He’s not here to fight. He’s here because something pulled him out of time.”
Rainer stepped closer. “That’s not your call to make.”
Mobius met his gaze. “It’s the only call that matters.”
Silence hung heavy.
Then Rainer turned to Lorne. “We can’t afford to lose Mobius. Not now.”
Lorne nodded reluctantly. “Then we reclassify the anomaly.”
He opened a folder and slid it across the table.
Cipher – Status: Conditional Authorization
Designation: N/A
Flight Clearance: Limited, Escort Required
Handler: MOB-1-U5
Mobius scanned the page. “Escort?”
Rainer nodded. “You’re responsible for him. Every sortie. Every maneuver. If he deviates, you bring him down.”
Mobius didn’t flinch. “He won’t.”
Rainer leaned in. “Then prove it.”
Outside, Cipher stood beside his aircraft, watching the crew work around him like he was radioactive. No one spoke to him. No one saluted. He didn’t expect them to.
Mobius approached, holding the clearance file.
“You’re official now,” he said. “Sort of.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “Escort?”
Mobius smirked. “Wingman.”
Cipher looked away. “I’ve had one of those before.”
Mobius didn’t press. “We fly at 0900. You’ll be on my six.”
Cipher nodded.
“Then let’s see what this sky wants from me.”
Location: Fort Grays Island – Hangar 3
Date: July 4th, 2005 – 13:47 hrs
The hangar was quieter than usual.
Cipher’s F-15C sat parked near the far wall, cordoned off by caution tape that hadn’t been officially placed. No one said it was restricted. No one had to.
The ground crew worked in pairs, always at a distance. They checked his fuel lines, replaced a cracked panel, and ran diagnostics on his avionics—but they never lingered. No jokes. No small talk. Just quick glances and faster exits.
One mechanic whispered to another as they passed:
“That’s the one who downed three interceptors in under two minutes.”
“I heard he’s Belkan. Like, actual Belkan.”
“Mobius brought him in. That’s gotta mean something.”
“Or it means Mobius is losing it.”
Cipher sat on a crate nearby, helmet resting beside him, eyes fixed on the floor. His canine ears twitched occasionally, catching fragments of conversation. He didn’t react. He didn’t need to.
The silence around him said enough.
In the mess hall, tables emptied when he entered. Pilots glanced up, then down. One left his tray half-full and walked out without a word.
Cipher took a seat in the corner, back to the wall, eyes scanning the room like he was still in combat. He ate slowly, methodically. No one joined him.
Mobius passed by once, offered a nod.
In the barracks, the rumors grew louder.
“They say he’s not even from this timeline.”
“I heard he talks to himself. Like he’s hearing voices.”
“Mobius is covering for him. That’s the only reason he’s still flying.”
“If he snaps, we’re all dead.”
Cipher heard it all. Not directly. But in the way people moved around him. In the way conversations stopped when he entered a room.
He didn’t blame them; he knew he didn't belong here either.
Later that evening, Mobius found him in the hangar, sitting beneath the wing of his aircraft, staring at the stars through the open roof.
“They’re talking,” Mobius said.
Cipher didn’t look up. “Let them.”
Mobius sat beside him. “They’re scared.”
Cipher nodded, then finally admitted. “So am I.”
A pause.
“You flew clean today,” Mobius said. “No hesitation. No deviation.”
Cipher turned. “I’m not trying to prove anything.”
Mobius met his gaze. “You already have.”
Location: Fort Grays Island – Hangar 3
Date: July 4th, 2005 – 21:03 hrs
The hangar was dim, lit only by overhead strips casting long shadows across the concrete. Cipher sat beneath the wing of his aircraft again, legs stretched out, helmet beside him. The air was quiet, save for the distant hum of generators and the occasional clink of tools.
Mobius stood on the upper catwalk, arms folded, watching silently.
Then came the footsteps.
Lieutenant Rhoan—call sign Viper—strode across the hangar floor with purpose. His flight suit was half-zipped, his expression sharp. He stopped a few feet from Cipher, arms crossed.
“You’re the anomaly.”
Cipher didn’t move. “That’s what they say.”
Viper stepped closer. “You killed three of ours.”
Cipher looked up, eyes calm. “They fired first.”
Viper’s jaw clenched. “You didn’t hesitate.”
Cipher stood slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “I didn’t have time to.”
Viper’s voice rose. “You think flying with Mobius makes you untouchable?”
Cipher tilted his head. “I think flying with Mobius means I’m trusted.”
Viper stepped into Cipher’s space, close enough to provoke. “You’re not one of us. You’re a ghost. A threat. And if command won’t deal with you—”
Cipher didn’t flinch. “Then what?”
Viper’s fist twitched.
Mobius watched from above, unmoving.
Cipher’s voice was low. Steady.
“You want to fight me. Not because of what I did. But because you’re afraid I’ll do it again.”
Viper’s eyes narrowed.
Cipher stepped back, giving space.
“I’m not here to prove anything. I’m here because I didn’t choose to be.”
A long silence.
Then Viper turned and walked away.
Mobius remained on the catwalk, watching as Cipher sat back down beneath the wing, eyes returning to the stars. From here he could tell the pilot just wanted to go home; something Mobius couldn't give him.
Chapter 5: Enter: Phoenix
Chapter Text
Location: Usean Airspace – Near the Amber Coast
Date: September 14th, 1997 – 17:42 hrs
The sky was golden, stretched wide across the sea like a canvas still drying. Phoenix banked gently over the coastline, his F-16 gliding smooth and steady. The mission had gone well—civilian transports escorted, rebel fighters scattered, no losses.
He exhaled through a smile, the kind that came after a clean sortie. The kind that reminded him why he flew.
“Phoenix, convoy reports safe arrival. You’re clear to RTB.”
He tapped the comms. “Copy that. Heading home.”
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the waves. Below, the Amber Coast shimmered with fading light. Phoenix adjusted his throttle, letting the jet settle into cruise. He liked this part—the quiet after the storm, the sky still humming with adrenaline and peace.
Then his HUD blinked.
Once. Then again.
Then it froze.
Phoenix frowned. His radar painted a contact—then none. His altimeter reset. His oxygen levels spiked, then normalized. The horizon shimmered, bending slightly, like heat distortion without heat.
He reached for the comms.
“Control, this is Phoenix. I’m getting some weird—”
Static.
Then silence.
Then a voice he didn’t recognize.
“Unidentified Aircraft, you are entering restricted airspace. Identify.”
Phoenix blinked. “Wait what?”
The sky pulsed.
His instruments rebooted in a language he didn’t recognize. His flight path rerouted. The terrain below was wrong—mountains where there should be ocean, cities where there should be farmland.
He wasn’t over Usea anymore, at least not the Usea he knew.
Phoenix pulled into a controlled dive, scanning for a safe landing zone. His instincts kicked in—find flat ground, avoid population, stay low.
He spotted a stretch of abandoned highway near a collapsed radio tower. Not ideal. But good enough.
His F-16 touched down with a jolt, skidding across cracked pavement before settling into silence.
Phoenix sat in the cockpit, breathing hard.
Then he laughed.
“Okay… that’s new.” He climbed out slowly, boots crunching against gravel. The air smelled different—cleaner, colder. He looked around, scanning the horizon.
No squadron. No base. No familiar landmarks.
Just sky.
He pulled off his helmet, red-blue hair catching the wind, and looked up.
“...Where the hell am I?”
The wind tugged at Phoenix’s flight suit as he stepped away from the F-16, boots crunching against gravel and broken glass. The highway was cracked and overgrown, vines curling through the seams like nature had been trying to erase it for years.
Ahead, the control tower loomed—half-collapsed, its antenna bent sideways like a broken wing. The windows were shattered, the door hanging off its hinges. But it was still standing.
Phoenix approached slowly, hand resting on the grip of his sidearm out of habit. He didn’t expect trouble. But he didn’t expect anything anymore.
The interior was coated in dust and silence. Old terminals lined the walls, their screens dark, their keyboards half-buried under debris. A faded Usean flag hung crooked near the stairwell, its colors sun-bleached and torn.
Phoenix climbed the stairs carefully, each step groaning under his weight. At the top, the control room was intact enough to explore. A desk sat near the window, covered in papers, maps, and a rusted radio unit.
He sifted through the documents, fingers brushing aside mold and ash.
“Come on… give me something.”
Then he found it—a folded map, yellowed and brittle, marked with air routes and base codes. He opened it slowly, eyes scanning the terrain.
The coastline was familiar. But the names were wrong. Cities he knew were missing. Others were marked in places they shouldn’t be.
He traced his finger along the ridgeline.
“This is Usea… but not mine.”
He found a date in the corner.
Printed: January 2004
Phoenix sat back, breath catching.
“Okay… that’s definitely not right.”
He turned to the radio unit, brushing dust from the dials. It was old, analog, but intact. He flipped the switch.
Static.
Then a faint signal.
“…Mobius 1 confirmed… anomaly pilot Galm 1 cleared for escort…”
Phoenix leaned in. “Mobius?”
He adjusted the dial.
“…Cipher… Riftline breach… anomaly stable…”
Cipher? Riftline? Nothing about this transmission made sense.
He sat in silence, staring at the radio.
“I’m not alone...?”
Location: Fort Grays Island – Command Briefing Room
Date: July 5th, 2005 – 08:14 hrs
The projector flickered to life, casting a grainy image across the wall: a lone F-16, parked on a fractured highway near a collapsed radio tower. The aircraft was intact. The pilot was not identified.
Colonel Rainer stood at the head of the table, arms folded, expression carved from stone.
“We’ve got another one.”
Mobius leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Cipher sat beside him, arms crossed, silent.
Major Lorne stepped in, flipping open a folder marked Anomaly – 3. He placed it on the table.
“Telemetry confirms a Riftline breach. Same signature as Cipher’s. This one’s Usean—pulled from 1997.”
Cipher’s eyes flicked to the image. The pilot was standing beside the aircraft, helmet off, red-blue hair and feathery ears catching the wind.
“Phoenix,” he said quietly.
Mobius turned. “You know him?”
Cipher nodded. “Not personally. But his reputation was clean. Escort missions. Civilian defense. He flew for people.”
Rainer tapped the screen. “He’s transmitting. Not encrypted. Not evasive. Just… confused.”
Lorne added, “He’s asking for help. Not backup. Not extraction. Just someone to explain.”
Mobius leaned back. “Then we send someone who understands.”
Rainer didn’t blink. “You’re already assigned.”
He turned to Cipher.
“And you’re going with him.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “Escort?”
Rainer nodded. “Observation. If he’s stable, he joins your formation.”
Mobius glanced at Cipher. “You good with that?”
Cipher stood slowly, eyes on the image.
“If he’s anything like I was… he’s scared. Not dangerous.”
Mobius nodded.
“Then let’s go meet this Phoenix.”
Chapter 6: The Start of Misfit Squadron
Chapter Text
Location: Usean Interior – En Route to Amber Ridge
Date: July 5th, 2005 – 10:42 hrs
The sky was overcast, streaked with high-altitude haze and the faint shimmer of AWACS radar sweeps. Mobius flew point, his aircraft cutting clean lines through the clouds. Cipher followed close behind, his F-15C trailing slightly off formation—watchful, quiet.
The signal was faint but steady.
“…Phoenix… requesting contact… anyone receiving…”
Mobius adjusted his comms. “He’s broadcasting openly. No encryption.”
Cipher’s voice came through, low. “He’s not hiding. He’s lost.”
Mobius nodded. “Let’s find him before someone else does.”
AWACS unit Skyeye tracked the signal from high orbit, relaying coordinates to Mobius’s HUD. The terrain below was rugged—abandoned infrastructure, collapsed towers, and stretches of highway swallowed by forest.
Cipher scanned the landscape. “This area used to be a training corridor. Back in ’97, it was active.”
Mobius replied, “Now it’s a ghost town.”
Then they saw it.
A lone F-16, parked near a ruined control tower. No movement. No escort. Just one pilot standing beside the aircraft, staring up at the sky. Mobius and Cipher landed in tandem, engines winding down in synchronized hums. Dust kicked up around them, settling slowly as silence reclaimed the valley.
Phoenix turned as they approached, helmet tucked under his arm, red-blue hair catching the wind. His stance was cautious—ready to run, ready to fight, but not eager for either. Regardless, his hand rested loosely on his sidearm.
Cipher stepped forward first, hand also loose on his own weapon; couldn't be too sure.
“You’re Phoenix.”
Phoenix nodded slowly. “You’re… not AWACS.”
Mobius approached next, scarf fluttering, expression calm.
“We’re not here to hurt you.”
Phoenix’s eyes flicked between them. “Then what are you here for?”
Cipher met his gaze. “To tell you you’re not the only one.”
They sat beneath the tower, the three of them, aircraft cooling in the background like sleeping beasts. Phoenix spoke first.
“I was flying a clean escort. Then the sky bent. My HUD changed. I landed here.”
Mobius nodded. “Same thing happened to Cipher. You were pulled.”
Phoenix frowned. “Pulled by what?”
Cipher looked up. “Something called the Riftline. It’s not just data. It’s displacement.”
Phoenix leaned back. “So I’m not crazy.”
Mobius smiled faintly. “Not even close.”
A pause.
“What happens now?” Phoenix asked, his feathery ears giving a tiny flutter with the oncoming breeze.
Cipher stood, looking to Mobius. "Well I don't think you're considered a threat. By our mission...”
Mobius added, nodding to Cipher. “Welcome to the squadron.”
Location: Mount Elgin Subterranean Research Annex – Riftline Control
Date: July 5th, 2005 – 12:03 hrs
The Riftline prism pulsed softly in its cradle, casting pale blue light across the chamber. The hum was steady now—no surges, no spikes. Just a quiet rhythm, like breath.
Dr. Alena Vos stood at the terminal, eyes scanning telemetry feeds. Cipher’s signal had gone dark—redirected to Usean military channels. Phoenix’s echo had stabilized within minutes of his arrival.
Renik approached, holding a fresh data slate.
“They’ve been picked up. Mobius has both anomalies under escort.”
Vos didn’t look up. “Of course he does.”
Renik hesitated. “They’re not hostile. They’re flying clean.”
Vos tapped a key, pulling up a waveform.
“That’s not the point. They’re ours. The Riftline pulled them. We need to understand why.”
Renik frowned. “You think they’re just data?”
Vos turned, eyes sharp. “I think they’re keys. And we’ve lost two.” She pulled up the breach logs—Cipher’s entry, Phoenix’s descent. Both showed similar patterns: temporal displacement, memory bleed, signal harmonics stabilizing within 48 hours.
“They’re adapting,” Vos said. “Faster than expected.”
Renik leaned over the console. “So what’s next?”
Vos tapped a new folder.
Anomaly Candidate: TRG-01 – Unstable Echo
The waveform was jagged. Erratic. Unlike Cipher or Phoenix, this one pulsed with future telemetry—maneuvers not yet invented, aircraft not yet built.
“Trigger,” she whispered.
Renik’s eyes widened. “He’s not even born yet.”
Vos smiled faintly. “Then we’ll be the first to meet him."
She opened a secure channel.
“Prepare the next splice. I want full harmonic bleed. If Usea gets to him first, we lose the future.”
Renik hesitated. “You're talking about actively trying to rip someone from the future, not letting the Riftline pull them naturally. What if he’s unstable?”
Vos didn’t blink.
“Then we learn what instability looks like at Mach 2.”
Location: Usean Continental Air Force – Fort Grays Island
Date: July 5th, 2005 – 13:24 hrs
Three aircraft broke through the cloud cover in tight formation—Mobius leading, Cipher trailing slightly off his wing, and Phoenix holding steady behind them. His F-16 looked out of place among the sleeker, newer jets. But his flight path was clean. Controlled.
The tower cleared them without hesitation.
“Mobius 1, you are cleared for landing. Misfit 2 and 3 acknowledged.”
Phoenix blinked at the call sign. “Misfit?”
Cipher’s voice came through the comms. “It’s what they're trying to call us; Misfit Squadron.”
Phoenix smiled faintly. “Fitting.”
The trio landed in sequence, engines winding down like a synchronized breath. Ground crews moved quickly—but not toward Phoenix. They lingered near Mobius and Cipher, casting glances at the third jet like it might bite.
Phoenix climbed out slowly, helmet tucked under his arm, red-blue hair catching the wind. He scanned the base—hangars, towers, personnel—all familiar in shape, but wrong in detail.
Cipher stepped beside him. “It’s Usea. Just not the one you knew.”
Mobius approached, nodding once. “You’ll get used to it.”
Phoenix looked around. “Do they know what I am?”
Mobius shrugged. “They know what you might be.”
Inside the hangar, whispers spread fast.
“That’s the new one. Misfit 3.”
“He’s younger than Cipher.”
“Mobius brought him in. Again.”
Phoenix walked through the corridor with Cipher at his side. No one made eye contact. No one spoke. A mechanic passed by, then doubled back to avoid crossing their path.
Cipher leaned in. “You’ll get used to that too.”
Phoenix nodded. “I’m not here to be liked.”
Mobius turned. “You’re here to fly.”
Subject: PHOENIX - MISFIT 3
Arrival Status: Stabilized
Escort: MOB-1-U5, MISFIT 2
Directive: Observation, Limited Clearance
Note: Maintain distance. Psychological evaluation pending.
Location: Fort Grays Island – Tactical Evaluation Wing
Date: July 5th, 2005 – 15:02 hrs
The testing facility was buried beneath the main hangars, a maze of sterile corridors and reinforced chambers. Cipher and Phoenix walked side by side, flanked by two silent escorts. Neither pilot spoke.
The walls were lined with observation windows. Behind them, analysts watched with clipped curiosity—military psychologists, telemetry engineers, and Riftline consultants. Cipher had seen this kind of room before. Phoenix hadn’t.
They were placed in separate simulators—cockpits surrounded by curved screens, projecting combat scenarios from various eras. Cipher’s simulation loaded a Belkan skirmish. Phoenix’s showed a Usean convoy defense.
Cipher flew with precision, but his maneuvers were unpredictable—he broke formation, flanked targets from angles that didn’t match standard doctrine. The analysts scribbled notes.
Phoenix flew clean. Textbook. But halfway through, he hesitated—his HUD showed a city he didn’t recognize, marked as hostile territory. He blinked, confused, then adjusted course.
“He’s adapting,” one analyst said. “But he’s not trusting the data.”
Cipher sat across from a military psychologist, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
“Do you feel displaced?”
Cipher didn’t blink. “I feel observed.”
“Do you trust Mobius?”
A pause.
“I trust his instincts.”
In the next room, Phoenix leaned forward, hands clasped.
“Do you understand what happened to you?”
Phoenix nodded. “I was flying. Then I wasn’t. I landed in a world that doesn’t remember me.”
“Do you feel threatened?”
Phoenix smiled faintly. “Only when people look at me like I’m a weapon.”
Cipher and Phoenix sat together in a debriefing room, monitors displaying their flight data side by side. Mobius stood nearby, arms folded, watching silently.
An officer entered, holding a tablet.
“Cipher: unpredictable, but stable. Phoenix: adaptable, but emotionally reactive.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “Emotionally reactive?”
Phoenix shrugged. “I still care. That’s not a flaw.”
Mobius stepped forward. “They’re not assets. They’re pilots. Treat them like it.”
The officer didn’t respond. He left the room.
Cipher turned to Phoenix.
“You flew clean.”
Phoenix smiled. “So did you. Just… sideways.”
Location: Fort Grays Island – Hangar 3 Observation Deck
Date: July 5th, 2005 – 18:47 hrs
The sun dipped low over the base, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The hangar was quiet, most personnel having cleared out for the evening. Cipher sat on the edge of the observation deck, legs stretched out, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Phoenix joined him, dropping into a seat beside him with a quiet sigh. His red-blue hair caught the fading light, and his flight suit still smelled faintly of jet fuel. Mobius stood a few meters behind them, arms folded, leaning against the railing. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Phoenix broke the silence first.
“They called me emotionally reactive.”
Cipher smirked. “They called me unpredictable.”
Phoenix chuckled. “Guess we’re both dangerous.”
Cipher shook his head. “You flew clean. You hesitated when the data didn’t match. That’s not weakness. That’s instinct.”
Phoenix looked out at the runway. “I used to fly escort missions. Civilians. Aid convoys. I liked knowing I was protecting someone.”
Cipher nodded slowly. “I flew with Pixy; he was my wingman... until he wasn’t.”
Phoenix glanced over. “What happened?”
Cipher’s voice was quiet. “He... defected. Abandoned me, killed my second wingman, and tried to launch a nuke that would wipe out a large portion of the world.”
Phoenix didn’t respond right away.
“...Did you shoot him down?”
Cipher nodded once, lowering his gaze. He could hear the sounds of Pixy's bird exploding.
“Did it help?”
Cipher looked away. “The war officially ended... but it didn't help me.”
Phoenix leaned back, arms resting on his knees, as he let the conversation sink in. He sighed softly, closing his eyes, before speaking again.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be here. I don’t know if I belong.”
Cipher turned to him. “You landed. You adapted. You’re flying again. That’s enough.”
Phoenix smiled faintly. “You’re not as cold as they say.”
Cipher shrugged. “I’m just tired.”
Behind them, Mobius watched quietly, eyes thoughtful. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t approach.
He just listened.
And in that silence, something shifted.
Not orders. Not protocol.
Just trust.
Chapter 7: Enter: Trigger
Summary:
All of our Aces have been introduced... for now.
Chapter Text
Location: Erusean Airspace – Near the Lighthouse
Date: September 19th, 2019 – 17:03 hrs
The sky was fire.
Trigger’s F-22A screamed through the smoke-washed clouds, trailing shrapnel and ruin. Mimic Squadron was gone—reduced to wreckage spiraling into the sea—but the victory came with a cost. His jet was crippled, HUD flickering, every joint in his body thrumming with leftover G-force.
“Strider 1, you are clear to RTB. Good work out there.”
The comms voice was faint, crackling.
He didn’t respond. Half his systems were fried, the other half lying to him. The sea below gleamed with sunset gold—but the horizon wasn’t right. Too quiet. Too... still.
Then the altimeter froze.
Radar blinked.
The sky shimmered.
His cockpit pulsed in pale blue light, the panels rebooting in foreign characters. Oxygen levels surged. The clouds around him fractured, warped like glass under pressure.
“What the hell—?”
Then the Riftline opened.
Reality bent sideways. The F-22 twisted with it, sucked into a breach of collapsing space and soundless violence. The sea disappeared. The sky turned sharp and cold.
Trigger screamed.
“Mayday, Mayd—”
Impact.
The jet slammed into a hillside, shearing through treetops and rock. Metal howled. Wings snapped. The fuselage skidded, flipping end-over-end before slamming into a snow-slicked ravine.
Inside, Trigger’s helmet cracked against the canopy. Blood sprayed across the visor. His arm dangled limp, shoulder wrenched from its socket. Everything blurred.
The cockpit hissed.
Smoke billowed from the engine housing.
Emergency beacon flickered.
He was alive.
Barely.
Location: Unknown Command Facility – Vos Forward Unit
Vos loomed over the console, fingers dancing across holo-screens.
“TRG-01 has breached. We have him—confirmed crash. Coordinates locked.”
Renik peered over. “Voss Range. Remote. Mountainous.”
Vos smirked coldly. “Perfect.”
She snapped her fingers.
“Send drones and retrieval. I want him breathing.”
Renik raised an eyebrow. “If Usea detects this—?”
Vos turned slowly. “Then we race. And we win. Anomaly or not, take down whoever shows up.”
Location: Fort Grays – Runway
Mobius stood still, helmet in hand, gazing out over the tarmac as the mission brief came through.
“AWACS confirms anomaly aircraft downed near Voss Range. Riftline signature stable. Hostiles likely inbound.”
Cipher was already climbing into his jet. Phoenix buckled in beside his own.
Mobius exhaled. “You both ready?”
Cipher glanced skyward. “Always.”
Phoenix pulled on his visor. “Let’s go get our stray wolf.”
The jets screamed into the sky, contrails cutting through the horizon like blades.
Location: Voss Range Airspace
The mountains were tall, jagged teeth under the bleeding sunset.
Mobius led the formation tight through the canyon. Cipher kept pace at wing level, eyes cold and focused. Phoenix lagged slightly behind, adjusting radar filters to chase the Riftline echoes.
“Unmarked drones inbound,” SkyEye confirmed. “No IFF, unknown model.”
Cipher narrowed his gaze. “Vos is already here.”
Phoenix spoke through grit teeth. “These bastards aren’t flying normal. They’re moving like they’re reading ahead.”
Three drones dropped from the cloud layer—unnaturally angular, glowing blue, pulsing like they were half-living. Their flight paths zig-zagged through theoretical trajectories, anticipating reactions that hadn’t happened yet.
“Three hostiles,” Mobius reported. “Tight formation. Tracking us.”
Cipher clicked over to private comms. “These aren’t scouts. They're hunters.”
One drone broke off, diving into the canyon before Cipher could even bank.
“That one knew where I’d be,” he muttered.
Phoenix looped left, jinking a missile that corrected mid-flight. “Okay, okay—definitely Riftline-fed. They’ve got predictive subroutines.”
Mobius leveled and opened fire.
Clean burst. One drone folded into itself—imploding like time simply ended for it.
“Splash one.”
Cipher danced under the second, inverting just beneath its fuselage. Flare. Lock.
Missile fired.
The blast shredded it mid-climb—fragments spinning like confetti across the ridge.
“Splash two.”
Phoenix’s drone wouldn’t back off. It mirrored his every move—dodge, roll, throttle shift.
“I think this thing has my entire move list memorized—”
Then he yanked hard into a stall, climbing vertical until the jet flipped tail-first. The drone overcorrected.
“You want instinct?”
Guns fired.
The final drone exploded in a cloud of white-hot sparks.
“Guns kill confirmed!”
Mobius’s voice cut back in. “New signals. Five klicks. Closing fast.”
Cipher spotted it first: blackened wreckage embedded in the rocks below. A tangle of broken trees. A single white parachute twisted in branches.
“Visual on downed aircraft. That’s our anomaly.”
Mobius swept wide. “You two get him. I’ll buy time.”
Location: Crash Site – Ravine Floor
The cold bit deep. Smoke curled lazily from the wreckage, wind cutting over twisted metal.
Cipher’s boots hit the snow first, quiet and measured. He skidded down toward the mangled F-22, sharp eyes scanning the frame for movement.
“Phoenix! Crack the left cabin. He’s pinned.”
Phoenix landed lightly beside him, spectral wings flickering faintly with Rift energy. He knelt by the hatch, gloves already working.
“I hear breathing. He’s still with us.”
Cipher nodded, pulling the field kit open. “Let’s keep it that way.”
They worked fast—Phoenix venting pressure, Cipher yanking open the restraints. The canopy wouldn’t budge, its frame warped.
Inside, Trigger groaned. Pain made his vision swim. His eye flicked open—first the gold one, then the other, with the reticle. Blood trickled down over the three scars across his brow.
“Hold still,” Cipher murmured, unfastening the harness with practiced hands. “You’re gonna be alright.”
“Mobius, this is Phoenix,” came the call. “We have the pilot. Beginning extraction.”
“Copy. Skies are clear—for now. But not for long.”
Trigger’s breath hitched. His tail was caught in the wreckage. A low snarl escaped, unintentional. Phoenix grimaced, carefully lifting him free.
“Damn... He’s just a kid.”
The pilot winced as Phoenix gently eased him out and down onto the snow. His scarf was torn, stained crimson. His bomber jacket smoked from the crash.
Cipher stood, nodding once. “He’s stable. I’m heading back up to support.”
“Good hunting,” Phoenix said softly.
Cipher was gone in seconds, vanishing into the climb back toward his aircraft.
Phoenix knelt, pressing a cold-pack against Trigger’s temple.
“You’re okay now,” he murmured. “We’ve got you. Just hold on.”
Trigger’s eye—red and gold—flicked toward him, dazed. He didn’t speak. But he didn’t resist either.
Location: Fort Grays Airspace
“Excellent work,” Mobius said. “Form up on the medevac. Let’s bring our anomaly home.”
Misfit Squadron flew a protective diamond around the ascending medical transport. Nobody spoke until the runway came into view.
Not until their youngest had touched down safely.
Chapter 8: Time Torn
Summary:
Misfit Squadron very quickly realizes that Trigger may be more dangerous than they originally thought, but that's not going to stop them.
Chapter Text
Fort Grays Island – Medical Wing
July 8th, 2005 – 16:07 hrs
White.
That was the first thing Trigger saw. Not light. Not clarity.
Just white—blinding and endless. Like the inside of a missile blast.
Then came the sound. Not present—remembered. The mechanical shriek of twin engines, the haunting Doppler whine of SU-47 Berkuts. His heartbeat synced to it. Thump-thump-thump, like a countdown to impact.
“'m finally gonna kill you, Three Strikes!"
“Let's see how long you last.”
He jolted upright.
Alarms screamed. His body betrayed him—searing pain in his spine, his right arm strapped down, tail thrashing beneath hospital blankets. A bright pulse flared from his artificial eye as the HUD activated involuntarily:
[Environment: UNRECOGNIZED. THREAT ASSESSMENT: CRITICAL.]
[IFF: NULL]
Trigger gasped. His breath hitched. Muscles locked.
The voice still echoed. Scream.
She was always behind him. Always closing in.
“You’re not special, Three Strikes! A name on a contract, and someone in our way!”
Footsteps approached.
A shadow moved across the sterile ceiling light.
No.
The silhouette was wrong. Familiar. Too tall. Too calm.
Trigger’s golden eye flicked to the figure.
“Back off!” he snapped, straining against the strap.
The man raised his hands, palms open. “Easy, kid.”
Trigger froze. The voice wasn’t hers. Not Scream. Not Rage.
His vision steadied. The face sharpened.
Quiet voice and eyes that had seen too much but didn’t flaunt it. Red ears, lay back a little before twitching forward. Cipher.
“You’re safe,” Cipher said gently. “You’ve been out a few days. You’re at Fort Grays. Osea.”
Trigger blinked.
“…Fort Grays?” His voice was hoarse. “No… I was in… I just…”
His fingers dug into the sheets. His breathing became shallow.
“What’s the date?” he rasped.
Cipher hesitated. “July 8th.”
Trigger stared.
“What year?”
“…2005.”
Trigger let out a shaky laugh.
“No. That’s… no, that’s wrong.” His voice pitched higher. “I was in 2019. The Anchorhead Raid. Mimic Squadron. She—”
His body twitched violently, like static racing up his spine. “Scream. She wouldn’t stop. She wanted to kill me. Said my name like it was some kind of game. And Rage—he just let her. They chased me across half the world just to watch me burn.”
Cipher took a step closer. “You’re safe now.”
Trigger didn’t seem to hear him.
“She hit my wing. I was going down. Then… something pulled me. I saw the clouds rip open. Like the sky cracked. And now I’m here?”
He shook his head, eyes distant. “I didn’t eject. I shouldn’t be here.”
Cipher crouched beside the bed. “I don’t know what happened to you. But whatever it was, it’s over.”
Trigger looked at him like he wanted to believe that. Desperately.
But then his voice dropped.
“…What if it’s not?”
Before Cipher could answer, Trigger muttered:
“She was laughing when I blacked out. Like she’d won.”
Cipher’s face didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. He said nothing.
Trigger exhaled hard, gaze unfocused again.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “I think something ripped me out.”
Cipher didn’t understand the details, but he recognized trauma when he saw it. The same look he’d seen in green pilots after a bad sortie. The thousand-yard stare. The trembling fingers. That crushing uncertainty of survival.
Trigger was alive.
But something had followed him back.
Trigger’s eye surged again.
[ERROR: SIGNAL FEEDBACK LOOP]
[OVERLAY COMPROMISED. MANUAL CONTROL UNSTABLE.]
[WARNING: NEURAL-TETHER SYNC FAILURE – ATTEMPTING RESET]
He slammed his fist into the side rail of the bed—metal clanged. The restraints sparked. His tail lashed under the blanket like a whip.
“It’s still here!” he barked, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.
Veins bulged at his temples. The glow from his synthetic eye pulsed red-gold—then stuttered with static and turned blue. Then red again.
“Get it off me!” he howled.
A shockwave of kinetic force knocked a tray of instruments from the nearby table—rattling the walls as a small ripple of electromagnetic discharge pulsed from his spine.
Cipher stepped back, immediately putting himself between Trigger and the exposed med console.
CRASH.
The door slammed open.
A burly man in a reinforced medical harness stormed in, face behind a heavy tactical visor—white coat flared open over a pressure-hardened vest. Torso.
“Back!” he snapped to Cipher. “Now!”
Cipher moved without question.
Torso crossed the room in three strides, slapping a stabilizer module onto Trigger’s neck. Trigger roared—a snarl more than a scream that didn't fit his childish face. His body arched against the contact.
[SEDATION SEQUENCE INITIATED]
[LEVEL 3 – NEURAL SHOCKWAVE DAMPENED]
[STABILIZING…]
Trigger’s eyes fluttered.
The lights flickered.
Then he crashed back into the mattress, unmoving.
Torso held the module in place for five extra seconds, ensuring the pulse held. Then he yanked the leads off, snapped them to his belt, and gestured to the medtech team scrambling in the hall.
“Isolation foam. Five-point anchor. I want a Faraday shroud on his spine until we know what the hell is bleeding through.”
Cipher stood just outside the doorway now, his hands clenched at his sides.
Torso looked over, his voice low and edged. “You see that glow in his eye? That wasn’t a HUD. That was a feedback loop. If I hadn’t stepped in, he might’ve vaporized this whole room trying to swat a ghost.”
Cipher glanced back at Trigger’s unconscious form.
“What is he?”
Torso snorted, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair under his visor.
“Judging by the implants? A combat-hardened hybrid. Cybernetics stitched into baseline neural tissue. Tail’s real. Eye’s artificial. Spine is probably some kind of adaptive rigging. Never seen one like it.”
“…Can you stabilize him?”
“I can contain him.” Torso stepped forward and jabbed a thumb toward the glowing bed. “But if he’s shorting out like that in baseline conditions? His entire neural architecture is fighting this timeline.”
Cipher furrowed his brow. “…You’re saying he’s from too far ahead.”
“I’m saying he’s made for a world that doesn’t exist yet.”
Cipher exhaled slowly. Then turned and walked into the hallway.
Mobius stood leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, helmet tucked under one arm.
He didn’t look over as Cipher joined him. He just asked:
“How bad?”
Cipher stared at the far wall. “…He thought I was someone named Scream. Called her a killer.”
Mobius sighed quietly, a tired expression on his face as he glanced through the window into Trigger's containment room.
They were silent a moment. The hallway light flickered—just once.
Mobius finally spoke, voice quiet:
“We pulled him out of something he didn’t survive. You ever think about that?”
Cipher glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
“Trigger said he didn’t eject. Said he was about to die. And then…” Mobius nodded toward the medbay, “he ends up here.”
“…So the Riftline saved him.”
Mobius’s jaw tightened. “Or it needed him.”
They both looked toward the sealed medbay door.
Erusean Intelligence Division – Remote Research Facility 06 (R.R.F.-06)
July 8th, 2005 – 22:46 hrs – Classified Depth
The lights flickered in the observation chamber—again.
Vos didn’t flinch.
Her fingers tapped across the interface screen, skimming through telemetry data. Heat signatures, pulse readings, waveform collapse curves—Trigger’s unstable vitals mapped like a wildfire over a digital grid. His stress markers were spiking at impossible intervals. Chrono-anchor degradation: 72%. Rift echo feedback: rising.
He won’t last like this.
Vos stood still amid the hum of equipment, back straight, lab coat pristine. But beneath the surface, her jaw was tight.
[SUBJECT 03 STATUS: SEVERED – LOST]
[SUBJECT 02 STATUS: UNACCOUNTED – INTERFERENCE]
[SUBJECT 01 STATUS: ACTIVE, BUT HOSTILE]
Three pilots. Three failures.
Both Cipher and Phoenix were found and picked up by Osea and Mobius; two legendary Aces of the past now fighting under the colors of the enemy.
Now Trigger—perhaps the most promising of all—was already destabilizing. Unusable. Unreliable.
She turned away from the interface. A tactical analyst in Erusean gray-blue stood nearby, data slate in hand, waiting for permission to speak.
“Status on Project SANDGLASS?” she asked, voice level.
“Chrono-temporal accuracy is holding, but…” The analyst hesitated, eyes flicking across his data. “The Riftline’s behavior is shifting again. Every time one of the ‘anomalies’ resists containment, the feedback increases exponentially. We’re seeing signs of… pattern learning.”
Vos narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”
“The Rift seems to be… adapting. Like it’s observing what we’re doing and adjusting the structure of the pull. That might explain why Trigger came through so violently. It’s not just reacting to the pilots—it’s reacting to us.”
Silence.
Vos stared at the dark glass wall of the chamber. Beyond it, the dormant Rift engine core hummed like a buried heart. Her reflection hovered faintly over the glass—cold eyes, surgical precision in every line of her face.
The analyst swallowed. “Ma’am, at this point, if we keep pushing, we may lose our access window entirely. Maybe for good.”
Vos didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she stepped closer to the glass.
“He was seconds from death,” she murmured. “A legend in his time. One of Osea’s finest. And now… vulnerable.”
She turned slowly, the weight of her words cold and deliberate.
“We are not shutting this down. If the Riftline is learning… then we adapt faster. If the pilots are resisting… then we change the parameters.”
She leaned close, just inches from the analyst.
“I’ve come too far to let this spiral out of control because of sentiment or superstition. Trigger is the key. We get him back—or we break him and make him usable.”
“…And the others?”
“Cipher and Phoenix are still alive, just in the hands of the enemy.” Vos straightened again. “We find them. All of them. The Rift took them from their wars. I intend to give them a new one.”
Erusean Intelligence Division – Remote Research Facility 06 (R.R.F.-06)
July 8th, 2005 – 23:08 hrs – Rift Core Observation Deck
The chamber lights dimmed to a low red glow. Deeper within the bowels of the complex, below the clinical hum of labs and reinforced server rooms, the Rift Engine slumbered—still volatile, still humming with residual chrono-energy.
Dr. Alena Vos stood before the Riftline projection—an angular distortion hovering in a magnetic containment shell. Static hissed from the surrounding monitors like whispering ghosts. Across the room, the analyst from earlier stood uneasily, hands locked behind his back, data slate still clutched tightly.
“Three anomalies lost,” Vos said, more to the Rift than to him. “Three trials. Cipher disappeared. Phoenix refused control. Trigger is… burning out.”
Her eyes flicked to a rotating display listing pilot identifiers: call signs, combat summaries, timelines. The data scrolled down through names—some familiar, others forgotten footnotes in the Osean-Erusean war records. Each one analyzed, tested, and categorized.
Then she paused.
[PRIORITY CANDIDATE: BLAZE]
[CALLSIGN VERIFIED – 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron “Wardog”]
[PROJECTED RIFT INTERCEPT POINT: 2010-2011 RANGE]
[RISK LEVEL: EXTREME]
She narrowed her eyes.
“Blaze…” she said softly, tasting the word like it held power.
The analyst stepped forward, hesitating. “Ma’am, Blaze is… different. We still don’t fully understand how he functions. All telemetry pulled from Osean sources suggests a high-combat proficiency, near-psychological invisibility, and zero verbal identifiers. It’s like he doesn’t… exist outside the cockpit.”
She turned fully now, the Rift’s blue light reflecting off her lenses.
“We don’t need loyalty. We need effectiveness.”
The analyst hesitated. “…And if he vanishes like the others?”
Vos didn't blink. “Then we’ll rework the SANDGLASS anchor again. Reinforce the temporal tether. Adjust the psychological dampeners. I don’t care if he comes through kicking and screaming—we’ll chain him down if we have to.”
He nodded stiffly. “…Understood. I’ll flag the event window for Blaze’s last known sortie. Estimate—two to three weeks to charge the core for another attempt.”
Vos exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the Rift.
“Trigger was a storm,” she murmured. “Blaze is a ghost. And I know how to trap a ghost.”
Behind her, the Rift pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
And somewhere, across fractured time and space, a pilot yet unaware of his future twitched the throttle of an F-14D Super Tomcat, his squadron unaware of the eye watching through space and time.
Fort Grays Island – Briefing Room Delta
July 9th, 2005 – 00:17 hrs
The overhead lights hummed softly, casting dull reflections off the aluminum briefing table. The room was quiet, save for the distant rumble of waves crashing against the island’s cliffs and the low thrum of facility power generators. Tactical maps and incident reports littered the table surface, but none of the three pilots were really looking at them.
Cipher leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He’d been quiet for longer than usual. Phoenix sat across from him, his red-blue hair tied back in a ponytail, ear wings fluttering and eyes flicking over a vitals readout that had been forwarded from the infirmary. Mobius stood by the observation window, gazing out at the moonlit airstrip with the posture of someone trying to keep still while his mind raced.
“…He nearly blew the med bay apart,” Cipher said finally. “Tore out of the oxygen harness. One of the doctors swore they saw his eye flicker red—literally red.”
Phoenix sighed. “Telemetry confirms it. It wasn’t a hallucination. Something is happening in his nervous system—neural surges we haven’t seen before. Not even in me or you.”
Mobius didn’t turn around. “Because he’s the furthest from home.”
Phoenix looked up at him, puzzled.
“He’s from 2019,” Mobius continued, his voice low. “We’re from earlier—this is my time, and you two are from 1995. Trigger’s reality is newer, more fractured. More advanced in some ways… more broken in others.”
“He remembers everything vividly,” Cipher added, uncrossing his arms. “Names. Events. Squadrons. He talked about Scream and Rage like he saw them yesterday.”
Phoenix frowned. “He did. He was fighting for his life in Anchorhead just before the Rift pulled him.”
That hung in the air for a moment—thick with weight.
Mobius finally turned from the window. “So what do we do?”
Cipher gave a tired shake of his head. “He’s not just a man out of time. He’s unstable because the Rift didn’t just move him—it tore through him. Fragmented something inside.”
Phoenix looked toward the door as if expecting someone to burst in. “He needs grounding. Familiarity. Something to hold onto.”
Mobius raised an eyebrow. “From a timeline none of us belong to?”
He nodded. “Exactly. We can’t give him back what he lost—but we can give him us. Structure. Trust. Maybe… a squadron.”
Cipher blinked. “You want to fly with him?”
“I don’t want him in the air until he stabilizes,” Phoenix admitted. “But he needs to know what he is now isn’t permanent. He needs to remember who he was before the Rift got its claws in him.”
Mobius walked slowly to the table and sat down across from them. “And if he never remembers? If that part’s already gone?”
Cipher didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at Phoenix—then back to Mobius.
“Then we make new memories,” he said. “One mission at a time.”
Silence again. But this time, it wasn’t weighted—it was decided.
They would stand by him. They would anchor him, even if it took every sortie in the sky.
Trigger’s Quarantine Room Fort Grays Island – Medical Wing
July 9th, 2005 – 00:27 hrs
The room was dim and silent now. Only the slow rhythm of a heart monitor broke the stillness.
Trigger lay motionless beneath the restraint shroud, skin pale beneath the flickering light. Sedatives pumped through his bloodstream, dulling the fury that had exploded minutes earlier. His body rested.
But his mind—
His mind was still flying.
The clouds were burning.
Smoke coiled in spirals through the sky as tracer rounds ripped across his canopy. His HUD screamed warnings—lock-ons, flare calls, incoming fire. But Trigger wasn’t listening. He was chasing something.
No—someone.
“Scream,” he muttered in his sleep. “Come on… show yourself again…”
She did. Like lightning. A flash of twin canards and painted feathers—a white-and-black Su-47 slicing past him in a spiraling blur. The shrill howl of her engines was almost manic.
«You’re fun, Three Strikes! You make this worth it!» Her voice buzzed in his helmet, sing-song and psychotic.
He pulled hard into a left barrel roll, skimming a flaming rooftop. Behind him, his radar lit up—two targets.
Rage. The brother. Slower, but surgical. Always following her lead. And Scream—his obsession.
«Why won’t you just DIE?!» she shrieked. «I want it to be YOU, Three Strikes! No one else matters!»
He grit his teeth, flipping his jet into a vertical scissor to break their lock. Flak burst near his left wing. He felt the impact—even now. Even here. In the darkness of the medical ward.
His hands twitched against the sheets.
The sky twisted. The clouds warped.
Anchorhead became a blur of noise and light. The city spiraled outward, melting into a vortex of orange and blue—
And the Rift opened.
Scream’s voice warped with it, stretched into static.
«I’ll—I’LL—I’ll KILL you—!»
Trigger’s jet began to shake. Violently. Like it was being pulled apart from the inside out. The HUD cracked. The cockpit dimmed. And then—
Nothing.
Silence.
Trigger gasped—bolted upright against the restraints, pupils dilated, a cold sweat plastered to his chest. His entire body trembled under the sedative haze. He stared into nothing, breathing ragged.
“…not… done…” he croaked.
“…Scream…”
He jerked against the restraint again, as if trying to take off right there in the room.
A medical alarm went off.
Moments later, the reinforced door hissed open, and Torso—the stone-faced medical warden—rushed in with a tranquilizer gun in hand.
“Jesus—hold him down!” shouted the nurse on duty.
Trigger’s red eye glowed faintly—an afterimage from the Rift. It pulsed, for just a second. Not human. Not natural.
Torso fired the injector.
The sedative hissed into his system like ice water.
Trigger’s body convulsed, then slowly sagged back into the bed. The light in his eye dimmed.
Torso stared at him in silence for a long time, jaw tight.
“…Kid’s barely holding together,” he muttered, finally. “And we still don’t know what the hell we brought in.”
Fort Grays – Observation Deck
July 9th, 2005 – 00:41 hrs
The hallway outside the med wing was quiet.
Far enough from the chaos in the quarantine room that Trigger’s outburst felt like a memory. But the tension hadn’t left the air.
Cipher stood with his arms folded, leaning silently against the glass observation pane overlooking the base runway. Mobius paced a short loop behind him, hands behind his back, ever measured. Phoenix sat on a bench, jacket off, fingers steepled under his chin, watching the floor with a distant look.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then Cipher finally broke the silence.
“That wasn’t a breakdown. That was a combat response.”
Mobius stopped pacing. “…Yeah. He was in the sky again. You could see it.”
Phoenix let out a slow exhale through his nose.
“He’s just a kid.”
Mobius turned toward him. “Twenty-two, right?”
Phoenix nodded. “Whatever he went through, he got thrown into the grinder and came out alive.”
Cipher’s voice was low, thoughtful.
“But not whole."
They all nodded at that.
Mobius glanced through the glass again, toward the med wing.
Phoenix muttered. “That reaction wasn’t adrenaline. That was trauma. Deep-rooted. Weaponized.”
Cipher’s arms lowered, his expression tight.
“The Rift pulled him out mid-combat, didn’t it? He never got closure. Never got to land. He’s stuck—still flying in his head.”
Mobius ran a hand through his short hair.
“He’s not just bleeding from the past. He’s being torn between timelines. The Rift might have fused memory with reality.”
Phoenix stood slowly, eyes meeting Cipher’s.
“So what do we do?”
“We ground him,” Cipher replied. “Not with force. With familiarity. Routine. Trust. He needs to feel like a pilot again—but without the gun in his hand.”
Mobius picked up the idea immediately.
“Sim runs, maybe? Even just visual briefings. Something to give his mind structure. Muscle memory that reminds him he’s not in a dogfight anymore.”
Phoenix added, “And we talk to him. Not about the war. About him. The person. What he likes. What he remembers. Build a foundation.”
Cipher nodded, ears flicking about like radars. “If we can anchor him emotionally, we may stabilize the Rift residue. Give his mind something to hold onto.”
Mobius looked toward the medical wing again. Through the glass, the faint red pulse of the reticle in Trigger’s eye glowed under the dim light.
“He’s not our enemy,” he said quietly. “He’s just scared.”
Cipher’s voice was firm, final.
“Then we protect him. All three of us. Until he remembers how to protect himself.”
Chapter 9: Starting Again
Chapter Text
Fort Grays Medical Wing –
July 10th, 2005 – 08:04 hrs
Trigger sat alone in the quiet white room, knees pulled loosely to his chest on the small med cot. Sunlight angled sharply through the slatted window blinds, striping the floor in alternating bands of light and shadow.
The walls were too still. The silence too loud.
The pressure in his skull had faded to a dull throb, but his body still remembered the phantom g-forces—the screams in his ears, the slicing growl of twin Berkuts twisting around his tail. Rage’s cackling radio blur, Scream’s shrieking obsession. His hand twitched slightly, muscle memory bracing for a maneuver that never came.
He wasn’t in the air anymore.
But he wasn’t on the ground either.
He didn’t know where he was.
Knock knock knock.
A short rhythm at the door. Friendly. Not medical staff.
“Hey.”
A knock. Then a voice—young, but grounded.
“Permission to enter?”
Trigger’s head barely lifted, but that was enough.
Phoenix slipped in with the door only partway open, holding two cups in his hands, steam rising from both. His flight suit was tied around his waist, and his long red-blue hair was tied up in a messy ponytail.
“Hope you’re not expecting anything stronger than stale caffeine, but it’s the best the machine outside had to offer.”
He offered a cup.
Trigger hesitated. Then took it.
“Thanks,” he murmured, fingers cold even as the cup warmed them.
Phoenix pulled up a nearby chair and sat backward on it, arms folded over the top rail. His posture was relaxed, but there was intent behind it—watchful without being intrusive.
“Didn’t get your name yet,” he added casually. “I’m Phoenix. Call sign, not actual name. I don’t think anyone here uses their real one anymore.”
Trigger said nothing. Just stared into the dark liquid, eyes shadowed.
Phoenix didn’t push. Just let the quiet stretch.
“You fly like someone who’s seen a lot,” he said eventually. “Saw the footage they got when you came through the Rift. That maneuver at low altitude? That wasn’t luck. That was reflex.”
Trigger’s voice was a low rasp.
“They were chasing me.”
“Yeah?” Phoenix leaned in a bit. “The kind that don’t give you a chance to land?”
“The kind that don’t want you to.”
Phoenix’s smile faded—not out of fear, but out of understanding. A tension settled between them. Familiar, like turbulence before a storm.
“We’ve all seen combat,” Phoenix said, softer now. “Me, Mobius, Cipher. Different battles. Different skies. But there’s one thing we all got in common: we lived long enough to hate the sound of our own engines.”
Trigger blinked. That one cut close.
“I don’t remember landing,” he muttered.
“You didn’t,” Phoenix replied. “Vos’s machine yanked you straight out of the fight mid-air. Same thing happened to me. It’s… disorienting.”
Trigger closed his eyes briefly. The Rift. The light. The pressure in his chest. The sound of Rage and Scream still laughing over the comms.
“I should’ve gone down with them.”
Phoenix’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t flinch. “You didn’t. You’re here. And if that machine put you here, then maybe it’s because someone still needs you alive.”
“I don’t know who I am here.”
“Then we figure it out,” Phoenix said plainly. “You don’t have to be the guy you were in the sky. You can be something new. Hell, we’re all figuring it out.”
Trigger didn’t respond. But the grip on his cup tightened slightly, like an anchor.
Phoenix pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was a frayed patch—half-burned, the colors dulled. A stylized wolf with a revolver in it's mouth.
“They pulled this off your suit before it started breaking down,” he said. “Thought it might matter.”
He tossed it gently onto the cot beside Trigger.
Trigger stared at it. The revolver. The wolf. The edges of a name—
“Trigger.”
It echoed in his head like a call sign whispered across time.
Phoenix stood.
“I’ll leave you alone for now. But you’re not alone. Not here.”
He paused at the door, glancing back with a lopsided smile.
“When you’re ready, come find us. We’ll be waiting.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Trigger sat there in the quiet again. But this time, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Fort Grays – Observation Deck, West Wing –
July 10th, 2005 – 08:37 hrs
Phoenix stepped out into the hallway, the air crisp and cool compared to the stillness of the medical bay. His boots echoed faintly on the floor as he made his way down the corridor toward the observation deck where Mobius and Cipher waited.
Mobius stood at the far end, arms folded behind his back, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sea beyond the cliffs. The silhouette of a fighter jet caught the morning light on a nearby pad, engines quiet for once.
Cipher leaned against the wall, flipping a pen between his fingers like a knife. He didn’t look up when Phoenix entered.
“Well?” Mobius asked without turning.
Phoenix exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his messy hair.
“He’s talking, barely. Took the coffee, didn’t throw it at me. So that’s progress.”
Cipher’s brow quirked, but he said nothing.
Mobius finally turned. His gaze, sharp and unreadable, settled on Phoenix.
“You think he’s stable?”
“I think he’s trying to be,” Phoenix replied. “Whatever happened to him before he came through the Rift…it’s eating him alive. He’s twitchy, traumatized, and doesn’t know where or when he is.”
Cipher gave a thoughtful hum.
“It’s worse than either of us,” Phoenix added. “I mean—he's just a kid. Twenty-two, tops. He’s barely older than I was when I flew in the Circum-Pacific War, and you were flying black-ops in your twenties, Cipher. But this guy? I don’t think he’s had a break in however long he's been in the cockpit.”
Mobius nodded slightly, silent.
“He’s still in the cockpit,” Phoenix went on. “Everything in his body language says he never left. He’s flying even when his feet are on the floor. I don’t know what kind of war he came from, but it didn’t end when he landed here.”
Cipher spoke then, voice even and low.
“PTSD, disassociation, time displacement—all amplified by Rift destabilization. He was pulled from a mid-air engagement. Mid-fight, maybe even mid-kill.”
“That kind of break messes with your brain,” Phoenix added. “Like pulling someone out of a dream halfway through a nightmare.”
Mobius paced slowly to the center of the room, staring at the sky.
“So what do we do?”
“We don’t treat him like a soldier,” Phoenix said immediately. “Not yet. No debriefs, no sim tests, no flight drills. Just time. People. Presence. He needs something real to hold onto, or he’s going to unravel.”
Cipher nodded in agreement.
“The Rift’s still adjusting around him. Emotionally, mentally, maybe even biologically. If we try to force him to be ‘Trigger’ again—whoever that really is—it might push him further out of sync.”
Mobius looked between them. “And you think this approach—calm, familiarity, connection—will stabilize him?”
“It’s a start,” Phoenix replied. “He doesn’t trust us yet. Hell, I don’t think he even trusts himself. But he listened. That’s more than I expected.”
Cipher added, “Letting him breathe might help him remember who he is. Or at least give him the space to choose who he wants to be here.”
Mobius went quiet again. He watched a pair of gulls arc past the window like ghost planes.
“Keep at it,” he said finally. “Both of you. Ease him into this. No pressure. No mission talk.”He glanced back at them, the barest hint of something heavy behind his eyes.
“We all remember what it felt like the first time we touched the sky. Let’s make sure he remembers why.”
Fort Grays – Infirmary Holding Room
July 10th, 2005 – 21:12 hrs
The hum of the overhead lights was the only sound for miles.
Trigger sat cross-legged on the narrow infirmary bed, hospital blanket tucked around his shoulders like armor. The white walls around him were bare, sterile, suffocating. His eyes were locked on the far wall—but not really seeing it.
His fingers twitched rhythmically against his knee, mimicking trigger pulls. One-two. Pause. One-two.
There was a knock, but he didn’t respond.
The door opened anyway.
Cipher entered first, quiet as a shadow, followed by Mobius. They closed the door behind them and stood there for a moment, not speaking. Cipher had forgone his usual black jacket for something more relaxed—a simple shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Mobius wore his standard pilot fatigues, flight patch visible over his heart.
Trigger’s eyes flicked to them, wary.
“We’re not here to ask you questions.” Mobius raised a hand.
Trigger didn’t answer. He just kept tapping—one-two. One-two.
Cipher pulled a metal chair from the wall and sat down across from him. Mobius remained standing, hands in his pockets.
The silence held a kind of peace. No pressure. No obligations. Just presence.
After a while, Cipher spoke.
“I know what it’s like. Coming back when you shouldn’t have. Being told the war’s over, but knowing it isn’t. Not for you.”
Trigger’s eyes shifted to him slowly. His fingers stilled.
Mobius stepped closer, squatted beside the bed—not to look down, but level with him.
“We’ve both been there,” he said softly. “Cipher came out of a black war no one ever talks about. I came out of one people won't stop talking about. But you?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t come back. You were ripped out of the sky.”
Trigger’s jaw clenched. His breath caught. His hands curled into fists in his lap.
“I was in the middle of a maneuver,” he muttered, hoarse. “I could feel the RCS biting. I was about to—” He cut off, eyes glazing. “—I was going to die. I think.”
Cipher nodded, unflinching.
Mobius leaned in.
“But you didn’t.”
Trigger’s breath hitched.
“Why did you come for me?” he asked, finally. “You don’t even know me.”
Mobius looked at Cipher. The other pilot gave a slow nod.
Then Mobius said, simply:
“Because no one came for us.”
Trigger blinked. And something in him—just barely—cracked.
His voice broke when he spoke again.
"I... almost lost my squadron. Scream and Rage... they were relentless. They wanted me dead, especially Scream." his voice wavered slightly as a few tears slid down his pale cheeks. " 'I'm going to kill you, Three Strikes!'... 'Your death will be the most fun I've had!'..." the young pilot quoted, trying to mimic Scream's laugh, but it only came out as a coked sob. He pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes. "I just... wanted it to be over with. Save 10 million lives and just... land."
Mobius stood, placed a steady hand on the younger pilot’s shoulder.
“You’re not flying in those skies anymore, Trigger. Not here.”
or a long moment, nothing moved.
And then Trigger, trembling slightly, let his head fall forward into his hands.
Tears fell onto his lap silently, but he breathed.
For the first time since arriving, he breathed.
Fort Grays – Recovery Wing
July 11th, 2005 – 08:23 hrs
The early morning sun filtered through the windows, casting long gold slats across the tile floor.
Trigger sat upright now. Not huddled, not curled in on himself—upright. He still had the blanket, but it was folded at his side. His hospital scrubs had been traded for a standard-issue undershirt and fatigue pants. The flight suit was still out of reach—too soon—but this was progress.
On the tray in front of him sat a half-eaten breakfast. Nothing fancy—powdered eggs, toast, weak coffee—but it was more than he’d touched in days.
A datapad rested nearby. The screen flickered softly as it replayed flight telemetry.
He was studying it.
Not just watching—analyzing.
A quiet knock came at the door.
“You decent?” Phoenix poked his head in without waiting for a full response. His dark jacket was slung casually over one shoulder, and his flight boots clunked cheerfully with every step while his off white flight suit was tied around his waist.
Trigger looked up but didn’t flinch.
Phoenix raised his brows with an easy smile.
“He lives. And drinks Osean sludge, apparently.”
"It's... better than what I got in the penal unit..." Trigger glanced at the coffee cup in his hands.
“That was a joke, right? Because I’m gonna be honest, I’ve seen crash sites with better brew than that.” Phoenix made a dramatic choking noise as he flopped into a chair across from him. He noted the comment about being in a penal unit, but he made no inquiry about it; it wasn't the time.
A beat.
Then, to Phoenix’s surprise, Trigger smiled—barely, but it was there.
“You ever fly the Su-47?” Trigger asked suddenly, eyes flicking back to the datapad.
“A Berkut? Can't say I have... they're fairly hard to get a hold of.”
“Scream—one of the Mimic siblings—flew one. Thought she could knife-edge into my blind spot above a thunderhead. She forgot what her thrust vectoring did in low pressure.”
“Ballsy.” Phoenix gave a low whistle.
“Stupid,” Trigger corrected. But there wasn’t venom in it—just a pilot’s post-mission clarity. “She and her brother were hired to kill me. Never knew why. Just knew they wouldn’t stop.”
Phoenix went quiet for a beat, then nodded slowly.
“I was pulled out of a sortie too. Scarface Squadron—we were deep in the canyon systems east of Comberth. Didn’t even get to say goodbye to my wing.”
Trigger looked at him again—really looked.
“You don’t seem…broken.”
“Oh, I’m wrecked. I just smile through it.” Phoenix shrugged, the grin returning faintly. They both chuckled—soft, dry, genuine.
Then Trigger said, more seriously:
“I thought I was going insane. The Riftline—everything—just ripped me out. But you... Cipher and Mobius... you came for me.”
"Yeah, we do that." Phoenix nodded, brushing his long blue-red hair over the back of his chair.
"Why."
Phoenix didn’t answer immediately. Then, quietly:
“Because they know what it’s like to be a legend with no landing gear.”
“I don’t know how to be…normal again,” he murmured. “Not after what I’ve done. What I’ve seen.”
“Good,” Phoenix said with a smirk. “Normal’s boring. Stick with us. We’re misfits, not machines.”
The door opened again—Cipher, calm as ever, stepped in.
“How’s the head?” Cipher asked, tone neutral.
“Not screaming anymore,” Trigger said. “Just... humming.”
Mobius’ voice came from the hallway, low and wry.
“Good. You’re finally tuned to the right frequency.”
Chapter 10: Enter: Blaze [Razgriz]
Summary:
Trigger is no longer the only dangerous one here.
Chapter Text
April 2nd, 2010 – Sand Island Air Base, Osea
The hangar was quiet.
Too quiet.
The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long golden rays across the tarmac at Sand Island. Normally, the squad would be gathered outside the mess or joking near the lockers—but not today.
Not after what happened over November City.
Blaze sat on the wing of his F-14, helmet resting in his lap, tail gently swaying with the coastal breeze. His dog ears, usually perked in alertness, hung low and still. The events of the last sortie refused to let go—Chopper’s last words, the final scream in the comms, still echoed in the back of his mind.
“I... I’m not going to make it.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. The sounds of the city, the sirens, the civilians, the chaos—they were all buried under one thing:
Silence.
The kind that came after losing a wingman.
“Blaze,” a voice called softly from behind.
It was Edge [Nagisae]. She wasn’t wearing her flight suit—just a tank top and fatigue pants, her short hair damp with sweat and salt air. She didn’t climb up beside him. Just stood there, watching.
“I know,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper.
They didn’t say anything else for a while. Edge eventually sat down on the tow cart, arms resting across her knees.
“He got us out of there,” she said, not quite to him. “That broadcast he made... It bought time. He saved lives.”
Blaze nodded, ears twitching. He couldn’t find the words. They didn’t seem real enough to do Chopper justice.
“Captain Bartlett would’ve said he died like a real Osean,” she added.
Captain Bartlett...
Still missing. Another absence they were expected to carry without complaint.
Thunder rumbled far out over the sea—dry lightning over the water. A storm was forming, but not close enough to worry about yet.
Blaze glanced out past the runway, into the distance. Something in his chest itched. A tension he couldn’t name.
“Command wants us back up tomorrow,” Edge finally said, standing. “They’re scrambling to find replacements. We’re... still Wardog.”
He stayed behind as she left. He didn’t move for a long time.
Later That Night – Patrol Over North Belka Airspace
The sortie was uneventful—until it wasn’t.
It was supposed to be a simple patrol: two hours over the northern corridor, near the Belkan border. AWACS Thunderhead was monitoring, chatter was light, and only a few civilian contacts blipped the radar.
Blaze flew alone.
Just one of those nights where the air felt too empty.
He checked his systems for the third time. Altimeter steady. Fuel good. Weapons green. No sign of anything.
Then... a flicker.
It wasn’t on radar. It was in the sky.
A shimmer—like a drop of oil on water—floated several thousand feet above his altitude, rippling across the stars like a curtain being tugged by an unseen hand.
“Thunderhead, I’m picking up visual distortion northwest of my position,” Blaze reported, instincts prickling. “Confirming... unknown anomaly.”
“Wardog 1, say again? You’re not showing any anomalies on radar.”
“It’s... not radar. It’s visual. Can’t explain it.”
He banked gently, circling the location.
The shimmer pulsed once. Then twice.
Then it cracked—like lightning without thunder.
"What the—"
A piercing tone screamed in his headset. His HUD blinked violently—systems shorting for a second as if reality itself had glitched. Light engulfed the canopy, whiting everything out.
He tried to scream, but there was no time.
And then, silence.
Erusean Intelligence Division – Remote Research Facility 06 (R.R.F.-06)
July 9th, 2005 – 20:32 hrs – Classified Depth
The lab was shaking.
Steel beams groaned. Lights flickered. Monitors flared red with cascading warnings—
containment compromised, predictive AI integrity failing, dimensional stability critical.
But Dr. Alena Vos didn’t flinch.
Her lab coat hung from one shoulder, hastily thrown on over a fitted black shirt. Sweat clung to her collar. Her fingers danced across the holographic console as alarms blared around her.
“Override safety protocols: Delta sequence. Level 5 authorization.”
The system hesitated, as if recoiling.
“Warning: artificial Rift induction risks catastrophic causality drift—”
“Do it anyway,” she hissed.
She didn't care anymore.
She had almost gotten him last time. She felt it. Blaze—the ace from the Osean War—the legendary Wardog 1. He was close. The data had confirmed it. A temporal tether, frayed but traceable, had reappeared for just a moment.
She wouldn't miss again.
“Spool the emitter array! Full power! Open the Rift!”
Technicians panicked behind her. “Ma’am, we haven’t—”
“I know what we haven’t done. I’m telling you to do it anyway!”
The Rift chamber hummed to life, screaming with unnatural force. A blinding white spiral opened above the platform—flickering, unstable, hungering. The air warped violently around it.
Far above, in orbit, the satellite tether blinked offline.
Fort Grays – Briefing Room
July 9th, 2005 – 21:41 hrs
The projector’s blue glow flickered off the walls of the war room, casting long shadows across tired faces. Mobius stood with arms folded, Cipher leaned against the map table in quiet thought, and Phoenix sat on the far edge, wings for ears twitching slightly as he flipped through the briefing slides.
The newest Rift flare had everyone on edge. The satellite data showed residual pulses—small at first, then growing exponentially within the last 48 hours.
Vos's signature was all over it.
“She’s going to try again,” Cipher said, staring at the waveform. “Whatever she’s pulling—it’s coming through soon.”
Mobius nodded. “That’s why we’re scrambling intercepts. We drop the Eruseans before they touch the anomaly. Same protocol as last time.”
Phoenix raised a brow. “And what if it’s not a drone this time? What if it’s another person?”
Before anyone could answer, the door hissed open.
Trigger stepped in.
His red scarf was missing. His bomber jacket hung open, and the shadows under his gold eyes made it clear he hadn’t slept. One wolf ear twitched as if tracking the conversation, while his tail swayed with barely contained restlessness.
Mobius narrowed his eyes. “Trigger—what are you doing here?”
“I’m flying,” he said simply.
Cipher straightened. “No. You’re not. Not this time.”
“I can do it.”
“You’re not even cleared for full-capacity sortie,” Phoenix added. “Your vitals are unstable, you’ve been in and out of Rift shock for two days, and—”
“I felt it.”
The room went quiet.
Trigger looked at all of them—eyes bright but heavy, like he was seeing something they couldn’t.
“I felt it last night. I felt the Rift trying to open. Like... pressure in my chest, burning in my eye. It’s happening again—soon. Closer. Closer than it’s ever been.”
Cipher frowned. “You’re saying you’re sensing it?”
“I’ve always been able to, just... it’s stronger now. Like it’s calling out. Or screaming.”
Mobius exhaled slowly, eyes meeting Cipher’s. “What do you think?”
The older pilot didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he walked over to Trigger—quiet, composed—and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Do you want to help,” he asked softly, “or are you trying to prove you’re still useful?”
Trigger looked up at him. There was no bravado. No teenage defiance.
Just something deeper. More fragile.
“I just don’t want anyone else to come through alone.”
The room was silent.
Phoenix sighed. “If he crashes mid-sortie, I’m not hauling his furry ass back.”
Mobius smirked faintly. “He flies WSO with me. And if he gets even one warning on his vitals, we pull him out. Got it?”
Trigger nodded, straightening his harness. The flicker of gold in his eye brightened for a moment, and the reticle shimmered faintly—like it too was focusing.
“Then let’s go,” he said. “It’s close.”
The hangar hummed softly in the background—distant crew chatter, the clank of boots on steel, the low growl of fuel pumps working overtime. Trigger sat on a lone crate near the back wall, scarf bunched in his lap and fingers curled tight into it. His left eye, with its red targeting reticle, stared ahead—unblinking, but not seeing.
He felt it.
Something was coming.
“...You’re vibrating like a wire under tension,” came a familiar voice.
Cipher.
Trigger blinked once, slowly. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”
Cipher gave a small shrug as he walked over, arms crossed, jacket unzipped slightly to show the old Galm insignia underneath. “You’re the loudest quiet person I’ve ever met.”
Trigger huffed through his nose. A smile almost touched his lips but didn’t quite form.
“Let me guess,” Cipher continued. “Mobius changed his mind.”
“He doesn’t think I’m stable enough.” Trigger looked down at his fingers, claws lightly tapping the metal crate. “Phoenix gave me the look. The one that says, ‘Sit this out, pup.’”
“Mobius is cautious. He’s seen what happens when people push past their limits.”
“And you?” Trigger asked quietly, finally looking at Cipher. “What do you see?”
Cipher leaned against the crate beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. “I see someone who’s trying too hard not to fall apart. And I get it. You want to repay them. You want to matter.”
Trigger’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.
“But this—” Cipher tapped lightly near Trigger’s chest, just over his heart. “—this tension you’re feeling? That’s not guilt. It’s instinct. Gut-level pilot’s sense. You feel something wrong about today.”
“I’ve been hearing it… like pressure building behind my ears,” Trigger muttered. “My vision’s been pulling, like the Rift’s humming before it sings.”
Cipher raised a brow, thoughtful. “You’re not the only one. My dreams have been twitchy. I don’t dream.”
Trigger looked up at him, surprised.
Cipher offered a crooked, knowing smirk. “You’re not crazy, kid. Just more tuned-in than most.”
“I want to go,” Trigger said. “Not just to fight. I have to be there.”
Cipher was quiet for a long moment.
Then he nodded, slowly. “I’ll back you.”
Trigger blinked. “What?”
“You’re not ready. But you’re needed. And there’s a difference.”
He stood, dusted off his gloves, and gave Trigger a brief clap on the shoulder. “I’ll deal with Mobius; he suggested you ride WSO with him, so thats what I'll argue.”
Trigger stared after him, heart thudding not with panic—but relief.
The air was thick with tension as red lights spun in the upper rafters of the hangar. The sudden klaxon wasn't just a scramble order—it was urgent. Emergency channel flare, pre-brief bypassed. That meant one thing.
The Rift had opened.
Trigger was already suited up. He was halfway to his aircraft before the others had even moved.
“Hey!” Phoenix called after him, wings tucked close as he bolted. “You weren’t cleared for this op!”
“He’s coming,” Trigger said under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
“What?” Phoenix caught up alongside, brow furrowed.
“I don’t know how, but he is.”
Mobius and Cipher reached the tarmac next, eyes flicking upward toward the northern skyline. Even from here, they could see it: a shimmer in the sky just past the Erusean border. Like heat distortion—but twisted, vertical, and warping light in ways it shouldn’t.
A Rift.
“Erusean squadrons already en route,” Mobius growled, slipping his helmet on. “Vos must’ve activated it. Damn it.”
Phoenix cursed under his breath. “So this is another retrieval op?”
Mobius nodded. “If we’re lucky.”
“Contact just dropped from nowhere—what the hell?!” Cipher barked, trying to get a visual.
Trigger’s eye widened. “That’s him. That’s him!”
“New bogey’s not broadcasting any IFF!” Phoenix warned. “Erusea’s already moving to intercept!”
The Rift spat him out like a bullet.
Blaze’s jet tumbled into existence amid a sky tearing itself apart—flak, missiles, contrails, distant explosions—none of it made sense. The stars were wrong. The air pressure wrong. The radio chatter—unfamiliar voices, unknown callsigns.
“Blaze to anyone—repeat, Wardog 1, Sand Island—respond!” he gasped.
No answer. Just static and screams in a language he didn’t recognize.
An Erusean jet dove on him from above—he reacted purely on reflex, pulling hard into a defensive loop, flares bursting behind him as a missile streaked past. He didn’t even know who the hell he was shooting at—friend or foe, it didn’t matter.
Survive.
He banked right, trying to spot friendlies—only to catch sight of a trio of aircraft sweeping toward him in perfect formation. Sleek, agile, painted in neutral tones.
Unmarked.
He couldn't see faces, but one jet had all four wings painted blue. Another was covered in a red and blue livery. The third? Nothing special about it, but it's presence commanded the field.
They were not from Sand Island.
“Unknown pilot, hold course. Do not engage. You’re in restricted airspace.”
That voice—deep, calm, authoritative—wasn’t Thunderhead. Wasn’t Bartlett. Wasn’t anyone he knew.
Another missile warning blared. He screamed—not out of pain, but confusion and fear—and pulled a desperate vertical loop, cutting his thrust at the apex before flipping his bird backward, locking onto the nearest hostile.
He didn’t remember firing. The Erusean jet exploded in flame.
The Rift flickered again behind him. Blue lightning licked the clouds.
Then something cracked inside.
His mind stretched too far. Something gave way.
And Blaze was gone.
The jet’s movements changed—suddenly exact. Deliberate. There was no more fumbling or panic.
The F-14 moved like a guillotine.
Inside the cockpit, his breath had slowed. His expression turned unreadable. And when his voice returned to the open channel—it was calm.
Where Blaze had panicked, the being in the cockpit now moved like shadow given form. In the instant between lock and impact, the aircraft twisted impossibly—dodging the missile in a low, sidewinding roll that should’ve snapped the frame in two.
Cipher’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not normal flying.”
“No…” Trigger whispered. “It’s him. He’s awake.”
On the battlefield, the black Tomcat dove into the Erusean squadron like a blade. Every maneuver was cruelly efficient—he didn’t fire until he was guaranteed a kill. And when he did fire, he didn’t miss.
Mobius’ voice was low. “That’s not a pilot. That’s a ghost.”
In the cockpit, Razgriz sat silent, eyes glowing ice-blue. Red hair tumbled in waves as black wings were folded uncomfortably behind him in flickers—half-formed, bleeding through reality as the Rift residue still clung to him. His hand moved over the stick like it was an extension of his own arm.
No more Blaze.
Now, there was only Razgriz.
The dark reaper, summoned once again to the living world.
“Wardog is gone. Razgriz now flies; If you don't want to be executed, stay out of my line of fire.”
They watched as Razgriz carved through the last two Erusean fighters. He didn’t just evade; he predicted. A split-second turn here, a dive the moment before a missile was launched—he was always where danger wasn’t, and always right behind his prey.
One of the Erusean pilots screamed over an open frequency before vanishing into fire.
“Jesus,” Phoenix whispered. “We’ve got to reach him. Before he turns on us.”
“I’ll try.” Trigger switched frequencies and flipped to a private open band. “Hey… Blaze. You don't know me yet; that's okay. I just need you to listen. You’re not alone out here. We’re not your enemies.”
Still no response. The Tomcat banked hard and began circling wide in the sky like a hunting hawk, its black trails glinting with Rift residue.
Trigger swallowed. “Please…”
[Cut – Vos’s Control Room]
“Why the hell isn’t he responding?” Vos shouted, slamming her hand down on the control panel. “We anchored the signal in this era—he should’ve recognized the resonance beacon!”
A technician looked up from his station, pale. “Ma’am, telemetry’s corrupted. We lost control of the retrieval tether the moment he crossed over. He’s not syncing to anything.”
Vos gritted her teeth and turned back to the main screen. Her eyes locked on the F-14 spiraling through Erusean remnants like a specter.
“That’s not Blaze anymore,” someone muttered behind her.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s… Razgriz.”
Silence fell.
Another tech stammered, “What do we do? Do we—scramble a second recovery team?”
Vos said nothing. Her mind was racing. She had wanted Blaze, but not like this. Not… this version. This weapon. She needed the pilot. Not the phantom.
“Deploy recon drones. All of them,” she ordered. “I want full visual. Thermal, spectral, and Rift-frequency scanning.”
“Already incoming,” the operator said. “But there’s a problem.”
Vos raised an eyebrow.
“Misfit Squadron’s already engaged with the target.”
She stared at the screen. A heartbeat passed and she hissed.
“Let them.”
“...Ma’am?”
“If Razgriz is awake,” she said, “they’re the only ones who might reach him. We'll just have to formulate a plan to get MY pilots back.”
[Cut – Back to Sky: Contact Begins]
“Razgriz.” Trigger’s voice was firm now. He reached past fear, past awe. Past hero worship. “We know who you are. What you are. You’re not some weapon. You’re not just a myth.”
A pause.
“I’m Trigger. Misfit Four. I got pulled from my time too. I know what it feels like—the weight, the confusion. The pain.”
Still silence from Razgriz.
Phoenix’s tone lowered. “You don’t have to fight us.”
And then—something changed. The Tomcat’s formation softened. Just slightly. Not in surrender, not in recognition… but in consideration.
Cipher clicked his mic once. Just once. No words.
It was Mobius who finally said it.
“Come home with us, kid.”
The Tomcat didn’t move for a long second.
And then—
It pulled into formation.
Behind them.
Silent. Watchful. Black smoke trailing from its wings, fading as Rift energy dissipated in the winds.
Razgriz never spoke.
But he didn’t fire either.
Chapter 11: Anchor
Summary:
It's a shorter chapter, but Trigger and Blaze seem to be... better when around each other.
Chapter Text
The sun dipped low as the flight line shimmered with heat and dust, the battle above long since ended. The hangar crews had scrambled to prepare for emergency recovery, but when the black-marked Tomcat touched down in perfect formation with Misfit Squadron, the entire base fell still.
No one knew what to expect.
The F-14 came to a rolling stop at the far end of the tarmac, its black-painted nose lowered, engines winding down in a tired groan like a beast finally leashed. Misfit Squadron circled it warily before taxiing to their own bays.
One by one, the Misfits climbed down. Trigger was the first to drop from his cockpit, landing a little too heavily on his feet and gripping the ladder rail for balance. The Rift energy still hummed faintly beneath his skin, like static in his bones.
Cipher stood nearby, eyes already on the Tomcat.
Phoenix popped his canopy and hopped down, muttering, “Okay, so… what now? Do we poke him with a stick or—”
The canopy of the Tomcat hissed open.
Out stepped someone entirely different.
Blaze.
Trigger straightened. “That’s him.”
Phoenix squinted. “He doesn’t look like he could even scowl, let alone slice through an entire Erusean strike force.”
“Don’t let the eyes fool you,” Cipher muttered. “He’s seen war.”
Mobius approached last, calm and quiet as always. “Let’s give him a second.”
His feet hit the tarmac lightly, and he paused—uncertain. Gone were Razgriz’s piercing glare and dark wings. Instead, Blaze looked… lost. Gentle and wide brown-blue eyes flicked across the unfamiliar hangar, ears low with tension. His blue hair was messy from the helmet, one side flopped into his face, the tip of his Labrador tail curled slightly around his leg.
“…Where am I?”
Trigger took a step forward. “Safe. You’re safe.”
Blaze looked at him, confused. “I… I remember flying. It was a patrol mission... I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and then—” He placed a hand to his head and winced. “Then nothing. Just a red haze.”
“You were someone else when you came through,” Cipher said gently. “But you’re here now. In our time.”
Blaze blinked again. “Time?”
Trigger nodded. “Yeah. You’re not in Osea anymore. Not your Osea.”
Blaze took this in slowly. His eyes flicked across the runway, distant hangars, unfamiliar insignias. His shoulders sagged a little—not from fear, but the sheer weight of it.
“I’m… not supposed to be here, am I?”
Phoenix stepped up and grinned, nudging him with an elbow. “Neither are we.”
Blaze looked down at himself, like noticing the new gear he wore for the first time. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I don’t even remember what I did out there.”
Trigger, closer now, shook his head. “You protected us. We just weren’t sure if we could reach you.”
Blaze's ears flicked up slightly, hopeful. “Did I?”
Cipher offered him a slow, rare nod. “You did.”
The wind picked up softly, and Blaze's hand went up to the yellow collar around his neck. He shook a little, still fearful of this unknown time.
“…I remember someone giving this to me. Right before I took off.”
No one spoke for a long moment.
Mobius finally stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Blaze’s shoulder. “You’re with us now, kid. We’ll help you figure the rest out.”
Blaze smiled faintly. It was a tired smile, and a little haunted. But it was real.
“…Thanks. I don’t remember much, but… I think I trust you.”
Trigger gave him a warm grin. “You will. That’s what Misfits are for.”
Cipher and Phoenix watched the interaction before glancing to each other. It took them days to get Trigger to even think about opening up to them, but here he was smiling warm and being friendly to this new anomaly.
The air was still warm from the day’s heat, but cooler currents drifted in from the distant ocean, carrying the faint tang of salt. Most of the base was asleep, but here and there, muted lights glowed in hangar windows where crews worked overnight repairs.
Trigger sat on the steps outside the barracks, elbows on his knees, helmet set beside him. His ears twitched occasionally, listening to the quiet. He wasn’t wearing the flight suit anymore—just a shirt and fatigue pants—but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since they landed.
The door behind him opened with a soft creak. Blaze stepped out, moving hesitantly like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. His tail flicked once, nervously, before settling.
“…Couldn’t sleep?” Trigger asked without turning.
Blaze shook his head, then realized Trigger couldn’t see it and answered softly, “No. Too… loud.”
Trigger glanced at him, brow furrowed. “Loud?”
Blaze tapped his temple. “In here. I keep hearing things I don’t remember doing. Feeling things that don’t… feel like me.” He sat down a step lower, leaning against the railing. “It’s… weird. Feels like I’m still out there. Like I’m still…” His voice trailed off. “…him.”
Trigger knew exactly what he meant. “Razgriz.”
Blaze flinched slightly at the name. “…Yeah.”
For a while, they just sat in silence, the hum of night insects filling the air between them.
Trigger finally broke it. “You know… I used to think I was going crazy too. First time I got pulled through the Rift, I couldn’t tell where the past ended and the present started. Still can’t, sometimes.” He tilted his head toward Blaze. “You’re from 2010, right?”
Blaze nodded slowly. “Yeah. Osea was still… different then. It’s strange—everyone here knows things I don’t. And I keep seeing things I’m not supposed to know yet.” His tail gave a small, uneasy twitch. “But you… you’re from the future too?”
“2019,” Trigger said. His ears folded slightly at the memory. “Different war, different enemies, same sky. I thought… if I fought hard enough, I’d make it home. Now I don’t even know if ‘home’ is still there.”
Blaze gave him a faint, almost shy smile. “So I’m not the only one.”
“Nope.” Trigger leaned back against the step, looking up at the stars. “We might not have the same past, but… we’ve both been ripped out of it. We both… have that thing in us. That other side that comes out when the Rift messes with our heads.”
Blaze’s gaze dropped. “You think it ever… goes away?”
Trigger thought about it for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. But… it gets quieter when you’re not alone.”
Blaze looked at him then, really looked, and saw the same exhaustion in Trigger’s eyes that he felt in his own. But there was something else there too—understanding.
“…Thanks,” Blaze said quietly.
Trigger smirked faintly. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re Misfits. Trouble finds us whether we want it or not.”
Blaze actually laughed at that—soft and short, but real. “Guess it’s good I’m already used to trouble then.”
Fergdog on Chapter 7 Sat 19 Jul 2025 11:40AM UTC
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