Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A young lady stands in her bedroom. It just so happens that today, the 15th of July, 2172, is this young lady’s birthday. Since it was fifteen years ago she was given life, she already has a name, but you are welcome to guess.

What could the name of this young lady be?

>Enter Name.

>AMANDA WINSTON

>Name Verified.

Your name is AMANDA. As previously mentioned, it is your BIRTHDAY. A number of AIRPLANE PARTS are scattered about your room. You have a variety of INTERESTS. You have a passion for AVIATION AND PILOTING despite never having seen a real, working plane before. You like to tinker with mechanical things but you are NOT VERY GOOD AT IT. You have a fondness for COFFEE and are an AMATEUR MERCENARY. You like the color OLIVE. You also like to play GAMES sometimes.

What will you do?

>Amanda: Check up on yourself.

While you are fairly certain that a good night’s sleep isn’t going to make any significant changes to your biological appearance, you decide to head to the BATHROOM and take a good look at yourself. You open the door to your bathroom and flick on the lights, seeing the once dimly-lit concrete room being illuminated by a sickly, white fluorescent glow as soon as you did so.

You walk up to your MAKESHIFT MIRROR and take a look at your reflection. You see a pair of grease-stained, not-so-fluffy white cat ears on top of your silver, curly and oily hair. Your eyes are as OLIVE as always and that’s a relief. Of course, you still have a lot of freckles on your face, but they match nicely with your wheat-colored skin, so you’ll let that slide. That being said, you can’t help but notice the grime and blood that is covering everything. Your stain-covered not-so-fluffy white tail twitches in annoyance: you are absolutely filthy right now.

>Amanda: Clean yourself up right this moment before things get any messier.

You have no idea what the command-text-person means by “any messier” but you do agree with them. The human part inside you finds the sleep-and-wasteland-induced sanitary disarray you are currently in unpleasantly unacceptable and despite the cat part inside you hissing at you for even thinking about touching water, you decide to take a shower. You walk into the SHOWER CUBICLE and turn on the tap. The water is warm and slightly radioactive, just like how you like it.

You finish your shower and clean yourself up with a towel. You have a lot of towels because you found A LOT OF TOWLS in a box somewhere deeper inside your BUNKER. You do not want to talk about things deeper inside your BUNKER as long as your lights are still on and purified water still comes through the tap.

That tangent aside, you now feel refreshed: your cat ears and tail are now white and fluffy again. Your hair is still very curvy and very much wet, but it is no longer oily. You know in the old world, there existed wonderful things called HAIR DRYERS that could dry your hair way faster, but you haven’t had any luck on your scavenging trips just yet, so the wonderful prospect of drying your hair through electronic appliances is still a far-fetched dream for you.

>Amanda: Ignore your wet hair and get some clean clothes.

Your hair is still wet but there’s not much you can do about that. Instead, you decide to focus your attention on choosing your outfit of the day. Your closet is not very big and there aren’t a lot of things in it, but you still have a couple of choices to browse through before making a decision.

You ended up settling on an OLIVE aviator jacket, a plain white T-shirt that has an odd compass-esque symbol on it, and a pair of dark blue jeans. Your outfit reminds you of old-world ACE PILOTS. You wish you could be as cool as them one day.

Now that you’ve finished your morning routine and chosen appropriate clothing, what will you do?

>Amanda: Visit the HANGAR.

You walk out of your BATHROOM, straight past your BEDROOM, and enter the HANGAR. It is large, dark, and foreboding. Plus, the smell of mold and decades-old concrete isn’t exactly pleasant. But you know it is not the HANGAR itself that matters, it is what’s being stored here that is truly important. A LARGE MYSTERIOUS SILHOUETTE is currently being concealed by the shadows caused by a lack of illumination. Tools and barrels of what you assume are JET FUEL are piled haphazardly around the HANGAR.

>Amanda: Inspect the LARGE MYSTERIOUS SILHOUETTE.

You open your SYLLADEX and UNCAPTCHALOGUE your TACTICAL FLASHLIGHT. You quietly thank the Dust-Mother that you use the simple and non-complicated INVENTORY fetch modus instead of whatever convoluted mess that is popular in the CAPITAL CITY. You turn on your flashlight and point the beam of light toward the LARGE MYSTERIOUS SILHOUETTE. The silhouette is revealed to be a FULLY OPERATIONAL F-15 FIGHTER JET.

Well, you know the last part isn’t completely true. You might’ve restored a large majority of the EAGLE’s systems, but he’s not suited for the skies just yet. You still need an old-world FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER to make sure you won’t instantly smash into the first mountain you see at supersonic speeds when you take off. You’d wager something like that happening on your maiden voyage would totally put a wrench in your plan of turning the HALL OF ELDERS into a smoldering crater.

So, fighting back your intrusive thought of hopping in and turning on the engines, you re-captchalogue your flashlight back into your sylladex and decide to do something else instead.

>Amanda: Captchalogue the FIGHTER JET and use it as your STRIFE SPECIBUS.

Oh, you’ve tried. Your INVENTORY fetch modus allows you to captchalogue large vehicles but for some Dust-Mother-forsaken reason, it won’t allow you to use the EAGLE or any of your vehicles as your STRIFE SPECIBUS, so you are unfortunately left with the considerably less powerful RIFLEKIND ABSTRATUS and your trusty FN P-90 PERSONAL DEFENSE WEAPON. You call it the Bulldog, and it has helped you out of many difficult situations. It’s not quite a rifle and not quite what you wanted, but it’s not completely terrible either.

Now that you’ve explained why you couldn’t allocate your lovely EAGLE to your strife specibus, what would you do instead?

>Amanda: Retrieve BIRTHDAY GIFT.

Now that’s more like it! Even though your quality of life isn’t necessarily what one would call “glamorous”, you’d still like to treat yourself to something nice every once in a while.

You think that a certain ABANDONED AIRFORCE BASE nearby would be the best place to find your BIRTHDAY GIFT. You walk outside of your BUNKER and uncaptchalogue your ARMORED JEEP from your sylladex. Of course, any self-respecting old-world military would certainly scoff at your poor excuse of an imitation of their armored transports if they could see you. Luckily for you, there are several meters of RADIOACTIVE FALLOUT and CRUMBLED RUINS between you and any members of the totally hypothetical self-respecting old-world military. 

You hop into the comedically oversized DRIVER’S SEAT and turn the ignition key until you hear the sweet, comforting hums of a V8 diesel engine. Taking your (metaphorical) LICENSE TO KILL out of what you assume is the glove compartment, you think you are ready to do what needs to be done.

>Amanda: Drive.

The trip to the ABANDONED AIRFORCE BASE is incredibly dull and boring: it’s just sixty miles of desert and ruins, and you didn’t even come across any bandits on your way to the airforce base. The 15-year-old in you is upset that there is absolutely nothing exciting about this road trip, but the unnaturally mature part of you is quietly thankful about that. You’ve learned from a VERY YOUNG AGE that as much as it sucks, a dull and boring life is best for health and longevity.

Anyways, you were on a tangent there. You should focus on the task at hand now that you are standing in front of the ABANDONED AIRFORCE BASE. 

You silently waltz inside like a cat stalking its prey, weapons drawn and ready to take down anything that comes across your path. Your initial round of scavenging rewards you with some SPARE AMMO and two more intact HEAT-SEEKING MISSILES you could add to your plane, but there is no FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER in sight.

Frustrated, you decide it would be best for you to leave before the sun sets, but as you turn around and begin walking toward the gate, you hear a noise from one of the buildings next to you.

>Amanda: Investigate the noise in the building.

You sneak into the building through an air vent because you are not naive enough to just waltz in from the front gate. From an opening, you first hear, then smell, and then see a lonely SCAVENGER walking down a dark hallway. To your surprise, he is holding a big, scary rifle and a pristine FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER! You quietly thank the Dust-Mother for delivering you such good news, but then you remembered that you do not have the FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER, the scavenger does.

You have options, but all of them have drawbacks.

>Amanda: Confront the Scavenger

You decide to do this the civilized way. You hop down from the vent you were hiding in and land silently like a cat. You uncaptchalogue your tactical flashlight and shine it at the scavenger. He flinches but then he turns around in a snap and points his gun at you.

“The fuck!?” he growls, but his growl quickly turns into a sneer as he looks at you: “God damn, get lost, kitty, go find somewhere else to play, this ain’t your turf. Almost fucking thought you were a raider! Now get the fuck out of my sight before I put you in the dirt.”

Ugh, arrogant bastard. Your ears pull back in irritation as you clear your throat and state your offer: “Well I’m not here to play, sir.” You steady yourself and stare at the scavenger with a defiant but polite gaze: “I’m here to initiate a trade with you—you have something I need, and I think I could offer you something you need as well.”

“The fuck could a shitstain mutant like you offer!?” The scavenger sneers and threateningly shakes his rifle: “Get outta my sight before I end ya pitiful life, kid.”

“Listen, man, I’m a mercenary of sorts, and I can offer you a contract for free: whoever you want dead will be dead by tomorrow, and I’ll walk away with that flight control computer. Deal?” You are not very intimidated by the gun barrel in front of your face, instead, you press on like a shrewd businessman.

“Oh, so you’re one of those lawless mercs who kill for money huh?” The scavenger’s sneer suddenly turned into a menacing grin: “Heard mercs like you got pretty big numbers on ya heads, you wanna see how much yours is worth?”

“Come on, don’t be stupid, let’s resolve this the civilized way, shall we? Both of us can profit if we solve this with a deal.” You feel the furs on your tail and ears bristle like a cat ready to pounce as you slowly and stealthily reach for your gun. Come on, act reasonable, no need for any bloodshed today. Silently, you pray that the scavenger can come to his senses before this escalates any further.

“Nah, I think a year's worth of extra rations is a better deal for me,” The scavenger grins with his heinous teeth and raises his rifle: “Thought I made jackpot when I found the computer but nah, looks like I got to kill two birds with one stone.”

>Amanda: Strife!

He fires first, the stale and dusty building air reverberates with the violent blast of a high-caliber rifle. You evade with a swift dodge roll to the side while re-captchaloguing your tactical flashlights and drawing your P-90. You fire a swift burst at the scavenger but he sidesteps in a flash and made your shots miss their targets.

“Thought I left the life of purging mutie scums when I got discharged from the Brigade, guess I’m wrong.” The scavenger grins menacingly and cycles his rifle, ejecting the empty shell casing and loading in a new round. You draw your backup dagger and snarl at him, revealing your sharp feline fangs—you hated a lot of things about CAPITAL CITY and its barbaric rulers, but the PURITY BRIGADE and the monsters that work for it definitely make a solid contender for the top of that list. He simply continues to wear that menacing grin as he raises his rifle again.

He fires again but you evade with your cat-like agility. You dash forward with your dagger raised and hellbent on drawing blood. He blocks your rapid, furious strikes again and again with his rifle but as he grins in expectation of a battle of sheer strength, you reveal your P-90-wielding spare hand, and with a pull of the trigger, an onslaught of 5.7X28mm hollow-point bullets turns his lower torso into a bloody mess. His eyes open wide with shock and he staggers back, leaving him open for a finisher. You waste no time and violently jam the dagger into his throat with all your strength. You watch him writhe on the floor as he gurgles his last breaths and eventually, he stopped moving. 

Ugh, that’s a bit messy. You wince at the scene and can’t help but feel sorry about the dead scavenger. Sure, he used to work for the PURITY BRIGADE and definitely would’ve enjoyed killing you if he got the chance, but dying like that? That’s just plainly painful and you are too dust-damned sympathetic to not at least try to care about that. Still, he’s now dead and you should probably do something about that.

>Amanda: Loot the dead scavenger.

After making sure that the scavenger was truly dead, you walk toward the now-dead scavenger and inspect his dead body. You first grabbed the slightly blood-stained but still otherwise very pristine FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER and immediately sent it into the safe confines of your sylladex, then you look at the big, scary rifle, and hell yeah! It’s a well-maintained TAC-50. You captchalogue it since the scavenger certainly doesn’t need it anymore and you certainly don’t want it going to waste. The rest of the SCAVENGER’s loot is unassuming at best and downright repulsive at worst. But just before you decide to ABSCOND, you found something you weren’t expecting: a pristine video game disc held in its original case.

>Amanda: Investigate videogame case.

You picked up the case in excitement but were immediately disappointed because it’s not Project Wingman 3: Prez’s Dipping-Dots-Fueled Rampage. Damn it! That was the only PROJECT WINGMAN game you haven’t found! Instead of the fighter-jet-flying, explosion-packed, story-rich game of incredible replayability and quality that you were hoping to find, it’s some random game you’ve never heard of, it’s a game called SBURB.

You tried inspecting it further but the packaging shows nothing about the game: there isn’t even a developer name or price tag! The only thing on the cover was a green, house-like symbol. You reckon it’s some sort of city-building game, which isn’t fun but it’s hard to come across a pristine copy of video games without going to the Capitol City these days. So you captchalogue it and put it in your sylladex. You hope it is single-player-compatible because you have absolutely no friends to play with.

>Amanda: Abscond.

The ride back to your BUNKER COMPLEX is still boring and in fact, it’s worse because you are now haunted by the image of the dying scavenger. Damn it! You just couldn’t help but give your sympathy to everyone, even those that made your life miserable. At least you got what you needed, and honestly? You think that is definitely a silver lining in this whole ordeal.

 You arrive at your BUNKER COMPLEX and as soon as you enter the BUNKER itself, you uncaptchalogue the FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER. It is a bit blood-stained but still undeniably pristine. You decide to head into your workshop and prepare the FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER for installation.

The preparation process mainly includes initializing the systems and programming the operating parameters. You are not very good at coding but you found some official documents a while ago that sorta explained everything. You leave most things in their default setting but decide to turn the AOA Limiter off. You think it’ll make you do fancy maneuvers like in Project Wingman but you are not very sure. 

Now that the FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER is ready for installation, you leave your WORKSHOP and enter the HANGAR. After a bit of fumbling because you are not a federally-licensed airplane technician, you successfully install the FLIGHT CONTROL COMPUTER without losing any limbs.

You then spend a while cleaning out your HANGAR, but eventually, you think you cleared out enough space for takeoff and landing. You first put on an OLIVE flight suit and your helmet. Then, you hop in and settle comfortably in the EAGLE’s cockpit after connecting your oxygen and electronics to the seat. 

You begin the engine cold-start process while looking at the instruction manual: You first switch on both ENG MASTER switches, then you move to turn on both ENG CONTROL switches and follow that by turning on both ENG GEN switches. You then turn on the JFS STARTER switch and pull on the JFS handle. Hearing the low humming noise of the JFS, you turn on the 2nd engine first and you hear the low humming turn into a howl, and then into a deafening scream as the powerful Pratt & Whitney F100 engine kicks back into life. You then repeat the last step but with the first engine. With both engines screaming with power and thrust, you think you are ready for your maiden voyage.

>[S]Amanda: Take to the Skies (listen to Mighty Wings by Cheap Tricks while reading this for the best experience)

If your creator is ANDREW HUSSIE himself or is familiar with Microsoft Paint, this is the part where you will have an entire flashy animation of you soaring across the sun-scorched wasteland in your newly-revived supersonic Air Superiority Fighter, complete with an awesome soundtrack from no other than the legendary composer/game developer Toby Fox. However, your creator is not Andrew Hussie and not only does he know jack about Microsoft Paint or animating, he also couldn’t afford to hire Toby Fox for soundtracks. So you are unfortunately stuck with just the description of what happens:

You increase the throttle way harder than the manual’s instruction and the twin Pratt & Whitney F100 engines let out a deafening roar. A split second later, the previously-stationary EAGLE accelerates forward with incredible speed, pinning you against the pilot seat with sheer momentum and force. Like a blazing arrow, the EAGLE shoots out of your BUNKER HANGAR and you are flying. You are soaring above the sun-scorched sands that once imprison you and all of a sudden, you feel an overwhelming sense of freedom —you feel as free as a mighty gust of wind, unchained, untamed, and carefree in utter defiance against all forces that intents to keep you bound, and you feel fucking cathartic.  

So, you grin and push the throttle further. Your EAGLE responds by turning on his afterburners with a mighty roar. You soar low and fast above the endless plains of the desert at supersonic speeds and you see the shockwave your EAGLE leaves on the land as you blaze across the sand-blasted wasteland with two bright flames behind you. You cackle maniacally because you think you are addicted to this kind of thing now: the rush of adrenaline, the power, and the sheer momentum of your movements feel as intoxicating as it is liberating. You pull up once more and feel the overwhelming yet strangely arousing feeling of G-force pinning you against your seat. You roll around and pull to your right as sharp as the EAGLE allows you to. You feel like your head is getting lighter and there is darkness at the edge of your vision but everything feels so right you couldn’t even care, you simply grin and fly.

You fly like somebody who’s hopped on caffeine and every hard drug known to man and you are not even high. You pull into an aileron roll and follow that with a barrel roll. You pull a wingover followed by a split-S and you shout with excitement as if you are a kid on a roller-coaster. You enter a lag displacement roll against an imaginary opponent but then immediately break off and turn hard left as if you are evading an incoming missile. You try every single aerobatic maneuver you can remember and then some more. You fly yourself into a canyon on full throttle and you shimmy your way through it, flying way too close to the canyon walls for anybody-except-for-yourself’s comfort. You practice gun runs on nonexistent enemy convoys and you pretend you have endless missiles and use them against imaginary air-combat furballs filled with fake enemy jets, all while wearing a big and stupid grin that even you didn’t think was possible to pull off on your face. You fly and fly and fly and only when the Bingo(low-fuel) warning light starts blinking did you reluctantly decide to call it off for now and resign yourself to your earthly confines again.

You made it to your BUNKER HANGAR riding on an orange-red sunset like a badass cowboy except your mighty steed is a 20-ton, all-metal jet-powered war machine once belonging to the legendary U.S of A and her allies, and your “revolver” is a 20mm autocannon capable of delivery 6000 rounds of freedom and democracy to anybody unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. As you approach the runway, you reluctantly slow down and get everything ready for your perfect landing.

>Amanda: Land the plane

People always say that any landing you could walk away from is a successful landing. Of course, you disagree: the only successful landing in your books is a landing that both you AND the plane can walk away from because you’d never want anything bad to happen to your precious EAGLE ever. By that merit, your landing is very successful: Both you and the EAGLE are intact and feeling A-Okay about your collective maiden voyage. Though judging by where you found your EAGLE, you doubt this is his first rodeo.

You instinctively captchalogue the EAGLE as soon as you disembark. Despite repeatedly trying, you can’t help but feel curious about the (now fully operational) EAGLE’s compatibility with your strife deck.

>Amanda: Use the EAGLE as your STRIFE SPECIBUS.

You try to allocate the captchalogued EAGLE to your STRIFE SPECIBUS once more. Initially, you feel the usual supernatural push-back, but this time, as you push harder, something unexpected happens…

//Allocating -THE EAGLE- to User: aerobaticCatnip[AC] 's STRIFE SPECIBUS//

//Error: Kind Abstratus Not Found//

//Initializing Fallback Loop… Setting up placeholder Kind Abstratus…//

//Placeholder Kind Abstratus Created: JetplnKind. Automatic Balancing Enabled//

//Generating Legendary Weapon for Kind Abstratus: JetplnKind…//

//Generation successful. Automatic rebooting in progress…//

//Detected a Critical Error in File Strifedeck.main. Error Code: 413//

//Error: Data Corrupted, Attempting to boot in Safemode…//

//Safemode not found. Continue Rebooting Progress? Y /N//

//Warning: Data Corruption may cause critical failures during gameplay, do you wish to continue the reboot process? Y /N//

//Reboot Complete. Please Enjoy your Session//

>Amanda: Gain a New STRIFE SPECIBUS.

Praise the Dust Mother! You have just gained an additional STRIFE SPECIBUS! Now in addition to using your useful RIFLEKIND ABSTRATUS, you can also use the never-before-seen JETPLNKIND Kind Abstratus! You can now summon your fighter jet(s) at will and never have to worry about resupplying and you are confidently certain that your new overpowered strife specibus won’t have any dire consequences for you in the future whatsoever. 

Now that you’ve gotten the best BIRTHDAY GIFT a girl could ever ask for, what will you do?

>Amanda: Relax and play some games

You decide it’s a perfect opportunity to play some VIDEOGAMES and relax. You look around your gaming shelf. It is filled with all kinds of games involving AEROPLANES. That being said, you are in no mood to replay ACE COMBAT, PROJECT WINGMAN, or DCS after all that intense real-life dogfighting against your imaginary ace pilots. So you decide to settle on that weird “SBURB” game you found on the dead scavenger instead.

Facing your computer, you take the game out of its case and insert the disc into your computer’s disc driver. Navigating the files on your computer, you find SBURB.exe in no time. However, as you hover your mouse over the green, house-looking symbol, you hesitate as a voice inside you tells you to stop right here and throw this game as far away from civilization as possible.

So, you ask your dear Command-Text-Person: what will you do?

>Amanda: Play Sburb.

Chapter Text

Your name is AMANDA WINSTON, and right now, as you are standing outside your BUNKER HANGAR and surveying your brand new environment, you are beginning to think that maybe, just maybe — in a purely theoretical sense of course — you might have done something you weren’t supposed to do.

>Amanda: Elaborate.

Yeah, you agree with the command-text-person. You think your situation needs a lot of elaboration for anybody to understand. In fact, even you are not quite sure about what the hell is going on. But of course, you have your speculations.

It all started a couple of minutes ago. You clicked on the SBURB icon on your computer and some seconds later an odd machine appeared on an empty spot in your room. You instantly recognized it as a CRUXTRUDER despite never having seen or heard of one before. 

A few more minutes were then wasted by you being shocked and confused, but you somehow instinctively knew you needed to open the CRUXTRUDER. You used your RIFLEKIND strife specibus and accomplished that exact goal by repeatedly bashing the machine with the butt stock of a rifle until it opened. If you could, you would use your JETPLNKIND strife specibus, but every cell within you understands that uncaptchaloguing an entire fighter jet in your cramped bedroom seems like the worst idea imaginable.

Then the CRUXTRUDER opened and released a rapidly blinking energy sphere of sorts. You recognize it as a KERNELSPRITE. You somehow knew you ought to pick some stuff in your room and “prototype” something with it so your first instinct is to get your copy of Ace Combat: Zero and have the legendary SOLO WING PIXY as your wingman sprite buddy for the rest of this supposedly eldritch game. However, the KERNELSPRITE straight up collapsed into a fucking black hole, sucking everything in its close proximity into it, which unfortunately included you and everything around you.

Which brings you to your current predicament. Now, not to sound repetitive or anything, but…

What will you do?

>Amanda: Survey your surroundings.

You look around: everything seems uncannily similar to your home, except now everything is shrouded in a depressing veil of darkness, turning the already desolate wasteland into something even more indescribably desolate and terrifying. Above the dark skies is your moon — shattered and utterly destroyed as usual, but now a much bigger dark sphere looms over it. You instinctively recognize it as SKAIA but you don’t know what you should do with that information. Looking at everything, you feel an instinctive sense of fear crawling down your spine: This is your planet, your home, but at the same time, it also isn’t — it is more like a crudely made copy of what your home planet was. It’s detailed down to the claw scratches and bullet marks on the exterior of your BUNKER HANGAR, but it is not lived in. In fact, it feels utterly DEAD .

You shake off the feeling of unease. You are a COLDBLOODED MERCENARY who has killed more people than you could count with two hands. You are not afraid of the dark nor do you fear a dead world. You are, however, afraid of the unknown: you do not know who or what is out there, hell, you don’t even know if there is anything out there. It is a fear strong enough to overcome your badass mercenary bravado, and you find that SUBOPTIMAL. Luckily, you know how to change that.

You return inside your HANGAR and uncaptchalogue the EAGLE. Readying yourself for another flight, you put on your FIGHTER HELMET and climbed in. Thankfully, you don’t have to do anything else because you’ve been wearing your FLIGHT SUIT all along. You plug in the oxygen pipe and data lines, and you go through the pre-flight checklist. With the engines roaring with power and thrust, you are ready to take off and do what needs to be done.

>Amanda: Take to the skies again.

You accelerate out of the HANGAR but pull up significantly gentler this time. You notice the EAGLE’s fuel is full despite not being refueled after the last flight, and you then notice you are actually armed this time: You have four AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles mounted on your lower fuselage corners and two AIM-9M SIDEWINDERS on either side of your wings. Moreover, your M61 Vulcan autocannon is actually loaded this time, although the ammunition counter is replaced by an infinity sign and you now have a heat indicator instead. Logically, you think that means you have INFINITE AMMO on your autocannon just like in ACE COMBAT. Neat!

You are not in a particular rush to find out about your new armaments though. Your first priority is to head toward the CAPITAL CITY, or at least where you’d expect it to be. You find it ironic that your first instinct is to find the city that utterly despises you when shit hits the literal fan. But you reckon a new apocalypse of this size and severity on top of the ongoing apocalypse is enough reason for you to put a hold on your grudge. At least, you will TRY TO put a hold on your grudge before one of those pompous bastards inevitably tries to murder you for being a dust-forsaken mutant again.

Thanks to your newfound supersonic flight capabilities, what used to be a week-long agonizing hike or hour-long sweat-inducing drive has been reduced to mere minutes. You arrive at what you assume to be the CAPITAL CITY roughly 20 minutes after your pledge of bringing them peace and salvation instead of giving them a taste of your infinite amount of 20mm high explosive rounds. 

Now is the time for you to land the EAGLE and introduce yourself to the CAPITAL CITY once more in a much more diplomatic fashion. However, the lack of a CAPITAL CITY kind of puts a massive wrench in your plan — what is certainly supposed to be the ground zero of prejudice and tyranny is now replaced by a mysterious structure surrounded by the ruined remains of a city. It looks like a temple mixed with a bunker from up here. You are not quite sure what it is, but at least now you don’t have to deal with a bunch of utter dipshits who will almost certainly stab you in the back the moment they have the chance to do so. Heh, Good riddance, assholes.

>Amanda: Land.

You gently touch the EAGLE down on a particularly wide highway close to the temple. You think you landed somewhere between the MONUMENT TO DOMINION and Rosa’s Coffee Consortium (Out of everything you hated about this city, Rosa’s Coffee Consortium was not one of them). You captchalogue the EAGLE alongside your helmet and begin your walk toward Rosa’s Coffee Consortium.

>Amanda: Investigate the temple first, you tactless halfwit.

You think that was pretty uncalled for and rude. You are allowed to visit one of the few things that brought you joy in the miserable first 13 years of your life before entering the temple of dust-know-what . If you couldn’t salvage a couple of bags of Rosa’s Secret Blend, at least you could give that place and its saint-like owner a proper sendoff before you move on.

Speaking of which, you are now standing in front of a positively ruined and lifeless Rosa’s Coffee Consortium. Aw, dang. You really thought the universe would be kind enough to keep that place running because Ol’ Rosa — may the dust soothe her soul — certainly deserves it for her kindness and generosity.

Oh well, you learned a long time ago that you can’t keep living in the past. You scavenge a couple of bags of coffee and captchalogue them alongside a somewhat-intact espresso maker. You’d have to repair it later and find a spot for it in your BUNKER HANGAR, but that’s the easy part. Walking out of the ruined coffee shop, you pull out your trusty BULLDOG and fire three times in the air, mumbling some generic but emotional farewells, giving poor ol’ Rosa the honorable sendoff she deserves.

Now that you’ve secured some childhood memories and have given the only person who ever cared about you a proper goodbye, you kind of forgot what was on your mind before all this. What were you doing again?

>Amanda: Investigate the goddamn temple, for fuck’s sake!

Okay, fine, no sympathy for a sad, sensitive girl, huh? You curse the command-text person, but you nevertheless move in the direction of the temple. You walk down VICTORY ROAD and turn left across an unnamed alleyway. Crossing said alleyway with your P-90 drawn. You find yourself staring at the PLAZA OF AUTHORITY, or to be more accurate, the remnants of it: The statue of the ORIGINAL ELDER has been utterly destroyed and covered by the massive temple/bunker thing. Now that you take a closer look at it, this temple seems a lot bigger and more menacing than it did in the air.

You approach the temple, and as you approach, a certain item in your sylladex automatically uncaptchalogues itself and plops onto the ground. You pause to inspect the item and recognize it as a STRANGE KEY you found in a nuclear missile silo a while ago. You were inclined to believe that it is a NUCLEAR LAUNCH KEY and despite all the nukes being used up in the EIGHT MINUTE WAR, you held onto it for symbolic meaning. You pick up the key but decide to put it in your pockets instead of your sylladex this time for no real reason whatsoever. You then continue on your walk toward the temple.

You reach the base of the temple eventually. In front of you is a MASSIVE STONE DOOR. You inspect the stone door, and aside from the usual esoteric carvings and imagery of unknown beasts, you also find carvings of fighter jets, tanks, and MUSHROOM CLOUDS. Hell, you can even see the same weird compass-esque symbol that was on your flight suit pitted against the symbol of some sort of hammer and sickle. A single keyhole is visible, seemingly requiring a very unique key.

You are not an idiot, so you connect the dots rather quickly and instantly know what to do. You pull out the NUCLEAR LAUNCH KEY and slot it into the keyhole on the temple door. You turn the key and with a low rumble of air raid sirens, the massive stone door separates, leaving you with a path to the inside.

>Amanda: Descend.

You enter the temple with your weapons drawn and ready to take down anything that comes at you. However, to your surprise, you didn’t encounter any resistance: no traps, no enemies, not even environmental hazards. It was a smooth, generic elevator ride straight down to the planet’s core, complete with the most generic elevator music one could possibly imagine. You’d praise the Dust Mother if you weren’t bored out of your mind for ten agonizing minutes because surprise surprise, elevators are very, very boring.

You eventually arrive at the core of the planet. The door opens with a generic ding and it unceremoniously reveals another generic stone hallway, it even has those videogame-styled torch lights on the walls. You walk through the hallway and come across another door. Almost bored to death, you pull open the door expecting another generic thing, but instead you are greeted by an ABSOLUTELY MASSIVE room and a ridiculously massive snakelike creature with a bright glow for a head residing in the middle of everything, seemingly waiting for someone. 

It senses you and lets out…something. Despite not understanding any of it, a rush of information fills your mind…

[Yaldaboth]: Greetings, player. I have been anticipating your arrival.

[AC]: <what. the. fuck.>

[Yaldaboth]: You have chosen a difficult path by entering this cosmic construct alone. Consequently, I shall offer you both a challenge and a punishment by giving you a Choice.

[AC]: <Oh, oh fuck. Uh, can I not make a choice? I mean -, I didn’t even sign up for all of this. If this isn’t meant to be played solo and I’ve fucked something up, you can just, uh, drop me off at my home planet and I’ll toss this cursed game away no strings attached. Deal?>

[Yaldaboth]: Once initiated, Sburb cannot be reversed. Your only way to salvation is to make the Choice. Once completed, you shall be rewarded with a brand-new universe of your own design.

[AC]: <Fine, I Guess I got no choice but to say yes. But still, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Are you gonna tell me or am I supposed to figure everything out?>

[Yaldaboth]: A wise decision, player. 

[Yaldaboth]: Here is the Choice I shall be offering you: an unfathomable evil has risen/will rise. You can either take on the Path of the Martyr. Sacrifice yourself and stop the unfathomable evil, trading your life for the lives of countless, or conversely—you can take on the Path of the Conqueror. Complete an impossible task and be granted unfathomable power and immortality, but risk becoming no different from the unfathomable evil.

[AC]: <Wait, so if this shitty translation function isn’t broken, and I’m hearing you perfectly well, you are telling me to choose to either OFF MYSELF or GET LITERAL IMMORTALITY AND UNLIMITED POWER? Like…how is this even a choice!?>

[Yaldaboth]: To take on the Path of the Martyr is to take on a passive role. Through your noble sacrifice, you shall interweave your will across this eternal construct, ensuring the continuation and prosperity of countless universes. Your physical being will cease to exist, but your soul will be interwoven into every cosmic string of Paradox Space, inspiring all that exists like a Muse.

[AC]: <Huh.>

[Yaldaboth]: To take on the Path of the Conqueror is to take on an active role. Through winning an impossible challenge, you shall rise above and lord over the will of the cosmos, subjugating and destroying all those who defy you in the process. You will become a Lord, and all that exists shall bow down to you, regardless of their own will.

[AC]: <Ugh, being a Lord sounds pretty evil. I suppose the only good choice here is to become the Muse. But, l…>

[Yaldaboth]: I can hear the hesitation in your voice, young player.

[AC]: <Yeah no shit, Sherlock. Listen: I’m not a fan of being a lord and I don’t care for your inter-universal power struggles, all I wanted was to live a free life and fly my plane. But what you are offering is fucking insane—there’s no way in hell am I going to kill myself like that! I made a promise to someone a long time ago about that kinda stuff and I’m not gonna break that promise.>

[Yaldaboth]: In such cases, the Path of the Conqueror would be your best choice, young player.

[AC]: <Well, I don’t wanna be the bad guy either! There must be another way, right? C’mon, let’s make a deal: You send me back and pretend nothing ever happened and I’ll give you a 50% cut of all my merc contracts. Sounds good?>

[Yaldaboth]: …Your attempt at bribery is amusing, but mere currency is meaningless in the eyes of Paradox Space. The Choice must be made.

[Yaldaboth]: That being said, as a consolation: There is no inherent evil in the title of a Lord—Paradox Space makes no judgment, and the only factor of significance is what you, young player, choose to make of your power.

[AC]: <...I see. Fine, I guess I’ll take the Lord's path, but I’ll try my best to be a good guy or at least the lesser of evils. I’ll help out people in need, protect those in need of protection, and make sure they live a free life, etc. You know, bringing freedom and liberty to Paradox Space, is that, uh, reasonable?>

[Yaldaboth]: Very well. The Choice is made. I salute your noble ambitions and wish you the best of luck—the upcoming tribulations will not be easy: You shall conquer and destroy 15 planets in numerical order safe for the eighth, which you shall visit last. It will not be easy, but if you manage to complete the challenge—return to my lair and seek me out. I shall be waiting, player.

[AC]: <Wait, time out, hold up a minute! Let me get this straight: You want me to start straight-up destroying and conquering planets like the world’s most generic supervillain!? How the fuck is the path of the Lord not inherently evil!?>

[Yaldaboth]: Using an idiom from your origin planet: one cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. It is the will of Paradox Space that power always comes at a price—it is up to your action to see if the end justifies the means.

[AC]: <I… Fuck, okay. They are just like video game enemies, created just for me to kill and stuff like that, right? I’m not really…genociding whole planets that actually existed before all this, right? Right?>

[Yaldaboth]: One could certainly compare this cosmic construct to that of a Game. As a piece of advice: try not to waste precious time thinking over the inconsequential, for time is your utmost luxury.

[AC]: <I’m not hearing a solid “no” man, please for the sake of my sanity give me a solid “no”>

[Yaldaboth]: The challenge has begun. Good luck, Lordling—you will certainly need it.

Before you can inquire further, a bright flash of light envelops you and leaves you temporarily blinded as space around you distorts and reshapes itself. When you finally regain your eyesight, you are standing outside of the temple. The original door is nowhere to be found but before you can contemplate your conversation and your now-chosen destiny, a low rumble from the sky captures your attention. You look up.

The massive planetoid that shadows your own moon, SKAIA, is now rapidly transforming, turning the previously dark and cloudy planetoid into a solid, black sphere. Split seconds later,  the planetoid explodes in a spectacular manner and collapses into a black hole, its shrapnels forming 15 distinctively-colored planets. For a minute, the planets seem to disperse across the medium, but the black hole forces them back into its orbit with its immense gravitational pull. You notice one of the planets failing to decelerate and falling straight into the black hole while the rest seemingly settle on a thin balance on the edge of total destruction, waiting for the slightest push to tip it over. 

A blinding flash envelops you once more before you can react properly to this new change. When you open your eyes, you are standing on a completely different planet—a bleak, yellow sky hangs above you, similarly yellow sands shift underneath you, and in the distance, you can see traces of civilization in the form of yellow caravan tents. There isn’t any indicator notifying you but you know by instinct that the game has officially started.

Then, all of a sudden, the realization hit you: you’ve seriously fucked up this time—you, an ordinary, good-for-nothing sub-par amateur independent mercenary, have just gotten yourself into the universe’s most difficult game that’s probably rigged from the start. Yeah, fuck . You think you will die: without a doubt, you will fail like you always did because even though you were good, you were never good enough. But… somehow, surprisingly, you are… feeling pretty alright about that—between dying miserably in your hellhole of a world and going out in a blaze of glory chasing a noble dream, you think the latter is much more acceptable.

Plus, when you inevitably die, you’ll probably get to reunite with your Joey again. All things considered, it’s a pretty good deal. You see something on the horizon—a horde of odd-looking creatures that you instinctively recognize as underlings are now charging at you with their weapons raised. Now… you could just let them kill you and skip to the part where you meet Joey in Dust Mother’s eternal embrace, it’s certainly tempting… 

Nah, not like that . You might be a mutant and a lowlife mercenary, but you are still a Winston. Alvin and Claire went down fighting and Ma and Pa sure as fuck didn’t raise the last of their bloodline as a no-try coward. You are not afraid of dying, but you are afraid of dying without trying, and today…

Today, you feel like trying.

>Amanda: Strife!

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Paradox Space, on a planet once scorched by flames and entombed in decrepit megastructures, a lone F-15E Strike Eagle soars between the fire-blackened monoliths of rusted steel and cracked concrete. Behind the Strike Eagle’s reinforced glass canopy, inside its high-tech cockpit, there is the lonely figure of a teenage girl.

Now, said teenage girl is young, roughly between the age of 16 and 17, and probably doesn’t belong in the cockpit of a million-dollar warmachine unless it’s some sort of “bring your daughter to work day” for an airforce pilot. In fact, everything, from the ejector seat to the height of the HUD seems just a tad bit oversized for her, but that doesn’t stop her from piloting her mighty steed with the confidence of a battle-hardened ace—underneath the pilot helmet, a raging fire of steadfast determination and resolute bravery burns fiercely in her crystal-clear, olive-green eyes as she weaves her full-metal instrument of destruction between the decrepit, monolithic ruins with intense focus.

Yet, no matter how intense and fierce her gazes seem, there is no way to conceal the look of fatigue and stress on her face—she’s pushing way past her limit, way out of her depth, stuck in an impossible game rigged against her. But it’s a game she has to win.

Would you like to know more?

>Be the teenage girl.

You are now the aforementioned teenage girl. Your name is Amanda Winston and if your memories serve you right, it has been roughly a year and a half since you last appeared in this story. Back then, you were a regular, sub-par independent mercenary and a pilot wannabe, and you were dragged into playing a cosmic videogame against your will. The last part hasn’t changed that much since you are still stuck inside this dust-forsaken game called SBURB, but you reckon the first bit definitely changed a lot.

Well, for starters, you are not a pilot wannabe anymore. Even though you won’t consider yourself among the ranks of legendary Aces just yet, you would like to believe that your piloting skills have been properly honed by over a year’s worth of nonstop fighting against increasingly powerful foes to the point where you can be considered an ordinary Ace. Similarly, you are not exactly an independent mercenary nowadays since, instead of fighting for the highest bidders, you now fight for something else entirely.

Actually, now that you think about it, there are a lot of things you fight for these days. The cynical part of you believes you are fighting for absolute power like a cliche supervillain, but the optimist in you likes to think that, out of everything, you are really just fighting for your right to exist .

Truth is, you’ve known for a very, very long time that there is something inherently wrong about your freakish mutant body—it is, in essence, a ticking time bomb set to detonate when you turn 18. There is no way to disarm it, and so, you’ve long since accepted that your story won’t have a happy ending, and strangely, you think that’s alright—dying never scared you. If anything, you are more scared of being forgotten or erased. As far as you are concerned, you are only alive when you are up here in your mighty EAGLE or down there with a smoking gun—you are addicted to the free life of an independent mercenary and you hope that, at the end of everything, you’ll go down in a legendary blaze of glory fitting of mercenary legends and instead live on through tales and memories.

This life philosophy, logically, led you to an increasingly absurd series of stunts that you hope could land you among the list of SBURB legends after your inevitable death. This series of absurd stunts includes a lot of things, but most importantly, it includes what you are going to do: a couple of miles from where you are, is the final stronghold of the Planetary Command Authority , the last valiant defenders left fighting for the Land of Coral and Cinders . It is a hornets’ nest of surface-to-air missiles and enemy fighters, and you will be taking them on solo partially out of the aforementioned desire to make a name for yourself and partially because nobody else in your crew is crazy or skilled enough to slip through the miles of decrepit megastructures and crumbling skyscrapers between you and your target.

You can’t blame them, really. Your crew is made of professional badasses and you respect them a lot, but they couldn’t possibly understand what you’ve been through and where you are coming from. You are perfectly fine with the care and support they can and have been providing both on and off the battlefield. It’s more than enough for you and you don’t think you deserve them. But that’s a topic for another time. Right now, your most pressing priority is the mission at hand—there is no room for teenage angst and self-doubt in the mind of a professional pilot, and considering what you are doing, being a professional is almost mandatory.

So you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and reorient your mind. With a jolt of refreshed focus partially aided by the last bit of caffeine in your bloodstream, thoughts about teenage melodrama and the morality of war get replaced by the energy maneuverability theory and air combat terminologies—just in time for the EAGLE to clear the final stretch of ruins and emerge from the intertangled web of decaying megastructure. As the skies clear up in front of you, the enemy’s radio network explodes with a buzz of communications…

[Underling Defender]: Hey, what’s that lone F-15 doing here? I thought we only had Soviet and Chinese equipment, didn't we?

[Underling Defender]: Last I checked yeah… Wait, shit! I…it’s the Demon! We are under attack! Inform the HQ! The Demon is here!

[Underling ATC]: Affirmative, Positive ID on the Demon. Attention all available units—converge to The Final Bastion ASAP! I repeat: The Final Bastion is under attack!

[Underling Pilot]: Affirmative. Fullback Squadron responding. ETA: 4 minutes.

[Underling Pilot]: Frostbite Squadron Wilco. Redirecting course to The Final Bastion.

[Underling Pilot]: Roger that. Cavaliers scrambling. The Demon’s reign of terror ends today!

[???]: …Finally. Judgment responding.

Below you, an absolutely gigantic fortress reveals itself, its defense mechanisms roaring back to life to greet you with a hailstorm of onslaught: tens of thousands of missiles rise up from their launch vehicles like burning arrows, blanketing the ground in a white fog of smoke and exhausts all while muzzle flashes blossom across the fortress, sending millions of bullets up in the sky, illuminating the starless night with a light show of red-hot tracers.

It’s a truly formidable display of force. If you fancy a guess, you’d say it’s the Planetary Command Authority ’s way of saying “fuck off, you aren’t welcome here” and to any sane person, it’d be a very effective message. But you are not a sane person. You are Amanda Winston, a thrill seeker, a war addict, and most importantly, someone with nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

A rush of adrenaline surges through your body, and your brain shifts into overdrive. Every last one of your synapses sparks with a symphony of excitement and anxiety, and as the never-ending swarms of missiles converge to meet you; as the sky around you light up with flak explosions and tracers; as the EAGLE shakes and jolts from turbulence and shockwave, you spring into action.

>Amanda: Strife!

With spit-second dexterity, you cut your throttle and yank the flight stick with violent momentum. Your full-metal warmachine responds in kind by pulling an equally violent turn as a dazzling firework of chaff and flare fills the air. Overwhelming G-force pins you against your seat and you watch a chain of explosions ripple out behind you as the incoming missiles home in on the chaff and flares instead of your EAGLE. In a single moment in time, the dark, starless night turns briefly into a mid-noon day as tens and thousands of fireballs light up the sky like artificial stars and, as the night takes back its rightful place, your EAGLE emerges from the embers like a mighty phoenix, unfazed, undefeated, and, as you will soon prove, utterly unrelenting.

[Underling Defender]: How could none of those missiles hit her!?

[Underling Defender]: They didn’t call her the Demon without a reason. Just keep on firing and overwhelm her!

[AC]: <Not if I have something to say about that first. Wildcat-1, pickle, pickle, pickle!>

You present your countermove with simplistic elegance—with the EAGLE in a sharp dive, you hold down the trigger and let loose a trio of MK-84 unguided bombs. Seconds later, a trio of explosions ring out below as the MK-84 bombs’ 2000-pound high-explosive payloads turn an impressive cluster of SAM launchers into smoldering wrecks. With your bombs now on a reload timer, you pull out of your dive and into a sharp turn, evading a salvo of retaliatory missiles by mere inches. Unfazed, you calmy switch to your AGM-65 Maverick Air-to-Ground missiles. 

[AC]: <Wildcat-1, rifles away!>

Six AGM-65 Mavericks dart out from underneath your EAGLE. Guided by electro-optical guidance and powered by solid rocket propellents, your salvo of Mavericks smashes into their targets with pinpoint, setting several ammo storage facilities alight and causing a chain reaction that spreads like wildfire. The fortress erupts in a ripple of fiery explosions that—to your absolute delight and to your enemies’ absolute horror—manage to envelop their airfield in a massive firestorm.

[Underling Defender]: Shit! We just lost Cavalier Squadron! They didn’t even get to take off!

[Underling Defender]: Whose idea was it to pack everything so close to each other!? Agh! Damn it all! Just keep on firing! We can’t let the Demon win, the fate of our planet is counting on us! For the PCA!

Even though the Underlings are really just game constructs created by SBURB, you can’t help but feel bad for these guys—Just like you, they are also fighting for their very right to exist. If things were different, you would’ve recruited them to join you, but alas: they are hard-coded by SBURB to fight to the bitter end. So what else could you do, other than to give them a hero’s death?

[AC]: <Wildcat-1, going guns!>

You dive close to the ground, close enough to read the road markings, close enough to render the Underlings’ anti-air incapable of targeting you, and as the EAGLE zooms mere meters above the ground in supersonic speeds, you unleash an unending barrage from your M61 Vulcan rotary autocannon, shredding lightly-armored vehicles and personnel alike with a deadly hailstorm of PGU-28B high-explosive incendiary rounds all while weaving between incoming fire like a battlefield ballerina. You cap off your run with a volley of MK-84 bombs that, again, with laser accuracy, reduce another cluster of anti-air into fiery scrap metal.

[Underling Defender]: T…that was the last of our anti-air! How can we even hope to win against the Demon!? W…we are doomed!

[Underling Defender]: No, we can’t lose hope, damn it! Everyone is counting on us! Wait… Look up in the skies! Reinforcements are here!

[Underling Pilot]: Affirmative, the cavalry is here! Fullback Squadron, let’s take some pressure off our boys on the ground, shall we?

[Underling Pilot]: Frostbite Squadron on station! Everyone, send the Demon back to the hell she crawled out of!

Your Radar-Warning Reciever (RWR) suddenly starts beeping furiously. You take a rough look at your radar monitor and immediately spot a group of SU-27 Flankers and Mig-29 Fulcrums converging on your 3 o’clock. Right, reinforcements, of course . You switch your EAGLE into air combat mode with the flick of a switch and—through SBURB’s videogame magic—your mounted MK-84 unguided bombs and AGM-65 Maverick Air-to-Ground missiles disappear into glitchy pixels and several AIM-120 AMRAAMs and AIM-9L Sidewinders materialize in their place. Then, you push your throttle to the max and turn for a merge. The squadrons of Flankers and Fulcrums got good tones on you but you also got a good tone on them, and that’s enough—from this range, you can reliably hit them with your AMRAAMS but they need to make a gamble with their R-73Ms, and you wager the odds are in your favor.

[Underling Pilot]: I’ve got a good tone, Fullback-3, FOX-2!

[Underling Pilot]: Target acquired, Fullback-1, FOX-2!

[Underling Pilot]: Affirmative, Frostbite-4, FOX-2!

[AC]: <Wildcat-1, FOX-3, SPAM-RAAMS out!>

Six AIM-120 AMRAAMS dart out from the EAGLE and Seven R-73Ms rush towards you in response. You then break off and pull into a defensive turn all while letting loose a shower of flares. From the edge of your vision, you spot the Underling pilots do the same—the only difference is that your AMRAAMs are a lot more accurate than R-73Ms at this distance, and while only four of them managed to score a hit, all seven incoming R-73Ms missed their marks and went for your flares.

[Underling Pilot]: Damn it, we lost Frostbite-6 and Frostbite-3!

[Underling Pilot]: Fullback-2 and 4 got shot down! The Demon is tearing us apart up here!

[Underling Pilot]: Our missiles all missed, she’s too slippery, damn it!

[Underling Pilot]: No she’s fucking not! She’s just using American planes, we can’t beat her in the missiles game. All units, close the distance so we can out-maneuver her!

With your AMRAAMS on a cooldown, you turn around to re-engage with your AIM-9L Sidewinders, which, due to them being outdated models made during the Cold War, have less range than the R-73Ms on the incoming Migs and Sukois, but you think you got this in the bag, maybe, hopefully. The EAGLE meets the enemies head-on and as you hear the low grumbling noise of your Sidewinders turn into a full-on bloodthirsty growl, you pull the trigger.

[AC]: <Wildcat-1, FOX-2!>

A pair of Sidewinders zips across the cinder-filled sky towards two incoming SU-27s and one of the enemy pilots flares just a bit too late, earning him a fiery death, but the other one manages to evade your missile with a sharp Herbs turn and angles itself directly on your 6 o’clock as you overshot the lead. Shit.  

[Underling Pilot]: I’ve got a good tone on her! This is for Frostbite-4! FOX-2!

Your RWR conveniently warns you with its iconic Bitichin’ Betty voice, telling you that there’s a “Missile, Six o’clock, high” as if you somehow can’t see the rapidly approaching contrail. Thankfully for you, every move in Air Combat has a countermove, and so you pull the EAGLE up into a sharp climb, ignoring the “Over-G” warning blaring in your headset as you leave behind a trail of flares. The incoming R-73M predictably homes in on the flares and leaves your EAGLE unharmed, but the Flanker that launched the missile chases after you with unrelenting focus. 

Now, you could enter a turn fight with an SU-27 “Flanker” and hope your multirole Strike Eagle can out-turn an air-dominance fighter known for its maneuverability, or you can make a gamble, and between a guaranteed loss and a half-and-half chance, you’d gladly take your chances. 

[AC]: <Okay, fuck, here we go, Captain Maverick don’t fail me now…>

You cut the afterburner of your right engine and yaw hard to the left—the imbalance of thrust violently swings the EAGLE into a Kasher Bell, reducing your airspeed to near zero and—in the fraction of a second—your gun sight line up with the passing SU-27. You pull the trigger, letting lose a short burst from your M61 Vulcan autocannon and shredding the enemy jet with a barrage of accurate 20mm rounds.

[Underling Pilot]: Woah what the fuck was that!?

[Underling Pilot]: A dumb fucking move, that’s what! She’s in a stall, get her!!!

Those underlings weren’t wrong—you are in a stall and right now a brick would probably have more aerodynamic authority than the EAGLE, but a brick doesn’t have six AIM-120 AMRAAMS fresh off cooldown and ready to fire.

[AC]: <Wildcat-1, FOX-3!>

[Underling Pilot]: Shit, missile incoming, evade!

A salvo of AIM-120 AMRAAMs flies towards the incoming fighters. Without proper pre-launch airspeed, you doubt any of them will hit the target, but that’s not your goal. The SU-27s and MIG-29s reasonably execute defensive maneuvers and release countermeasures, giving you precious time to pull out of your stall—you point the nose of the EAGLE downwards and begin a sharp dive, gaining airspeed in the process. Then, with your control over the EAGLE restored, you pull out of the dive and find yourself underneath your enemies.

Now, according to Energy Maneuverability Theory, this is bad—you just traded all of your potential energy and put yourself at a significant disadvantage, but the Underling pilots, perhaps partially out of hard-coded aggression and partially out of a desire to avenge their fallen comrades, chose to dive and chase you instead of staying back and lobbing missiles at you. It’s a bad move on their part, but who are you to interrupt when your enemies are making a mistake?

[AC]:<Wildcat-1, FOX-2!>

Two sidewinders fly out, riding on a long contrail and capping off their flights by impacting with two MIG-29s that are too slow to react, turning them from the pride and joy of the Russian Aerospace Industry to just boring old fragments. The remaining pair of SU-27s and the final MIG-29 retaliate by unleashing another barrage of R-73M missiles that—once again, you evade by unleashing a dazzling display of chaff and flare while pulling into a defensive turn. Then, out of habit, you glance towards your instruments and realize you’ve run out of countermeasures. Shit.

[???]: …Judgement to Frostbite and Fullback. What’s your status?

[Underling Pilot]: The Demon got us bad, we are Winchester and down to our last men. Not going to lie… I don’t think we are going to make it out of here.

[???]: …Affirmative. Play defensively, and hold out for as long as you can. I’ll handle the Demon.

[Underling Pilot]: Negative. There’s no use. Just… give us some posthumous metals after all of this is over, okay? Fullback-1, over and out.

[Underling Pilot]: Amen to that. It’s an honor to die with you, sir. Frostbite-1, engaging the enemy!

[Underling Pilot]: Ah shit, I don’t have a choice, don’t I? Fullback-6, engaging, remember our names!

[???]: …Roger that. Godspeed.

You see the trio of Migs and Sukois turning towards you but curiously, your RWR remains silent—no locks, no scans, it’s as if they’ve turned off their radars, and then, your headset crackles to life. It’s a message from the enemies, but it’s not intercepted comms, it’s directed at you.

[Underling Pilot]: Fullback-1 to the Demon of Skaia. I admit, you are probably going to win this… But before you do us in, how about you give us a death fitting for Aces, huh? One last dance, guns only, you in?

[AC]: <...Demon of Skaia to Fullback-1. Wilco, ejecting spare munitions.>

[AC]: <Hey…just so you know, you don’t have to do this—surrender’s an option, you know. You have my word that we treat our POWs with dignity and respect.>

[Underling Pilot]: Negative, I’m bound to this earth—without her, my life would not have a purpose. Thanks for the offer, Demon, but the PCA will never surrender. Fullback Squadron, Frostburn Squadron, ready up, and let’s have one last dance!

You feel a heavy weight in your chest as you angle the EAGLE for a merge. Every, single, dust-damned planet ends up like this—no matter how hard you try, everyone would rather die than join you. You can mention things like fighting for freedom or fighting against a greater evil or the practical benefits of joining you all you want, but every, single, dust-damned time, you have to be the Demon that destroys everything, you have to be the Unfathomable Evil that sees to the destruction of entire worlds, and you have to fight this utterly fucking useless war just for a chance to be remembered . It’s not fair, it’s tiring, and you are sick of it.

Perhaps it’ll be better for everyone if you die here.

No, not now. The part of your brain that’s unreasonable, the part of your brain that is hooked on the destructive drug known as war, the part of your brain that’s selfish and greedy pulls you away from the alluring idea of simply pitching downwards and crashing into the ground. It’s simply not an option—there is still one last promise for you to keep, one last promise for you to remember someone, and, out of every single promise you’ve broken, you should at least keep that one going.

[AC]: <...Wildcat-1, merging. Show me a good time!>

Four bright streams of flame converge above a fire-scorched earth, beneath a starless night. It’s a supersonic tango between a demon who rains death upon the land and three valiant heroes. It won't be a story with a happily ever after, but that’s a given—a story with you in it is never a story with a happy ending. 

You take on your opponents head-on, weaving between a rain of incoming fire like a leaf in the wind. You merge and zoom past the last members of Fullback and Frostbite squadron—close enough to look them in their eyes as you fly past. Then you enter into a tight wingover roll and place yourself in their six o’clock. A swift volley from your M61 Vulcan autocannon shreds the rear stabilizers of one of the two SU-27s, sending it spiraling toward the ground. The other SU-27 counters by pulling a smooth cobra maneuver that places itself behind you, and then, its GSH-30-1 autocannon opens up, unleashing an unrelenting barrage. You evade by turning into a high-G barrel roll, and the SU-27—too slow to react—overshoots and places itself right in front of your gun. A quick burst marks the end of Frostbite Squadron, and you move on to Fullback Squadron’s MIG-29 Fulcrum which is now in a lead pursuit against you. Tracers zip past your wings as its GSH-30-1 autocannon opens fire and one of them scores a direct hit on your left wing, shearing a control surface clean off but not doing much else. You counter by executing a high yo-yo maneuver that places you in lag pursuit against the MIG-29. Overwhelming G-force pins you against the seat as you struggle to align your gun sight against your target. You grit your teeth and force yourself to breathe, ignoring the “Over-G” warning blaring in your headset. You are dangerously close to passing out as the G-force stops your heart from pumping blood to your brain, but the gunsight’s pipper lines up at the last second, and with a short, controlled burst, the MIG-29 disintegrates into a fireball in front of you. Your headset falls into static and once again, your EAGLE soars alone amidst a shower of falling embers.

[AC]: <...And that’s that I guess. Rest in peace, gentlemen, it was a good fight.>

>Amanda: Land

With the last of the defenders taken care of, you decide to land and finish what you came here to do. The raging fuel fire on the runway has subsided enough for you to land, and you align the EAGLE for approach. Then, out of nowhere, your RWR begins to beep furiously once more.

[???]: Those who survive a long time on the battlefield start to think they are invincible. I bet you do too, “Buddy”.

[???]: You know, there are Aces like you in every iteration of Paradox Space… and I felled every, single, one of them.

You suppress the feeling of panic and search for any potential bogeys. Then, amongst a cloud of falling cinders, you spot it. A lone… thing approaches, completely invisible to your Radars and only barely visible underneath the starless night. For once, you have no idea what it is—its silhouette looks like every single 5th-gen fighter combined with every single Ace Combat superjet and it’s pitch black, without formation lights or NAV lights or anything, only illuminated by a pair of unnaturally blue afterburner flames that pulses with menacing, unnatural power. 

[AC]: <What!? Who the fuck are you?>

The response is… silence. You feel your hair stand up and the furs on your tail and your head bristle with fear. Whatever that… thing is, it’s not supposed to be here. Hell, you aren’t sure if it is supposed to exist, something feels very, very wrong and for once, you don’t know exactly what is making you feel this way. You turn to engage the unknown aircraft but—to your absolute horror—it moves in a manner that defies every single law of aerodynamics and places itself firmly behind you. Your RWR screams about a missile lock but there are simply no missiles. He’s not firing. 

Despite the world’s most solid tone, he’s not firing, and that makes you scared —an enemy that shows its good deck of cards is formidable, but an enemy that doesn’t is infinitely more terrifying. In an attempt to gain the upper hand, you pull into a sharp turn that leaves you on the edge of passing out, but out of the periphery of your blurry vision, you see the unknown aircraft chase after you as if it is glued to the EAGLE’s tail.

[???]: You are fast, but not fast enough.

A single missile darts out from the unknown aircraft and despite you already being in a high-G turn that pushes the limit of what’s possible in your EAGLE, the missile manages to effortlessly pull ahead of you on a perfect intercept course. Fuck it . You cut one of your afterburners and execute another Kasher Bell out of sheer desperation and to your relief, the missile alongside its launcher overshoots and zips past you—thank the Dust, there are limits on this thing that is closer to a UFO than a fighter jet.

[???]: You are quite the entertainer, but the show is over with this next shot.

You stabilize and recover your EAGLE and look towards the direction where your enemy should be , anticipating a chance for a Sidewinder lock, but there’s nothing. Your RWR starts to scream again and you look up, just in time to see the unknown aircraft somehow directly above you and another missile contrail zipping towards you. You have no countermeasure, no airspeed, and no extra tricks up your sleeve to play at this point, and the best you can do is to execute a bulk-standard defensive turn with your afterburners maxed out and watch—with helpless anxiety—the missile moving ever so closer to you.

As you watch the missile approach you through the edge of your vision, as your mind spins ever slower due to the lack of blood from the intense G-force of your turn, seconds start to feel like hours, and— fuck, you thought that was a movie cliche —moments from your utterly miserable life begin flashing in front of your eyes. You grit your teeth and struggle to keep yourself conscious, but there’s only so much one’s willpower can do against basic biology, and your vision slowly fades to black. Through the numbness of everything, you could roughly feel the impact of the missile and your ensuing uncontrolled spiral toward the ground.

Guess this is it . You’d always imagined your death to be something more majestic, but you suppose it’s only fitting for you to die like all the pilots you shot down, matched up against something way out of their league in an ultimately useless struggle like a dust-damned fool. And then, with an odd sense of calm and the knowledge that your death is much deserved, you slip into unconsciousness.

>...

>...

>...

>Amanda: Wake up.

>...

>...

>...

>Amanda: Wake up!

>...

>...

>...

>Amanda: WAKE UP!

…You wake up to a sharp pain in your left leg and the inability to feel your right arm. It’s surprising since you never expected you to wake up at all, but here you are, inside the wrecked cockpit of a wrecked F-15E Strike Eagle, somewhere on the ground, barely existing despite the world wishing otherwise. Your self-confidence that you spent four whole planet building is now completely gone, and you are seriously injured… But, you are still alive, and you suppose that’s somewhat of a good thing, though you feel like the pros and cons of you being alive weigh a bit more towards the cons.

You think you should just accept your fate. You are going to die either way, why should you struggle and make your life harder?

No, not like this. You shake your mind clean of your thoughts and push yourself out of the smoldering wreckage through a combination of willpower and grabbing whatever the fuck you can grab no matter how sharp they are. Then, you take a brief scan of your surroundings and find yourself rather close to your objective. It’s within walkable distance even for a casualty like you, so, like the stubborn dumbass you are, you choose to at least try to continue instead of accepting your rapidly approaching death. You rip some fabric off your flight suit and wrap it around your bleeding leg as some sort of rudimentary bandage, and then, you try to captchalogue what’s left of your EAGLE.

It…worked. You now have what’s left of your EAGLE in a captcha card and you can now use Brkplnkind — broken plane kind strife abstratus to assist you in your strifes! As it that’ll fucking help . You know SBURB is a cruel fucking game with a cruel sense of humor, but it still makes you unreasonably angry at everything. It makes you want to burn everything down, reset this twisted fucking game and start from zero, but you don’t know how—you are not SOLO-WING PIXY, after all.

So instead, you simply uncaptchalogue your trusty P-90 and start limping towards the objective like a dust-damned zombie amongst a snow of falling ash and cinders.

>A bit later…

After dust-know-how long passes, you manage to limp your way to your objective and then down to the planet’s core with an agonizingly long elevator ride. The entire thing is silent—there’s no enemy to ambush you nor any traps for you to disarm, it’s just you and your thoughts, and you honestly prefer fighting your way through an army than that because your thoughts are a lot more reasonable, and you hate being reasonable.

Regardless of your opinions, there’s no denying fo the fact that you are here, standing in the core of the 11th planet and staring at the spherical, carry-sized bomb hovering on a pedestal in front of you. You limp over to pick it up, but the not-so-subtle cocking of a revolver hammer behind you stops you in your track.

You turn around, and you spot a leprechaun pointing a revolver at you. With a cursory glance, you know that he is not part of your crew. Your trusty leprechaun crew is made up of professional soldiers and career badasses and you don’t deserve any of them . This leprechaun resembles a mafia henchman instead, dressed in a seemingly dapper but ultimately tasteless felt-green tuxedo and a needlessly old-fashioned tophat. That revolver though , even if your taste drifts towards big, black, scary-looking tactical rifles, a good masterfully-crafted revolver like that deserves some compliment.

“Smith and Wesson Model 19, carbon-steel frame, 6-inch barrel. Haven’t seen one of those since I left Appalachia back in ‘64. Nice piece, would probably get one if I didn’t spec so much into rifles.” Your grip on your P-90 tightens a bit as you continue: “Good choice. Guess you are a man of culture, huh?”

“Well, well, well. Ain't that surprising. Not a lot of people out there that appreciate fine arts like this anymore.” The leprechaun seems surprised but unimpressed: “Still, kind words and smooth talk ain’t gonna get yer out of this one. Bossman wants you dead, and I’m here to make that happen.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” You shrug, slowly raising your P-90 as you stare emotionlessly at the barrel of the revolver: “Should’ve guessed somebody’s going to take offense to my genocidal rampage… Your boss behind that bullshit jet that shot me down too?”

“No, but also yes. We don’t care about these planets, but we do share a common enemy—the plane, well, that’s just one of many gifts from Bossman to the valiant defenders of these planets.” The leprechaun shook his head while keeping his revolver pointed at you: “You don’t know, but Bossman did the same thing you did to get to where he is. Our problem isn’t with your actions. It’s just that you—as in the very idea of Amanda Winston the mercenary catgirl—aren’t supposed to exist in the Alpha timeline. You are a variable, a wildcard that cannot be controlled, and Bossman hates things he cannot control. Don’t take it personally, kid, think of it as maintaining the integrity of the timelines. For the Greater Good and all that, you know.”

“The ‘greater good’? I don’t buy into that commie bullshit, no thank you—I’m a red-blooded, freedom-loving American, damn it.” All this talk about timelines and time and inevitability flew right above your heads and all you really care about is that A: this leprechaun is going to kill you and B: as much as you deserve to die, you also swore to never go down without a fight. You raise your P-90 defensively. With a sigh, you cock the charging handle and gesture to the Leprechaun: “As for killing me… I’d say I deserved it, but… I’m not gonna stand here and take it just so you know. Give me one last dance before I go, wouldn’t you?”

“Pfft, fucking romantics. Whatever.” The leprechaun sneered ( he fucking sneered, how fucking dare him! ): “Just know that my name is Die, and Lord English sends his regard.”

>Amanda: Strife!

Sure, you are seriously injured but that alone won’t change the fact that you know damn well how to fight. The leprechaun going by the name Die opens fire first, but you execute a swift dodge roll, evading the shot and giving yourself a window to retaliate. You respond with a precise burst from your trusty P-90. Six 5.7X28mm SS190 rounds blaze across the stale cavern air and just as they are about to give Die some new ventilation holes, he vanishes without any trace. You switch on your thermal sights, but there are no signs of Die whatsoever, it’s like he can somehow disappear into thin fucking air. 

Then, as suddenly as he vanishes, Die re-materializes behind you, revolver raised and ready to fire. But before he could get a dirty shot out, your cat-like reflexes save your ass again and you—ignoring the overwhelming pain from your left leg—execute a quick dash out of the way with pure instinct. The high-powered .357 Magnum round impacts the stone floor with a thud right behind you, and the leprechaun materializes in front of you without warning. You bring your P-90 on target with incredible speed and accuracy and you pull down the trigger. The compact Belgian Personal Defense Weapon unleashes a roar that reverberates across the cavern, but Die fucking vanishes again how fucking unfair is that!? You draw your dagger and swing around, just in time to parry the falling shillelagh aimed at your head behind you but Die’s unnaturally strong and you are dust-damn tired, so your parry begins to falter. Another burst from your P-90 forces him to vanish once more and gives you some breathing space, but almost immediately, a .357 magnum round zips past you and almost rips your left arm apart.

You swing to the source of the gunfire and hold down the trigger. Your P-90 briefly transforms into a fire-breathing dragon and the dark, cavernous room lights up with a shower of bullet tracers. Die materializes again elsewhere, unfazed by your barrage of lead, and fires another shot at you, forcing you to evade. Darkness gave way to a duet of muzzle flashes and red-hot tracers between you and Die, both of you shoot, dodge, reload, and do it all over again like a carefully orchestrated tango of death. Then, out of nowhere, you realize something dreadful—that motherfucker is playing you like a cat playing with its prey. (yes, you fully realize the situational and dramatic irony of that sentence) Your attacks do nothing but prolong the inevitable, but Die’s attacks always hit just a bit off target, as if he’s telling you without actually telling you that you are fucked. It’s a futile effort through and through, but you’ve been fighting a losing fight your whole life, a bit more wouldn’t hurt you more than it already did so you keep on fighting. Your head hurts, your lungs feel like they are on fire and your muscles are as sore as they could be, but you don’t stop. You can see Die getting tired too—his vanishes are getting out of sync, his shots are sloppier and sweat is visible on his face. A bullet grazes his suit, leaving behind shredded green fabric and traces of crimson where he vanishes, then another, and another. Slowly, you begin to see through his patterns, predicting where he would appear. You think you can win this if you just…

You turn to face Die but find yourself staring at emptiness. Behind you, a thunderous roar of a Smith and Wesson Model 15 revolver rings out. 

And your world fades to black.

>???

>???

>ZAP!

Your name is not relevant right now. All the reader needs to know is you have arrived exactly where you need to be: the room matches the layout of what is supposed to be there, and your Seer friend who came with you tells you that yes, you are exactly where you are supposed to be, and oh jegus there’s a dead body in front of you.

A dead body is bad enough, but upon closer inspection, it’s the dead body of one of your best friends! The sight alone makes you want to throw up and seeing all this makes your heart hurt: she died lying face-down but even at this angle, you can see her lifeless, olive eyes that didn’t even get the chance to close before she met her end. Her silver-white hair is stained red with her own blood, and the gaping hole in her back ( she told you it’s a messy death but holy crap! That’s a huge bullet wound! ) is still oozing black-red blood onto the floor. Even though you are no strangers to seeing your friends’ dead bodies and she was never really that close to you, she’s still a friend, damn it!

The Seer of Light, on the other hand, seems unfazed. She reaches her elegant hand, briefly inspects the dead girl, and lets out a relieved sigh: “The body is still warm. Good, we arrived on time.” She props the body up, wraps one of her arms across her own shoulder, ignoring the blood staining her hands and clothing, and gestures to you: “Come on, let’s move her there, we don’t have a lot of time left!” You comply without hesitation and join her side, lifting the surprisingly light girl up without that much effort. The two of you carry her all the way to a SACRIFICIAL SLAB nearby and lay her down on it. As soon as her blood drips onto the slab, strains of cyan energy begin resonating and gathering around her. You turn to face your seer friend and give her a thumbs-up, to which she replies with a nod, and a bright flash of light envelopes both of you once more.

When you open your eyes again, both of you are back in your cozy 3-story mansion in the scenic Cascadian suburbs. Your matespirts alongside your best friends are gathered around you, and the aforementioned dead girl is currently staring at you with a smug smile and—to your relief—is currently very much alive: “Sup, Judging by the fact that I haven’t disappeared yet, I’m gonna assume you two did it?”

“Yep, and you now owe me a feelings jam” You nod and reply, before quickly adding: “And a new T-shirt too, you were bleeding all over me!”

“Awwww, Dave’s gonna get jealous, ain’t he?” The once-dead girl chuckles but then gets a bit more serious: “About the feelings jam, I mean, he’s your moirail, after all. I don’t wanna…”

“Nope, he’s joining us.” You deadpan and gesture to the blonde sunglass-clad cool kid next to you: “Be right back, I’m changing my clothes and washing my hands first. I’ll see you two at the feelings jam pile.” Dave gives you a nod, and you turn yourself into a breeze of wind headed straight toward the marble-floored bathroom nearby. You swear you could hear Vriska snickering as you do so.

>Amanda: Wake up

You open your eyes to a clean, white room and the monotonous beeps of medical equipment. You try to move, but your body feels weird in a way you cannot describe. Your mind is a mess and you can’t quite figure out what had happened. Still, you try your best to sit up. After a solid minute of struggling, you manage to prop yourself up on your bed, just as one of your leprechaun crew walks in. Judging by the sunglasses and headsets, it’s AWACS LONGEYE, someone who has more or less become a father figure for you.

“Ugh, Wh…Where am I?” You speak and by the dust, you sound coarse. It feels like you haven’t talked in a million years, and it’s absolutely not helped by your still-hurting chest and a general sense of indescribable oddness lingering in your body.

“U.S.S Tradewind, Ford-Class Aircraft Carrier. You are in her medical bay.” Longeye replies with a somewhat worried tone before holding up two fingers: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Uh, two. I’m not concussed, you know…” Your ears twitch in slight annoyance. Longeye is a good guy/leprechaun but sometimes he likes to baby you as if you aren’t a cold-blooded walking warcrime responsible for the death of 10 whole planets.

“Yes, but that new body of yours probably needs some getting used to. I need to make sure you don’t just… disappear into a breeze after sneezing or something like that.” Longeye sighed and you sense genuine worry in his tone(it’s not very rare for him to get worried about you but he sounds really worried this time).

“New…body? Shit , w…what happened to me?” You ask and silently pray that you are not in a robot. You DO NOT want to be a robot.

“You…well, how can I phrase this…” Longeye ponders for a while before continuing: “You uh, ascended.”

“I fucking what?” You are lucky you aren’t holding a glass of water because you would’ve spilled it all over your crisp, white sheets.

“Ascended, as in, you god-tiered.” Longeye replies with his “I’m Completely Serious This Is Not A Joke” face: “We don’t know the details… but you died down there at The Land of Coral and Cinders and… well, became a GOD in the process.”

“That… answers precisely none of my questions, Longeye!” You now start to sound concerned as well: “What in the actual fuck happened to me? Like, the no sugar coating, no bullshit version”

“I’m not sugar-coating, for Lord’s sake!” Longeye sounds agitated but then lets out a sigh: “Alright, darn it, the handbook did mention the possibility of this happening… Okay, now for the actual, full-length explanation…” And he pulls a felt-green manual out of fucking thin air and begins flipping through it.

“Longeye…” There’s an edge of panic in your voice now. You’ve never seen any of the Leprechauns actually consult their handbooks despite how often it gets quoted in your conversations with them, and if Longeye, the second-most knowledgeable Leprechaun needs to look into his handbook… Well, you feel like you might be knee-deep in trouble at this point.

“Ah, there we go,” Longeye seems to have what he needs. He clears his throat and begins reading off his handbook: “Ascension, or in official terms, God-Tiering , occurs when a player’s recently-deceased or dying body is placed on a Quest Bed or Sacrificial Slab , depending on whether said player has a living dream self or not. Achieving God-Tier not only grants the ascendant player a second chance at life but also grants the player a series of powers including but not limited to Conditional Immortality , rendering them biologically immortal, and even in the unlikely event of death—unless it is considered ‘heroic’ or ‘just’ by Paradox Space—would be rapidly resurrected.” Longeye then closes his handbook with a crisp clap, and looks you dead in the eye: “I know you absolutely hate that title but this is what the handbook says so here goes: Congratulations, my Lord. You are now an immortal god.”

“I…what.” You stare back with a dumbfounded look on your face. And after a solid minute, you finally get it.

Now, this part of your story is pretty commonly known—the Indifferent Liberator, the Goddess of Wind and Liberty, and the eternal Lord of Breath first rejected her title and her duties in sheer disbelief before going through a series of challenges that finally affirmed her aspirations. But what is untold by many folk legends, including the biography written by your own Leprechaun crew is your immediate reaction—the first thing the mythical Lord of Breath ever did upon her ascension to godhood.

As you come to terms with your new status in life, your first reaction wasn’t that of celebration or further confusion, no, your first reaction was to bury your head in your hands and scream a scream of utter frustration : “Fuck. Fucking dust-damned hell, fuck! Why the fuck is Paradox Space keeping me alive after everything I’ve done! Is it only after I accepted and fucking learned to embrace my death that I get to keep on living!? Am I such a dust-damned, useless fucking piece of shit that I can’t even die properly!? I fucking deserves to die, why can’t I just…fucking die already! Fuck!!!!!!!” 

And no, you didn’t calm down after that initial outburst. Your scream of frustration turned into sobs and you just kept on crying and crying and crying as everything inside you finally reached the tipping point—the unbearable guilt of killing ten entire planets, the lingering doubt that’s on the back of your head ever since it all started, and the damndest of all, the crushing feeling of emptiness that never goes away no matter how hard you fucking tried. You cried until you passed out from exhaustion, until your tears ran dry, and you wished you could’ve cried just a bit more.

>Longeye: Worry over the girl.

Your name is AWACS Longeye, the 2nd Leprechaun to ever serve the Lord of Breath, and as you watch your all-powerful Lord try her very best to cry her lungs out and curse her newfound immortality, you are, indeed, worrying over the girl.

Planet-killing-related guilt is uncommon but not rare amongst players who attempt to beat a dead session, that part you do know. Even though most can understand that the enemies presented in front of them are merely game constructs, some extra-sympathetic few would still feel guilt from killing them. But the problem is how they react to that guilt. Most would refuse to advance through the game, choosing to instead rot away in their doomed sessions to avoid further bloodshed. Your Lord, however, just keeps on going despite all of her guilt—as if something beyond her is pushing her forward. Of course, you know she’s not motivated by some external actor, she’s just… motivated, she’s motivated in a way you cannot hope to comprehend. Of course, sometimes that motivation falters, and when it does, she likes to do… bad things to herself. You alongside everyone else try your best to prevent that from happening, and Fixer—that wonderful, cheery bastard who actually studied alien psychology—generally does a pretty good job at it. But you think everyone knows it’s not enough.

Your professional expertise lies in being an AWACS as suggested by your name, but even you can see that there’s something utterly broken inside that poor girl, and it’s something you and your trusty crew cannot even hope to fix. And it’s during times like this you can’t help but feel worried. Everyone knows you are raising a counter to the last all-power Lord. To Paradox Space, she’s just a weapon that is supposed to make things right. It doesn’t care about her, and even if she breaks, Paradox Space will simply conjure up something else to clean up her mess—weapons don’t deserve happy endings, they either get used and serve their purpose and get left to rust or wait for another threat, or fail and get replaced by the next weapon.

But as you watch your silver-haired delicate weapon sob in her sleep, you can’t help but feel like this isn’t what she deserves. Yeah, sure, weapons don’t deserve happy endings, but she’s a person , damn it—she’s a living, breathing person that has feelings and thoughts and for Lord’s sake , you haven’t even seen her smile ever since you met her! Not even once!

But what could you do? You are just a Leprechaun, a game construct created to assist your worrisome Lord, so in the end, you choose to simply stay by your Lord’s side, gently patting her as she continues to sob even in her dreams, and pray that, by the time she wakes up, she’ll be stable enough for the next planet…

>Sometimes Later…

As the Tradewind breaches through the atmosphere of the 12th planet and fires its massive landing thrusters above a purple sea, your Lord finally chooses to wake up. She opens her eyes which are still red from last night’s crying, looks around, and then locks gaze with you next to her bed.

“Ah, You are awake.” Whatever conversation that’s bound to follow is going to be awkward, you know that: “Are you…okay?”

“As okay as I could be.” She replies in an absent-minded tone, but then a slight look of worry creeps onto her face: “Longeye… did you… stay up all night for me?”

“Erm…” You are still trying to formulate a response but your Lord sees right through you. Almost immediately, a look of guilt flashes across her face. You know that look too damn well—it’s the “you are doing so much for me I don’t deserve you” look she always has on her face when any of you extend any sliver of kindness to her.

“Shit… I’m so sorry about last night.” Your Lord sighs a defeated sigh, the pair of cat ears on her head swooping downwards as she does so: “It was pretty unprofessional of me to do that… Ugh, It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, and you see a sliver of something light up in your Lord’s eyes, but whatever it was, it dims down as quickly as it lights up, and she replies with another sigh.

“No, I’m…fine. It’s alright… I think.” She looks at you and probably sees the worry on your face and quickly adds: “It won’t affect my flight performance or compromise any missions, I promise.” As if that ’s what you are concerned about.

“Listen… You need to go tell Fixer about all this, alright?” You look her dead in the eyes and put on your most serious voice: “I’m serious, you matter , girl. We are not going to just send you out there without at least trying to comfort you, okay?”

“...Fine, I’ll go talk to Fixer.” She lets out a deflated sigh and nods weakly, but then shakes her head and adds: “Let’s talk about something else, could we?”

“If you wish to.” Of course, she does that, you should’ve seen that coming—Your Lord likes to bottle up her emotions and pretend everything is alright until the next breakdown, but it’s not like you can change that.

“Thanks, Longeye.” She replies with a tiny, forced smile and sits up from her bed: “Back there, on Planet 11, I got killed by a Leprechaun who claims to work for some guy called Lord English … Do you know anything about this English guy?”

Your gaze darkens. Of-blooody-fucking-course it’s Lord English . You really should’ve seen that coming—of course that sniveling, backstabbing, time-travel-abusing fucking rat bastard was the one behind all of this. He’s the only one with the idea, know-how, and ability to get the drop on someone as skilled and powerful as your Lord. You should’ve known this entire game session would be rigged to high hells by him, you should’ve…

“What, that English guy, he’s a big shot ‘round here?” Your Lord notices your expression and asks with a nonchalance only she could manage. To which you could only reply with a deep, long sigh.

“ Lord English , as in, the Demon of Double Death, the Lord of Time and Decay, the Destroyer of Universes, the Eternal Kingpin of Timelines?” You pause, taking in the full severity of the situation, ruminating on the utter hopelessness of everything before finally continuing: “He’s not just some big shot, girl. He is THE big shot! He’s the only Lord player to ever succeed and beat a dead session other than maybe you in the future! Bloody hell, we are going head to head against an omnipotent, immortal demon that can travel through time! Christ, you have no idea how much luck you had for you to survive an assassination attempt from him…”

“Sounds like a pretty bad guy… guess he’s the unfathomable evil I’m supposed to kill, right?” Your Lord’s gaze falters slightly into fear but then quickly returns to a casual nonchalance: “Welp, one more reason to keep on living I suppose… Fucker sounds like he needs someone to keep him in check.”

“Yes, of course, glad you find more reasons to keep on living, but don’t you skip that talk with Fixer, alright?” Looking at your Lord’s subtly defiant and resolute face, you wonder if that fragile, crying, and utterly broken girl you saw last night was just an illusion. The tear marks around her eyes remind you that it wasn’t, and you can’t even begin to imagine the sheer amount of willpower inside her.

“Yeah yeah, sure, but let me talk to GooseMaster first, we need better gears and we need a lot of them fast if we wanna win. If English wants to escalate, then let’s fucking escalate.” With that, she hops out of bed and swiftly walks out of the room before you can even respond, leaving you alone in the private medical bay, pondering about things and worrying over your Lord.

Sometimes, you wish you could be in her shoes for a bit just for a chance to understand what in the actual bloody hell is going on in her mind.

>Be the newly-crowned Lord of Breath.

Your name is Amanda Winston and you are not going to lie—you are still in the “trying to figure everything out” stage of your godhood. Your mind is a cacophony of noise and thoughts and you are very much completely clueless about just about everything, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to at least try to comprehend: to your very limited knowledge, your problems essentially boil down to a bunch of bad guys with metaphorical and actual big guns running around and terrorizing everyone, but from where you are from, there’s a saying that goes: “The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a bigger gun.” So that leaves you with a stupidly simple solution.

You need the bigger gun.

>Amanda: Start an arms race.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Paradox Space, in the orbit of the supermassive black hole that was once Skaia, the golden city-planet of Prospit spins idly against the starless, timeless void of the incipisphere. A thick, all-encompassing shroud of depression and eerie silence covers the once-glistening city—its shining golden skyscrapers lie dimmed and abandoned; the once-bustling streets are now solely occupied by trash and debris; and the massive harbor factories that once sang with a constant industrial hymn are as silent and still as a graveyard. And somewhere amongst all this rot and decay, is a strange yet familiar sight.

On the outskirts of the once-glistening city, a Ford-class Aircraft Carrier rests calmly in a semi-abandoned dock. It looks uncannily out of place—everything about this well-maintained multi-billion-dollar floating city irradiates an aura of professional formality, contrasting sharply with its decaying and neglected environment. A couple of ladders and ramps extend from its flight deck to the ground, guarded by a few gun-toting colorful bipedal amphibians who, despite their admittedly comical coloring and form, look as serious as any military personnel should be, guarding their mighty vessel with an utmost sense of vigilance.

Inside said aircraft carrier’s massive internal hangar bay is a section hastily cordoned off with cheap room dividers, and somewhere inside that section, amidst piles of airplane parts and captcha cards, is a certain silver-haired teenage catgirl. She is currently staring at the control console of an ALCHEMITER and wearing an expression of confusion and frustration. A shoddily repaired F-15E Strike Eagle sits next to her, surrounded by a smattering variety of tools, parts, and empty paper coffee cups. 

Of course, said silver-haired teenage catgirl is no other than the protagonist of this constantly developing story of ours: Her name is Amanda Winston, and she is known for a lot of things—she is the reverend Lord of Breath, the mythical Demon Of Skaian Heights, the infamous leader of the EAGLE COMPANY, but most importantly right now, the world’s newest and most inexperienced alchemist.

See, about a week ago, our beloved silver-haired catgirl decided to start an arms race against an all-powerful, immortal, time-traveling demon known as LORD ENGLISH, and while acquiring weaponry to win said arms race turned out to be mostly anti-climatically easy since one of her leprechaun helpers have a magical requisitions form that can summon any NATO-standard military equipment from thin air, two crucial linkings in her plan remains missing.

Problem one is manpower—as it turned out, modern warfare is as much a numbers game as it is a capabilities game, and behind each and every piece of high-tech instrument of death is a dedicated crew of maintainers and operators that our beloved catgirl simply don’t have. Considering how hard it is to keep a single aircraft carrier and its carrier air wing running despite the magical powers of her leprechaun helpers and her consort crewmates, it would be a straight-up nightmare for her to further expand her capacities to properly face off against someone as intimidating as LORD ENGLISH without getting some extra helping hands at first.

But manpower isn’t our plucky protagonists’ biggest issue—as a Dersite dreamer, she has the full support of the Kingdom of Darkness, and she’s inching ever-so-closely to a proper alliance with Prospit, the Kingdom of Light. No, her biggest issue is, ironically, something she never thought she’d be having trouble with.

Problem two: Capabilities—as it turned out, the technological supremacy of the U.S. Air Force means jack shit when her opponents are straight-up cheating using supernaturally-enhanced bullshit superjets that can turn on a dime and defy physics, and that’s only a mere proxy of LORD ENGLISH. If she wants to have a fraction of a chance at facing off against her newfound nemesis, she’ll need something better—which leads to her current seemingly endless stream of frustrations and annoyances.

Would you like to know more?

>Be Amanda Winston, our beloved catgirl protagonist.

You are now AMANDA WINSTON, the aforementioned silver-haired catgirl plus Lord of Breath plus the world’s worst alchemist. Time, both metaphorically and literally isn’t on your side and you are bingo fuel on patience so you’ll make this quick. You’ve been playing catch-up on some of SBURB’s side objectives like alchemizing stuff and so far, you got a single solid, irrefutable, peer-reviewed thesis statement as a result:

SBURB’s weapons upgrade system. Makes. No. Fucking. Sense.

You’ve played more than your fair share of videogames throughout your time and before this point, you thought you’d seen it all: from the ultra-realistic gun-modding simulator in Escape from Tarkov to the simple “Get points, buy new fancy thing” mechanics in Ace Combat and Project Wingman to the esoteric modding system of Warframe to the horrible, soul-sucking grind of Warthunder. You thought you’d seen it all, but then SBURB comes along and drop-kicks you in the privates with its straight-up fucking bullshit alchemy system as if forcing a teenage girl like you to commit literal genocides against 15 entire planets wasn’t cruel enough already…

You ignore the last part and shove your thoughts into the deep recesses of your head where they belong. You had your outburst of teenage angst a few planets ago and you are not letting it resurface this soon—today, you are focused solely on the matters of alchemy and absolutely nothing else, and through the forbidden knowledge bestowed upon you by the Promethean oracle known as “tentacleTherapist” on the GameFAQs website, you are determined to crack the proverbial code and get your hands on the weapon to surpass LORD ENGLISH —you are not Lockheed Martin or Northrop Grumman, but you reckon you can at least try alchemize something cool.

>Amanda: Alchemize some sick gear then.

Oh, you would, dear narrator, you absolutely would if you could. But so far, all of your attempts have either ended up in Cronenberg-esque abominations like the FSU-1457 “Tomcat Felon” or JF-2022 “Dragon Raptor” which should never exist in any realities whatsoever... or planes with Ace Combat-inspired camo patterns but no clear capabilities improvements. The former are living testaments of all of mankind’s sins and hubris, and the latter, while cool, contribute absolutely jack shit towards your goal—as much as you hate to admit it, you think you are not making any progress. You know you need help, but you have no idea who you can turn to.

Unless… You hate relinquishing control over your actions, but drastic times call for drastic measures, and you don’t see another way out. So, you close your eyes and…

//Transferring Narrative Controls to User: #########//

//Error 404: No Valid User Found. Return to main menu? Y/ Y //

//Warning: Detecting Tempering from Unknown Sources//

//Warning: Error.Null//

//Error: Source Code Integrity Cannot be Verified//

//01011001 01101111 00100000 01100010 01110101 01100100 01100100 01111001 00101100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100001 01101100 01101001 01110110 01100101 00111111//

//Valid User ######### found within SBURB admin registry. Reinitializing Procedures…//

//Transferring Narrative Controls…//

//Transfer successful… Resuming Session//

You open your eyes and you are still Amanda Winston, but something’s different, you feel an invisible threat hanging over you, controlling you like a puppet to a puppeteer and you fucking hate it. Not being in control of your own body is bad enough, but being actively controlled by someone else? That’s a bridge too far in your books.

Still, necessity takes precedence over personal comfort in situations like this, and you need that piece of legendary gear if you want to stand a chance against your nemesis. So, you suppress the growing feeling of discomfort and focus.

What will you do next?

>Amanda: Combine AGM-65 Maverick && AIM-9X Sidewinder.

You pick up the corresponding captcha cards from the small mountain of captcha cards and place them on the input tray of the ALCHEMITER. You line them up neatly and punch in the “&&” code on the control console. The ALCHEMITER rumbles to life and a bright flash later, you see something on the output tray.

>Amanda: Pick it up.

You retrieve the finished product and huh, it’s a Perfectly Generic Missile, also known as the STDM in Ace Combat terms. Considering it can target both air and ground targets, it will be a nice addition to your arsenal but you doubt…

>Amanda: Combine AIM-120 AMRAAM && AIM-9X Sidewinder.

A mysterious force yanks you away toward the mound of captcha cards before you can even finish your question. You then pick up the corresponding cards and do the routine—two cards, line them up, punch in the “&&” code, and…

You got the Quick Maneuver Air-to-Air Missile a.k.a the QAAM from Ace Combat. Considering how well it tracks targets in those games, you reckon this will be an actually solid upgrade, good job, Narrator!

Still, the QAAM has a low ammo pool which will definitely run dry in the middle of your intense battles. You wonder if you could…

>Amanda: Combine QAAM && STDM.

Now we are cooking with fire. You combine your freshly-alchemized cards in the Alchemiter and the result is something called a Placeholder Broken Missile. 

It has the ammo capacity and reloading speed of the STDM but tracks as well as the QAAM, such a broken weapon was obviously never introduced to Ace Combat but you suppose the possibility of some mod somewhere having this is never zero. It’s a nice upgrade and you’ll…

>Amanda: Combine Placeholder Broken Missile && Hydra Rocket Pod

Okay, damn, you are apparently not done yet. The narrator once again drags your body to the captcha card pile and picks a card up. You again input the parameters and the result is…

Oh, okay, wow, holy shit. It’s the All Direction Multi-Purpose Missile or the ADMM, an experimental special weapon for the CFA-44 Nosferatu from Ace Combat! You remember how broken it was in Ace Combat 6 and you had a lot of fun using it in Ace Combat 7. With that, you think the fight between you and Lord English will actually be somewhat fair!

>Amanda: Combine ADMM && Hydra Rocket Pod

…What.

>Trust me. It’ll be funny.

The narrator still has control over your actions so despite your confusion, you move to fulfill their request anyway. You put the newly minted ADMM captcha card and another rocket pod captcha card into the input tray and press the sequence of buttons for alchemization. The machine shakes and rumbles in a way that almost convinces you that it’ll explode, but it eventually stops and spits out something on the output tray.

You go and pick it up, and… no, no fucking way, it’s the BML-U from Project Wingman! Yes, that BML-U, the one that’s unbelievably broken and only available to players after beating the entire game as a power-fantasy weapon, THAT BML-U! As long as you can get your EAGLE fixed up and find a spot to mount it, you feel like you’ll be downright unstoppable against almost everybody in no time…

>Amanda: Combine Placeholder Broken Missile && BML-U.

Okay, that’s enough, you think the BML-U are powerful enough, you don’t really need…

The narrator ignores you and drags you to the captcha card pile anyway. You pick up the materials for a Placeholder Broken Missile, alchemize the card, and then put the finished product with the BML-U card. You punch in the codes and a short moment later, something appears on the output tray, but something’s off—an indescribable aura surrounds the newly-alchemized card as it hovers above the tray, vibrating unnaturally with unfathomable power. You think you should… Ah fuck!

--Beginning Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]… 30% Complete--

The narrator yanks your hand toward the card and you make contact. It’s the Aces’ Fury, a swarm missile launcher that fires deadly accurate missiles that almost never miss, but that’s not the point: the moment you touch the card, you feel something you can’t quite describe—it feels like somewhere in the universe, a hidden switch has been turned on, and some unknown mechanism is set in motion. As you put the odd card inside your sylladex, you can almost feel a faint but drumming echo reverberate within you, resonating and waiting for something else.

>Amanda: Alchemize some more stuff.

… Okay. You try your best to ignore whatever the fuck just happened and continue on your quest for the ultimate weapon, and with your missiles fully upgraded, you turn your attention toward other parts of your EAGLE, this time, however, you decide to take back control before doing any of that—you are an independent person that chooses her own fate, dust-damn it.

//Returning Narrative Control To User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]...//

Alright, now that’s better. First, you want a bigger gun, literally—by combining a laser pointer and a normal M61 Vulcan autocannon in the “||” combination sequence, you manage to transfer the functionality of the autocannon to the laser pointer and create the Tactical Laser System from Ace Combat. Then, you do the same with a spare electromagnetic aircraft catapult unit from the U.S.S. Tradewind and your freshly alchemized Tactical Laser System using the “&&” sequence to get the Cordium Railgun from Project Wingman. You then combine the Cordium Railgun and another M61 Vulcan autocannon using the “||” sequence, transferring the functionality of your Cordium Railgun to the autocannon. The result is the Aces’ Judgement, a rapid-fire railgun that, similarly to the swarm missile launcher, irradiates a peculiar aura. You pick it up without any nudges from the narrator this time and feel the same weirdness repeat. Huh.

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 50% Complete--

Incomprehensible oddness aside, from that bit of alchemizing as well as your process to the Aces’ Fury, you notice an interesting pattern: the cards have unique codes associated with the specific object stored on the cards, but you are starting to think the codes are not as random as they seem. For example: the code for the QAAM is 00ACSP13, the code for the ADMM is 00ACSPU09, and the code for the TLS is 00ACSPU06, which means if you are not mistaken, the “AC” in the code stands for Ace Combat, the “SP” stands for Special Weapon, and the “U” seems to mean either unique or experimental, and the final numbers are the weapons’ respective codes. Plus, the codes on your Project Wingman also support this theory, with your BML-U being 00PWSP29 and your Cordium Railgun being 00PWSP30. So, theoretically, you should be able to fabricate any captcha cards, including those of super-jets and other weapons! Eureka!

With your newfound hypothesis, you decide to experiment—even though you have no idea what these codes correspond to, you figure you can just start typing and pray things work out for you.

You return to the control console of the Alchemiter and select “Code Mode”, a window pops up, requiring you to input a code, to which you enter 00ACSPU3 and press “Search”.

//Invalid Item Error: No Item with Code 00ACSPU3 found.//

Damn it. Considering both 09 and 06 returned something, you figure you’ll need that extra zero. Right, of course. You type the code in again but this time with 00ACSPU03 and press “Search”.

//Item found: Integrated Electronic Warfare System (IEWS). Cost: 150,000 Build Grist, 20,000 Central Processing Units, 20 Quantum Computers//

Huh, neat. So it does work. The IEWS boosts your own missiles’ tracking even more and jams enemy missiles, which will no doubt come in handy in the future. But this alone simply won’t cut it. You save the IEWS code to your favorite recipe list and try something else. This time you type in 00ACSPU08.

//Item found: Long Range Shock Wave Missile (LWSM). Cost: 2,000,000 Build Grist, 180,000 Uranium, 9,000 Diamond, 20 Unstable Isotopes//

Right, you think you get the gist of making Ace Combat weapons. Plus, the build costs seem pretty reasonable and barely make a dent in the heaps of blood-stained wealth that you got from committing crimes against all life 14 times over. So that’s a good news. Now, you think you should try your hands at something Project Wingman-related, and you type in 00PWSP31 and press “Search”.

//Invalid Item Error: No Item with Code 00PWSP31 found.//

Shit, alright. So 30 is probably as far as it goes. You try halving the number and type in 00PWSP15 this time.

//Item found: Experimental Uranium Freefall Bomb (EUFB). Cost: 1,950,000 Build Grist, 200,000 Uranium, 10 Unstable Isotopes//

Nice! That’s all the powerful weapons in Project Wingman discounting the bullshit CRIMSON-1 had though considering what you’ve done, having his arsenal would be quite fitting for you. But you are not done. You switch the Alchemiter to simulator mode and combine LWSM and EUFB.

//Item Created: Aces’ Ultimatum. Cost: 100,000,000,000 Build Grist, 500,000,000 Uranium, 5,000 Unstable Isotopes, 100 Cordium Warheads//

…Okay, that is a bit more expensive. It’s still within your budgetary limits, but making that will make your wallet hurt, A LOT. Though considering what you are up against and what it is capable of, and considering what you've already done, it’s an investment you are willing to make. You input the resources, and press alchemize. Again, it’s the same shit—weird card, strange cosmic bullshit, and you pretend none of that happened and put it straight into your sylladex.

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 70% Complete--

Now you have overpowered missiles, a downright broken railgun, and a literal world-ender, you think it’s time to turn your attention to something else—your plane.

Of course, you are not abandoning your EAGLE—you and he got an emotional bond tougher than diamonds, and you’ll be damned if you leave somebody close to you behind again. But it is prime time for him to get some good ‘ol upgrade.

You start by trying to guess the airplane captcha codes for Ace Combat. You reckon you should try 00ACAC01, in which the second “AC” stands for “Aircraft”. You type the code in and press search.

//Invalid Item Error: No Item with Code 00ACAC01 found.//

Okay, so it’s probably not “Aircraft”, maybe it’s “Plane”?

//Invalid Item Error: No Item with Code 00ACP01 found.//

Fuck, alright, maybe it’s “Jet”?

//Invalid Item Error: No Item with Code 00ACJ01 found.//

Nope, it’s not that either. Your next best bet is “Player Aircraft” then.

//Item found: F-104C Starfighter. Cost: 1,000,000 Build Grist, 200 Basic Airplane Parts, 1 Basic Airplane Engine//

Cool, it’s “PA”, but the result sucks—considering how you got your ass handed to you in an F-15E Strike Eagle, an early cold-war relic like the F-104 will stand absolutely no chance against Lord English’s lackeys. You should try again with something else. You type in 00ACPA10 and cross your fingers.

//Item Found: F-22A Raptor. Cost: 600,000,000 Build Grist, 5,000 Advanced Airplane Parts, 2 Advanced Airplane Engines//

It’s the F-22! Your leprechaun wingman Duke flies it and it’s a pretty awesome jet. It’s getting close to the bullshit superjet territory but you’ll need something better. You think you should try a significantly bigger number, like… 00ACPA28. 

//Item Found: X-02S Strike Wyvern. Cost: 2,000,000,000 Build Grist, 1,000 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 200 Diamond//

Okay, so larger numbers do give you something good. The X-02S Strike Wyvern, albeit not exactly top-of-the-line, nonetheless provides a massive boost in capabilities. Still, it won’t be enough. You’ll need the BEST OF THE BEST if you want to win. Which means it’s typing time again. You try again with 00ACPA34.

//Item Found: XFA-27. Cost: 4,000,000,000 Build Grist, 3,000 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 90 Unstable Isotopes, 400 Quantum Computers//

It’s certainly something alright, but you want more—you’ve got a cunning plan and the plan requires you to get every single superjet and combine them into your EAGLE using the “||” sequence, which means even more alchemizing.

//Item Found: ADFX-01 Morgan. Cost: 1,000,000,000 Build Grist, 500 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 1 IEWS, 20 Unstable Isotopes//

//Item Found: ADF-01 Falken. Cost: 3,000,000,000 Build Grist, 1,000 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 1 TLS, 20 Unstable Isotopes//

//Item Found: CFA-44 Nosferatu. Cost: 2,500,000,000 Build Grist, 1,500 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 2 ADMM, 20 Unstable Isotopes//

//Item Found: ADF-11 Raven. Cost: 3,000,000,000 Build Grist, 1,000 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 1 TSL, 20 Unstable Isotopes, 200 Quantum Computers//

//Item Found: XFA-33 Fenrir. Cost: 5,000,000,000 Build Grist, 4000 Experimental Airplane Parts, 3 Experimental Airplane Engines, 10 LWSM, 500 Quantum Computers//

…And that’s pretty much all the overpowered Ace Combat jets that you can get your hands on. Of course, actually making everything will take a significant chunk out of your finances even for somebody as disgustingly rich as you, but you think it’ll be worth it in the end—if anything, it’ll at least be a better use for your money than to let it sit amongst the blood of billions of innocent people.

Now, you think you should try to do the same thing but with Project Wingman, and luckily for you, there are only two planes you want—one that you need, and another one just because it’s pretty cool. This time, you decide to start with a larger number and input 00PWPA19.

//Item Found: Sk.37. Cost: 400,000,000 Build Grist, 4,000 Advanced Airplane Parts, 2 Advanced Airplane Engines//

It’s pretty close but it’s not what you are looking for, so you try again.

//Item Found: F/S-15. Cost: 5,000,000,000 Build Grist, 100 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines//

Nice, that’s one off the list of the two planes you need. You increase the number and try again.

//Item Found; SP-34R. Cost: 10,000,000,000 Build Grist, 2,000 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 1 Cordium Railgun, 10 Cordium Warheads, 20 Unstable Isotopes//

It’s certainly neat but it’s not what you are looking for, though considering the order in which you unlock things in Project Wingman, this should mean if you increase the number by one more…

//Item Found: PW.MK1. Cost: 999,999,999,999 Build Grist, 9,999 Experimental Airplane Parts, 2 Experimental Airplane Engines, 1 Cordium Railgun, 2 BML-U, 999 Cordium Warheads, 20 unstable Isotopes//

…What the fuck, you don’t know what you were expecting but this is not that. You take a double take and make sure that, yes, the PW.MK1 costs a staggering 999,999,999,999 Build Grist, which, after every other bit of alchemizing you’ve done today, will absolutely decimate your Grist reserve—that’s 14 dead planets’ worth of grist and loot gone in less than half an hour. Still, the sweet allure of the PW.MK1 is simply too much for you—a plane that turns on a dime, can straight-up out-run missiles, AND has an incredibly broken set of weapons? That’s like, your definition of a wet dream right there, and no amount of self-discipline or self-hatred can stop you from fulfilling this specific guilty pleasure of yours.

So, you hover your hand above the “Alchemize” option with an expression of grim finality like a politician about to press the big red nuclear button, which, considering you are nuking your entire bank account, is somewhat fitting. 

You slam down on the touchscreen terminal and the Alchemiter rumbles and sputters to life, the entire machine shakes and vibrates as if it’s about to fall apart, but it somehow pulls through, and a sparkling card appears on the output tray. You pick it up and yep—there it is, the PW.MK1 in all its overpowered glory and fuck, you are never going to financially recover from this, but it’s not over yet. With every single overpowered superjet in your sylladex, you begin the next phase of your brilliant masterpiece: one by one, you combine the cards together with the “&&” sequence, trying your best to ignore the abominations that come out of it as a result until all there that is left is three cards—one incomprehensible bullshit superjet, one F/S-15, and of course, your trusty EAGLE.

You take a deep breath and focus—this is it, this is the moment of truth. You first combine the thing with your EAGLE using the “||” sequence, transferring the functionality and performance of the not-yet-named amalgam superjet to your EAGLE, and then you merge your enhanced EAGLE with the F/S-15 using the “&&” sequence, causing the alchemiter to shake violently before spitting out the result on the output tray. Whatever it is, it vibrates with the same kind of energy and aura as the other Aces’ weapons. You walk over and pick it up, feeling the same kind of indescribable weirdness echo across your body.

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 95% Complete--

--Please progress further to complete synchronization--

Oddly enough, you recognize the plane inside the captcha card as two things—an entangled duality exists within the captcha card, two unique identities converge and blend, neither refusing to be subsumed by the other: On one hand, it is the Aces’ Wings, the unquestionable pinnacle of both fictional and real-life aviation engineering and the absolute zenith of fighter design, a legendary piece of gear worthy of a Lord and a weapon to surpass the wills of Paradox Space itself. But on the other hand, it’s still the EAGLE, your trusty F-15 Air Dominance Fighter, albeit with a fresh bit of paint, a pair of canards, and two 3D thrust-vectoring nozzles, technically making him an F-15 ACTIVE but that doesn’t change the bond between you two. He is still your old faithful friend who was there for you at your lowest points; the same faithful friend who motivated you to keep on living when you felt like you had nothing left to live for, and the same faithful friend who remains by your side despite how much of a monster you’ve become. 

And, considering your god-tier immortality, he’ll probably be the only friend that’ll be with you at the end of time—when the game ends, when stars eventually die out, and when the world becomes nothing but a cold, black void, there will be a lonely, heinously monstrous girl, condemned to an eternity of suffering and repentance, forever soaring the vast emptiness with her only living friend. You know it’s unfair to force the EAGLE to suffer an eternity alongside you for your sins, but somehow, you know he wouldn’t care, you know he’ll gladly stick it out with you no matter what you’ve become, and that thought…

It comforts you more than you would like to admit.

You feel something wet on your cheeks and reach out to touch it. It’s tears. You wipe them away without a second thought and store your only friend in your sylladex—you promised to let your emotions resurface this soon and you’ll do your best to keep that promise. Plus, you have a meeting with Prospit’s royalties in two hours, and you’ll be damned if you let your emotions get the better of you before, after, or during that glorified diplomatic dick-measuring contest.

So you stuff your thoughts back where they belong and continue with your plans—with your second and most pressing problem dealt with, you can now focus on the other problem, which starts with you getting a nice cup of coffee but most importantly, getting dressed for the occasion.

>Amanda: Get Dressed.

Chapter Text

A silver-haired teenage catgirl stands in front of her mirror, inside her bathroom. It just so happens that her bathroom is somewhere inside a multi-million-dollar floating city, anchored in an abandoned harbor on the outskirts of a golden planet. Coincidentally, she is also a literal God, the unwilling physical embodiment of the aspect of Breath, and, most recently, somebody who just got their legendary piece of gear.

Of course, we all know who she is by now, so let’s skip the introduction and get to the action, shall we?

>Be the silver-haired teenage catgirl.

Fluffy ears and fluffy tail? Check.

Spotless-clean, freshly-ironed ivory white button-up shirt? Check.

Two-piece, custom-fitted luxury suit? Check.

Gem-filled necklaces and earrings that cost more than a single-family home? Check.

Elegantly gilded glasses that do nothing but make you seem smarter than you actually are? Check.

And, last but not least, a cold, vicious, blackened heart that can only fit in a politician or a corpo? Check, check, checkity-fucking-check.

You are Amanda Winston, and as you behold your reflection in the mirror, you are having a really, really hard time believing the girl in front of your eyes is you—she looks too fancy, too formal, too corporate with her expensive outfit and her glacier-cold gaze. You force a cordial smile onto your face and the girl in the mirror returns the favor with a mocking, sinister grin; you return your expression to neutral and the girl in the mirror stares back at you with a resting bitch face that makes you want to punch her in the face, and when you stare at the mirror with anger and disappointment, the reflection replies with a threatening look that chills you to the bone.

You close your eyes, rub them, and open them again to stare at the mirror with a renewed intensity, but no matter how hard you look, you simply can’t seem to find yourself in that reflection: there are no traces of that young, naive 13-year-old Appalachian nomad, no traces of that fervently idealistic 15-year-old rebel mercenary, and certainly no traces of that honest, resolute 17-year-old fighter ace. All you can find is a fake, disingenuous mask constructed by a campaign manager or a PR department to lie and deceive, and as much as you hate it, you have to admit…

It’s perfect for the occasion.

You sigh, take a deep breath, adjust your assortment of superficial vanities one last time, and then put on another spritz of perfume to cover up the smell of coffee, jet fuel, and aviation grease—every single detail must be flawless, top-notch, and solid as steel if you even want to have a chance at putting yourself on equal footing with who you are dealing with, and… Considering what you are bargaining for, an equal footing is just the bare minimum .

[Express 1-1 | Air Convoy Lead]: Express 1-1 to Envoy. We are restocked and ready to depart, over.

Your earpiece crackles to life with a message and that’s your cue to finish up and get going. You step away from the mirror to gather what you need—a suitcase filled with legal documents for the best outcome and a low-profile concealed carry pistol for the worst. You rack the slide, chamber a round and switch off the safety before tucking it behind your suit. With your exit plan concealed and secured, you think you are good to go.

[AC]:<<Envoy to Express, Roger that. Be there in a sec.>>

You grab the suitcase and exit your room, passing by a couple of your employees and down a sprawling web of corridors to the interior hangar bay. You move past the rows and rows of various jets and even more of your employees and, after ascending a spiraling spiral of stairs, finally arrive at the flight deck. It’s emptier than usual—there are a couple of F/A-18s resupplying from their CAP (Combat Air Patrol) missions and an F-35B or two taking off for some regularly scheduled airstrikes against the next planet, but that’s about it.

Well, almost. A trio of CMV-22 Ospreys on the auxiliary flight deck caught your attention. Two of them are your regular do-it-all workhorses painted in drab military grey, but the middle one is painted with a unique olive-green and white accented paint scheme that reminds you of the helicopters used by the Presidents of Old-world America. knowing your leprechaun crew and their tendency to put you on a pedestal you don’t belong on, that’s probably your ride. You pace over to your “Marine One” and lo and behold, a lovely entourage of bipedal amphibians in Secret Service-inspired suits and sunglasses awaits with professional seriousness that fits their cartoonish appearance as well as a Sidewinder on a Sukoi—which means IT DOESN’T FIT AT ALL.

“So uh, I guess this is my ride, huh?” You shift your gaze towards one of the aforementioned Secret Service Consorts, trying your best to remain professionally neutral despite half of you wanting to pet the adorable blue salamander in front of you and the other half wanting to burst out into laughter at the sheer hilarity of everything.

“Yes ma’am,” The blue salamander in question adjusts their sunglasses and responds in a high-pitched but totally serious voice: “We are ready to take off when you are, ma’am.”

“Great, that’s uh, good to hear.” You nod and, in an attempt to appear down to earth, try to start a conversation: “Since we’ll be stuck on the same ride and probably the same conference for the day, it’ll be nice to know your name… erm, soldier? Agent? Operative? Or…”

“My name is Sandy C. Bubblesnout, ma’am, but for this operation please refer to me as Agent S, ma’am!” The salamander—now known as Agent S or Sandy C. Bubblesnout—replies with a crisp and professional salute: “It’s an honor to serve you, ma’am!”

“Well, it’s an honor to have you on my team too, Agent.” You nod in reply and finally remember what you are here for: “Uh, anyways, we should probably get going. I seriously doubt the Prospitians would appreciate us being any later than we already are.”

Agent S responds with an agreeing nod and that’s your cue to board your presidential ride. You enter through the rear ramp and find yourself staring at an excessively luxurious cabin—featuring real leather seats, redwood finishes, a dust-damned full-size sofa , and a drink cabinet filled with expensive wines because why the hell not . You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but it certainly isn’t this. The bubbling cauldron of self-hatred inside you tells you that you deserve precisely none of this and the pragmatic, humble Appalachian girl inside you tells you the bulk-standard seats in a normal Osprey do the job just as well and all of this is just plain wasteful, but just for once, your inner desire for some good ‘ol fashioned creature comforts beats out anything else.

So instead of complaining or contemplating, you decide to call dibs on the sofa and fish out a nicely chilled can of Coca-Cola from the drink cabinet stocked with fancy bottles labeled as Chateau Margaux or Petrus or Domaine de la Romanee-Conti —you are too young to drink and aren’t refined enough to appreciate the fancy stuff anyways. To you, there is simply no better way to display your long-overdue patriotism for the glorious old-world nation known as the United States of America than to sip down some of this iconic carbonated and flavored black-ish syrup water and try your best to spread freedom and democracy to all you come across.

Now, you’ve already done the first part, and while the second part seems like a mightily tall ask, you know it’s all about baby steps—like what you are currently trying to do. Speaking of which…

[AC]: <<Envoy to Express, let’s get the show on the road, shall we?>>

[Express 1-2 | VIP Transport]: Loud and clear, boss! Express 1-2 to ATC, Envoy loaded and secured. Requesting takeoff permission, over.

[EAGLE ATC]: Affirmative. Express Squadron, you are cleared to take off. May the liberating Winds of Freedom be with you.

[Express 1-1 | Air Convoy Lead]: Express 1-1 Wilco, spooling up engines for VTOL mode.

[Express 1-2 | VIP Transport]: Roger that, takeoff permission confirmed. 1-2 engaging Vertical Takeoff procedures.

[Express 1-3 | Air Convoy Backup]: 1-3 Wilco. Increasing RPS to optimal setpoint and preparing for takeoff.

You hear the pair of Rolls-Royce T406-AD-400 turboshaft engines spool up, going from a light hum to a mighty roar, accompanied by the unique sound of propellers spinning faster and faster against the air, and then, just like that, your “Marine One” takes off with the rest of the air convoy—there is no sudden rush of acceleration from the EMALS catapults, no exhilarating G-force pinning you against your seat as you dash towards the clouds, it’s just a light jolt and you are somehow off the ground in perhaps the most unceremonious way imaginable and fuck , you swear you’ll never get used to things that take off vertically.

The unexplainable uneasiness of riding a helicopter doesn’t last long though. Soon enough, your convoy of three reaches cruising height and transitions into horizontal flight—the tiltrotor CMV-22 Osprey does what its name suggests and well, tilts its pair of rotor nacelles, shifting the orientation of its dual propellers from pointing upwards to facing forwards and transforms it from a somewhat unwieldy helicopter to a normal, albeit slightly off-proportioned turboprop aircraft. The familiar sense of forward acceleration leaves your helicopter-related anxiety in the dust and finally allows you to focus on the important stuff.

Said “important stuff” more or less translates into double-checking and memorizing the script for your speech. It’s a painfully formal, painfully soulless, and painfully corporate speech that saps your life and enthusiasm away as soon as you look at it, but it’s useful for painfully soulless people like Kings and Queens and their magistrates—you hate most forms of government authorities with a burning passion, but monarchists are definitely on the top of that list.

Still, it’s a painfully bland speech and you know better than to let your cosmic, intangible audience suffer alongside you. Let’s just skip to the point where you are actually talking with the Prospitian royalties, shall we?

>Amanda: Skip Time.

You skip to the point where you are actually talking with the Prospitian royalties.

Of course, you are not actually skipping time—the mastery and subsequent manipulation of time is an ability belonging to your arch-nemesis. You, on the other hand, simply omitted the 30-ish minute ride and the ensuing diplomatic formalities from the eyes of your extradimensional beholders like the Ad break in a TV show, except your life isn’t a TV show and it sure as hell doesn’t have ads…

… Anyways , that’s a tangent you will not go further into. All that matters is that you are currently inside the grand and glistening Prospitian Palace, standing in front of the Queen of Prospit, surrounded by your entourage of consort agents, who themselves are further surrounded by the elite royal guards of the golden planet. As you stare at the slender but imposing figure of the Queen, you feel the sheer volume of mounting tension in the room, but you know the stakes are even higher. So you try your best to remain calm.

“My sincerest greetings, Your Majesty.” You take the initiative and open with a polite greeting, kneeling down in front of Prospit’s matriarch in a display of humble respect: “I am Amanda Winston, representative of the EAGLE Company, and I am…”

“No need to further introduce yourself, Child of Derse.” The Queen interrupts you with a kind but condescending voice: “We have been expecting your arrival, and my advisors have sufficiently informed me about your, well, misadventures .”

“Oh,” Your tail swishes behind your back in irritation, but you try to remain neutral and respectful: “My compliments to your intelligence agency and to the Royal Court for doing proper research then—I appreciate the…”

“Oh, no, no, no, you are surely mistaken, young Dersite—the Kingdom of Light does not boast something as sinister and clandestine as an ‘intelligence agency’. We do not lower ourselves to the… savagery of our enemies.” The Queen interrupts you again with that condescending tone like she’s lecturing an ignorant child: “We can spot your primitive runway-barge long before it ever enters low orbit, and as for your characteristics … Let’s just say your infamy spreads far and wide, Lordling.”

“Primitive? Really?” You won’t deny the truthfulness of the last part of her words, but the first part ticks you off way more than it should’ve: “Alright, if your navy is so advanced that a nuclear-powered Ford-class Aircraft Carrier is considered primitive, then why don’t you show me your fleet and your military might, damn it!? Where’s this ‘superior Prospitian military’, is it in the room with us right now, huh?” 

“Oh, I would love to demonstrate the Kingdom of Light’s righteous might, but unfortunately for me and fortunately for you, Prospit’s main forces suffered the same fate as yours—perished on the battlefields of Skaia alongside our Kings.” The Queen deviates further and further from where you wanted this conversation to be and seems to mistake your angry scowl of impatience as a threatening face of aggression, to which she narrows her eyes and responds with a regal imperiousness in her tone: “Still, rest assured that Prospit is fully ready to defend itself against any would-be Dersite aggression, so be a darling, and consider your next moves… very carefully .”

“Your Majesty, I believe there is a slight misunderstanding between us, so let me clarify: I am NOT here on behalf of Derse.” Your ears swoop backward in response to your own rising anger and frustration as you try to correct the Prospitian matriarch’s completely skewed conception of you: “The EAGLE COMPANY is an independent private military contractor not bound by any national entities and this visit is purely driven by the internal affairs of the company—We are here solely to forge business partnerships and expand our labor force and absolutely nothing else. Now, if the Kingdom of Light is as noble as you claim it to be, wouldn’t you at least try to hear me out before making a decision?”

“We would usually consider the act of giving villainy a voice ignoble in and of itself, but I am feeling particularly benevolent today.” The Queen relaxes her gesture, leans back into her throne, and finishes with a mocking tone: “So go ahead and spew your Dersite nonsense—this noble court needs some long-overdue entertainment anyways.”

“...Very well then.” You let out a sigh—the way the Queen of Prospit treats you irritates you a lot more than you would like to admit. Her self-important moral high-horse paired with her tribalistic vitriol against Derse tickles you in all the wrong ways, but at least she gave you a chance to do your speech, and you’ll be damned if you let that go to waste, so you adjust your tone, clear your throat and begin.

>Amanda: Do the speech.

You take a deep breath and begin. Behind you, a crew of Prospitian reporters set up their cameras and microphones, broadcasting your speech across the Golden Planet and into the homes of every Prospitian family…

Ladies and gentlemen, proud citizens of Prospit, reverent Court of the Noble Kingdom of Light, and the benevolent Matriarch of the Golden Planet, It is my honor to be invited here, amidst the glistening palace of your accomplishments, but make no mistake—I am not here to sing praises to Prospit’s prosperity or Her Majesty’s noble reign.

No, I am instead here with grave and pressing news, the likes of which threatens the existence of our past, our present, and our future—from Derse to Prospit, from the Incipisphere to the Furthest Ring, an iron curtain has descended across Paradox Space, strung up by none other than the ruthless, blood-stained fists of one Lord English.

He and his lackeys comprise the epicenter of an unrelenting, despotic tyranny over the very aspect of time itself, condemning timeline after timeline to doom and peril without reason or justification, bending the rules of nature to comply with his sinister needs and corrupting the benevolent wills of Paradox Space in service of his twisted visions—as I speak, countless infinities of innocent lives are being trampled under his boots and countless more are threatened by his sinister talons; As I speak, timelines filled with heroes and angels are relegated to doom and desertion by his ruthless reign, and as I speak, he marches ever closer to us with his empire of evil.

So let me ask all of you a question, citizens of Prospit, reverent Court of the Golden City, and the benevolent Matrich of the Kingdom of Light—should we abide by this tyranny? Should we allow Lord English to continue his despotic conquest across universes? Should we stand idly by, waiting for him to come for us while trillions suffer in our place? Should we simply give up and bow down to this perverse manifestation of cosmic injustice while it devours us all like lambs to a massacre?

This question, of course, isn’t one I ask of the Glistening City of Prospit and Prospit alone—I asked the same question to many others, and their responses were as unanimous as they were resolute. Let that be the Consorts or the Kingdom of Darkness and Defiance, all of them answered ‘no’. All of them answered that we should stand up and fight, that we should all cast away our previous grievances and unite in solidarity against a greater evil, that we should take up arms and defend what we have, and to which I reply: Yes, and let us build an army!

Yes, benevolent and reverent rulers of the Golden City and its loyal citizens, you heard me right—let us join forces and build an army!! Let us fire up the ships and fighter jets and main battle tanks and assemble an army capable of rivaling our common foe, capable of standing up against a great and horrible indifference that threatens all of us, capable of standing defiantly against an encroaching darkness! Let us build an army with enough power and resolution to defeat Lord English and bring peace and freedom to the universe!

Of course, I understand this is a great ask and some of you may hesitate, but rest assured—It will not be an army for subjugation or an army of aggression. It will instead be an army for the containment and deterrence against a foe that cannot be reasoned with, and it will be a noble bastion safeguarding our Liberty, our Democracy, and Our Way of Life against all mounting odds. It will be an army built from and, and built by by some truly noble goals.

So, dear Prospitians, will you join in on this fight? Will you live up to your name as those who are noble and bright? Will you take a stand with the right side of history against an irredeemably evil foe, and bring Democracy and Freedom to a world cruelly denied of them? I, Amanda Winston, CEO and representative of the EAGLE Private Military Contractor and the last living citizen of the United States of America, humbly await your answer.

You finish your pre-prepared speech and look around. The Prospitian Royal Guards and the Court Magistrates seem impressed but the Queen, the matriarch of Prospit, and your most important intended audience stare at you with an unimpressed look before bursting into laughter as she mockingly claps her hands.

“Well done, well done! What an absolutely hilarious display of hypocrisy and idiocy! I’ve never seen someone with such a deficiency in self-awareness since Dersite’s late king! Bravo! Wonderful entertainment indeed.” The Queen finishes her condescending sentence and then, after a brief pause, continues with a scathingly righteous tone: “Do you really think you are somehow better than Lord English, foolish child? Do you think your genocides, your atrocities, and the destruction you wreaked are more justifiable than those committed by HIM? You two are just the different sides of the same coin—both despicably evil and undeserving of my support!”

“What are you… The fuck? What’s with this socialist-ass moral relativism!?” You are honestly pretty surprised you lasted this long without flipping your shit in front of this utter bitch that is somehow the Queen of Prospit, but even your best attempt at being patient has its limits, and you think that, right now, at this precise moment, you are absolutely done with her bullshit: “Sure, I won’t lie: I ain’t no saint and I got enough fucking skeletons in my closet for a whole ass isle at Spirit Halloween, but comparing me to Lord English!? He’s out there killing people without reason, subjugating universes, and being an authoritarian shitbag in general and I’m trying my damnedest to fight for Freedom and Democracy, in what fucking clown world are we remotely comparable!? Do I need to remind you that the End justifies the Means and I’ve got a hell of a good end to justify my means, or is your head so high up in your bullshit fake-righteous ass that you can’t even see the obvious!?”

“Oh, you think your naive ‘end’ is a just cause to fight for, foolish child? You think yourself a lesser of two evils because you care to justify your atrocities with lies?” The Queen doesn’t seem to back down seeing your erupting rage, instead, she chooses to raise her voice as well: “Your so-called freedom and your democracy are a facade, nothing more but faulty, disingenuous systems made for exploitation and suffering. You call yourself a supporter of liberty and democracy but do you even know what those bring? Nothing of value! Liberty gives fools the ability to condemn themselves to ruin and democracy gives the same fools the ability to do the same for others—would you call that justice? You are too young and foolish to see, but make no mistake: the only way to stability and prosperity is for wise men and women to shepherd the ignorant masses with an iron fist, not your make-pretend dreams of anarchy—if anything, Lord English’s so-called ‘iron reign’ over the timelines are a lot more justifiable than the nonsense you just spewed!”

“Oh, wow, okay, I thought you were a filthy fucking socialist, but apparently I was wrong.” You pause, take a long, deep breath, and prepare your proportional response to the Queen’s bullshit: “You are way, way worse than a socialist—you are a dust-damned, liberty-forsaken, godless fascist! Who gave you the fucking right to dictate the decisions of others!? What makes you so dust-damned special that you and your cabal of unelected officials get to rule over everyone else!? Are you so pathetically addicted to the status quo that you’d rather lick the boots of an unironic fucking tyrant than at least try to change things!?”

“Change things to what, you foolish Dersite imp!?” The Queen finally drops her mask of nobleness as hints of rage enter her voice: “Giving the uneducated masses the ability to choose the wrong options so they could suffer? Allowing imbeciles to have an equal say amongst the learned and the noble so they could ruin it for everyone!? Is that what you want, an idocracy catering to the weak and the feeble, without a direction or a clear sense of purpose!?”

“I want to change things so people can have the fucking right to choose their own fate, you authoritarian son of a bitch!” Your ears swoop downwards in a display of anger and your tail puffs up as you respond with something adjacent to a hiss: “Is the right to self-determination such a difficult concept to understand!? Are you so afraid of a bit of suffering and imperfection in life that you’d rather throw away your essential liberties and your dust-damned free will and be a fucking chess piece to a nanny state or a porcelain doll to some bullshit made-up higher being!? All I want is the right to live my life the way I wanted instead of abiding by some bullshit cosmic scheme that sees me as nothing more than an expendable asset, is that so fucking hard to understand!?”

“Oh, and if you want to see what following your bullshit cosmic calling gets you, then simply look outside!” You don’t give the Queen a chance to rebuke this time, instead, you continue, gesturing to the decaying city outside: “Look at Prospit! Stagnant, neglected, and fucking depressed ! Its economy in utter fucking shambles and its people waiting in bread lines and for what!? So you can continue funneling the wealth of your citizens into this pointless fucking war against Derse just because Paradox Space told you so!? Is this your fascist-ass prosperity made manifest? Is this the best you can deliver? Well wait and see what Democracy and Liberty can do. Spoilers alert: it’s a lot better than this!”

  “Enough!” The Queen yells at the top of her lungs and the room briefly falls into silence. The royal guards of Prospit raise their swords and spears against your entourage, and your entourage brandishes their guns as well. The tension in the room reaches a critical point and seconds seem to last for centuries, but then the Queen gestures to the guards to stand down: “Forget about it, filthy Dersite Imp. No matter how much vile heresy you spew against my court and Paradox Space, you will never convince me to join your unjust conquest—I am noble and bright and cannot be influenced by the likes of you. Leave, before I make you.”

The room falls into a deafening silence once more and you almost think you have to use the backup plan, but then you see the stunned and paralyzed Prospitan reporters behind you and the blinking recording lights of their cameras, and you know exactly what to do next…

[AC]:<<Envoy to Contra, how’s Plan B looking right now? You think we have a chance at this thing or not?>>

[Contra | EAGLE Intelligence Cell]: The populace is riled up, boss. Dunno what you said but it’s working—we got riots and protests all over the streets here.

[AC]: <<Then let’s not waste it. Envoy to Contra, commence Operation Condor. I repeat: Operation Condor is a go.>>

[Contra | EAGLE Intelligence Cell]: Affirmative. Commencing Operation Condor.

“Alright.” You take one long breath, readjust yourself, and look up at the smug-looking Queen as a confident smirk creeps onto your face: “Unlike you, I respect other people’s choices, so I’ll respect yours as well.”

“However…” You can hear the vague sound of helicopters, footsteps, and tanks off in the distance, and your smirk gets bigger: “Your Majesty, That choice is your choice and your choice only —let’s ask the citizens of Prospit about how they feel about joining, shall we?”

The palace door swings open with a loud bang as squads of Prospitians armed with M4s and M16s rush in, and suddenly, the balance of power inside the palace shifts drastically in your favor. Behind the soldiers, a few suit-clad Prospitians hover on the edge of the door, hesitant to come in.

“W… What is this, a revolution? Foul demon, how dare you turn my loyal subjects against me!?” The Queen enters a fit of rage at the sight of everything unfolding: “Guards, stop this mess immediately and bring me that Dersite imp’s head!”

“Well… ‘Revolution’ sounds a bit too commie for me. I’d say it’s more like an, uh, ‘Unannounced Democratic Transfer of Power aided by foreign powers’, ain’t that right, folks?” A big, mocking grin appears on your face as tanks and helicopters converge on the palace as you continue: “You see, regardless of the types of government, Authority ultimately derives from the consent of the people, not force or coercion or some bullshit divine power you are lead to believe—and what happens when the people stop consenting to your rule? Well… this happens.” You look around at the royal guards who, at this point, all have varying degrees of fear in their eyes, and you grin even more: “Look around you—on one side is an unelected fascist, monarchist son of a bitch backed by nothing but fake promises and vague rules, and on the other side is the collective democratic will of all of Prospit backed by a healthy sprinkle of superior NATO weaponry. Dear gentlemen, ask yourselves a question before you act: which side are you on?”

The guards say nothing, but then one of them drops their weapon and walks over to your side, then another, and another, and another… It doesn’t take long for the Queen to find herself with no allies to call for.

“You… traitors, all of you!” The once-Queen of Prospit roars with a futile rage as a few Prospitians move to remove her from her throne: “Tell me, foul demon, what spell did you cast on my loyal subjects and my even more loyal guards!? What perverse mind trick did you play on them to turn them against me!?” 

“I didn’t play any tricks, Your Majesty. All I did was teach them about Freedom, Civil Rights, and Democracy, and remove your monopoly on the means of violence. What happens next are your citizens’ choices, not mine. Of course, I seriously doubt your authoritarian ass would understand any of that.” You look at the (former) Queen with a shit-eating grin as you gesture to the suit-clad Prospitians outside: “Now… If you’ll excuse us, I’ve got some pretty important issues to discuss with the first National Assembly of the Prospitian Republic.” 

You watch a group of Prospitian soldiers drag the Queen off her throne and out of the palace. You don’t really care what they do to her—summary execution or banishment doesn’t really matter to you as long as she is removed from power. From here on, your job seems pretty simple.

Though, in retrospect, you should’ve known things are generally easier said than done.

>???

Elsewhere in Paradox Space, inside a mansion outside of time and space, a very, very old troll kneels in front of her master. Despite everything, the idea of kneeling in front of a master still rolls off her archaic brain in a weird way—she’s used to being the master, the imperious ruler of an interstellar empire, and back then, to even suggest that she could be subject to a higher power is an unthinkable act of high treason only surpassed in severity by actually mounting a rebellion against her.

Yet, here she is—with her empire a thing of the past and her proud, resilient race reduced to nothing more than a couple of dissidents stowing away on an asteroid, she is now bound in eternal service to a master with powers beyond her comprehension, which perhaps only makes the situation at hand even more concerning.

It is, of course, a reasonable concern—for the first time since a timeless eternity, her all-powerful, all-knowing master is wearing an expression of concern and anxiety , his golden peg leg pounding the floor with a rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk as he walks around the lavishly-decorated mansion living room like a caged beast. It is atypical and unusual, and it worries her, perhaps more than it worries him.

“ Shoal , Water you worried aboat ? What’s so sea-rious you gotta call me during ma’ skincare routine, eh?” Of course, “worried” for someone as ancient and seen-it-all as her means slightly more serious than usual, which roughly translates to not at all—if anything, she’s more annoyed she has to meet with her master instead of continuing with her life.

“NOTHING, JUST MY PLANS FAILING CATASTROPHICALLY AND YOU NOT HELPING AT ALL, THAT’S IT!” Her master yells with his usual brash rudeness while continuing to pace around: “I AM KNEE DEEP IN FUCK-UPS AND YOUR FISHY ASS IS DOING PRECISELY NOTHING TO FIX THIS, SO I NEED YOU HERE SO I CAN YELL AT YOU.”

“Whaaaaaat? Whatchu talkin' aboat , wriggla? I ain’t gonna help if you don’t tell me what to do!” Of course, the rudeness of her master is a given constant, but hearing her master—who is usually full of “I got this in the bag” and “everything is under control” and similar stuff—openly admit he fucked up something fierce was new and actually worrying, which is a level higher than the normal kind of worrying

“I DON’T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN, JUST TAKE LOOK AT THIS FOOTAGE AND FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF.” Instead of elaborating, her master tosses a tablet at her. The very, very old troll catches the tablet and…

It shows surveillance footage of a certain alien girl (who seems to be a mix between a Human and an Alternian Purrbeast) standing amongst a fleet of ships—not spaceships, of course, just ordinary, primitive sea-faring ships made of primitive, fragile alloys. She recognizes the girl and her primitive fleet as that of human origin, and if she remembers correctly from her time as a certain Betty Crocker, the ships make up the composition of something called a Carrier Strike Group. To the hairless mammalian race known as Humans, it was the pinnacle of military engineering, but to a superior race like hers, they are nothing more than a crude mockery of what a proper fleet should be. 

Indeed, primitive concepts such as runway ships that launch small atmospheric flying machines or radar-guided rockets filled with chemical explosives or even radiation warheads—which the Humans boasted as the ultimate weapon—are just that, primitive, unimpressive, and utterly powerless against the unstoppable might of the Alternian Navy and its carapace armor and its laser cannons.

“That’s it? That’s what worries you? Sea-riously? A purrbeast girl with a scrappy navy?” The very, very old troll responds to her master with a laugh: “Ha! If I had ma’ fleet she would’ve been fish food before she knew it!”

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT, SHE’S NOT JUST…” Her master seems to flare up at her unimpressed response but then pauses in his tracks as if a proverbial light bulb just lit up on top of his bald, green head: “Wait, what did you just say?”

“I said, water you worried aboat a silly purrbeast girl with a scrappy navy?” The very, very old troll shrugs: “What, don’t tell me that purrbeast thingy a buoy or somefin like that.”

“No no no no, the OTHER part.” Her master corrects her with a surprisingly normal volume and tone.

“Oh, that part where I said if I had ma’ fleet she would’ve been fish food?”

“Yes, Yes, YES! I’M A FUCKING MASTERMIND!” It definitely seems like her master just had an eureka moment. Too bad he’s taking the credit all for himself again. But then he gestures at the very, very old troll: “COME WITH ME, I’VE GOT A PLAN, A GOOD FUCKING PLAN!”

Her master leads her down a sprawling corridor across the non-euclidean mansion and to the empty, timeless void outside. Then, he waves his green, muscular hands in a weird motion as red, spinning cogwheels appear on his hand and across the timeless, lightless void. Space tremors and time rewinds itself as dust, debris, and wreckages materialize out of nowhere, reassembling themselves under the unnatural influence of the blood-red cogwheel of time until a massive fleet of space-faring vessels reemerges from rot and decay against the forces of entropy, forever locked at the exact moment prior to destruction, teetering on the edge of oblivion with the sword of Damocles hanging above the heads of their crews who are disturbed from their slumber to serve their eternal master once more.

“HERE’S YOUR FLEET BACK, FISH FACE.” Her master dusts off his hands and turns to the very, very old troll: “GO DEAL WITH OUR OLD ENEMIES NOW, I WANT THOSE RATS DEALT WITH BEFORE THE STUPID CATGIRL ARRIVES.”

The very, very old troll nods as a genuine, wicked smile appears on her millennia-old face. With her fleet back under her command, no threat—let that be the purrbeast girl and her primitive fleet, or the ragtag group of dissidents onboard the meteor—could possibly stand a chance against the full might of the Alternian Navy.

This arrogant confidence, of course, wouldn't last long.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Paradox Space, amidst the pitch-black, polluted seas of the Land of Decay and Finality , a fleet of military vessels silently cruises underneath the starless, moonless night, cutting through pungent waves and toxic waters towards some destination far, far away—dozens of Ticonderoga-class cruisers and Arleigh Burke-class destroyers sail alongside a pair of modernized Iowa-class battleships in a perfect formation around the imposing presence of a Ford-class aircraft carrier. Below them, a trio of Ohio-class Ballistic Missile Submarines escorted by wolfpacks of Virginia-class Fast Attack Submarines silently glide beneath decaying ocean waves, shadowing their surface counterparts with enough Trident-II nuclear-tipped Ballistic Missiles to flatten entire continents in a single salvo. High above the dying, rotten seas, four E-2C Hawkeye Airborne Early Warning aircraft circle the airspace around the surface fleet, monitoring the distant horizons as squadrons of F/A-18 Super Hornets patrol the pitch-black skies with constant, militant vigilance. Everything, from the ships to the submarines to the planes work in perfect unison to form a Carrier Strike Group—the ultimate symbol of Old-World America’s near-unrivaled military supremacy and her ever-present influence on the global stage.

Yet, such professional formality of unstoppable military dominance perhaps makes the actual crew composition of the carrier strike group even more jarring: crowds of colorful bipedal amphibians scurry around the flight deck of the massive floating city at the center of the fleet, supplying, refueling, and directing a seemingly never-ending stream of incoming and departing combat aircraft while pure-black and pure-white chess-like figures wander the sprawling interiors of the accompanying warships, monitoring, operating and maintaining the tens of thousands of equipment necessary for the carrier strike group to function. They are not the people for whom these warships were originally built, but they nevertheless man their stations with militant diligence and professional efficiency, ready to unleash hell upon their enemies at a moment’s notice, but they are not the focus of our story just yet.

Hundreds of kilometers away from the formidable fleet, next to the shores of a hostile land, the lone figure of an F-15 ACTIVE streaks across the moonless night, two searing streams of afterburner flames erupting out from its pair of Pratt & Whitney P/YBNN thrust-vectoring nozzles and stirring up a long cloud of carcinogenic vapor as the mighty war-machine soars mere meters above the waveless, poisoned seas of a dead planet. Onboard the F-15, a lone silver-haired teenage catgirl sits inside the cockpit, surrounded by instruments and machinery. Despite her youthful, sun-tanned face being concealed behind an oxygen mask and a pilot helmet, she nevertheless radiates a sense of assertive confidence as if she could take on the entire world and win. 

Of course, said teenage catgirl needs no further introduction—we all know her name by now, and it hasn’t been that long since she last appeared in this constantly-developing story of ours. So, let us skip the formalities and see what she’s doing right now, shall we?

>Be the Silver-haired teenage catgirl

//Now Playing: Redline by Jose Pavli//

You are now the silver-haired teenage catgirl.

You watch countless undoubtedly toxic raindrops splash against the EAGLE’s canopy windshield as you blaze across the pitch-black seas of the Final Planet, soaring dangerously close to the waves. Your instrument reads an altitude of 15 meters above sea level and a speed of Mach 1.6. It’s way too low and fast for any sane or reasonable person to feel comfortable with but you are neither sane nor reasonable—sixteen years of wasteland living and two years of nonstop all-out warfare reshaped you into something fierce and unrelenting. Nowadays, you live for the sensation of being inches away from death at all times and you love to stare down the business end of the Grim Reaper’s double-barrel shotgun while flipping him the bird—After what you went through, death just doesn’t scare you anymore.

Some may consider it as reckless, but you view it more or less as a necessity—if you valued your life over your goals, showed any signs of hesitation in the face of mounting odds, or even tried to stop and ponder the morality of everything you’ve done during the last two hectic years, you never would’ve made it this far. You’ll probably get stuck in a spiral of depression and self-hatred on one of the planets you were supposed to destroy and end up dead. 

And, as good and deserving as that fate would be for you, it would’ve been horrible for the rest of the universes: Without you, Lord English would have no equal to be held accountable by, no nemesis to watch out for, and everyone that had ever existed or will ever exist would've spent their entire lives cowering underneath the eternal, merciless boot of artificial cosmic inevitability, and there’s no way you could allow that to happen—you hate authoritarians and tyrants a lot more than you could ever hate yourself, so here you are, required by the universe to keep on living for the sake of everyone else.

‘Course, you gotta admit, this whole thing drifts a bit too uncomfortably close to that kind of “do it for the greater good” commie bullshit, but you think that, when asked to choose between ruining your own life while leaving the world as is, or bringing some evil motherfucker down with you as your life inevitably turns to shit, the latter is a lot more attractive no matter how much teenage angst is at play.

Plus, you get to fly fighter jets and blow shit up in the meanwhile, speaking of which…

Through the green-tinted vision of your onboard NAVFLIR system, you see a small break in the terrain up ahead—a tight, well-concealed fjord reveals itself between towering cliff faces, carving up a small path inland through otherwise impassible terrain, and it matches the descriptions of the Falkner’s Run provided in your pre-sortie briefing. 

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 to LONGEYE, I got a positive visual on Point Insertion. The coast looks clear from my end. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: You got it, girl. CSG-Tradewind commencing saturation attack on PCA positions. Tomahawks are airborne and on their way, you got about 8 minutes and 30 seconds before they leave our jamming bubble. 

[AC]: <<Roger, Marking 8 minutes 30 seconds. Wildcat 1-1 moving to attack formation, request final authorization, over.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Authorization approved. You are cleared hot, weapons-free. Godspeed, girl!

[AC]: <<Wilco. See you on the other side, Longeye!>>

You take a deep breath and focus. With your mind clear as crystal and your senses razor-sharp, you yank the flight stick and pull the EAGLE into a sharp turn towards the valley, leaving behind a trail of vapor clouds in your wake as you align yourself with the opening. You push the throttle as far as it can go, and the EAGLE’s afterburners pulse with violent, unnatural energy in response. The world around you seems to slow to a crawl as your mind shifts into overdrive alongside the two pairs of Pratt & Whitney F-100-PW-229-MKIII turbofan-ramjet hybrid engines. Milliseconds begin to elapse like long years as the view from the cockpit shifts from the pitch-black seas to rotten-brown cliff faces in the blink of an eye, and then… You are in.

From this angle, it finally hits you just how narrow this valley really is—the near-verticle sides of valley hills loom over you like towering walls, leaving a twisting path that could barely fit a two-lane highway. Massive, motion-sensing spotlights line the valley walls, casting an oppressive web of detection over the already narrow valley as if the occasional bridges weren’t enough of a hassle already. Above you, rows after rows of automated SAM sites line the valley tops, diligently scanning the moonless skies in a never-ending vigil. You suppose that’s why the Planetary Command Authority never bothered to reinforce this valley—sure, it might be a theoretically passable expressway into the heartlands of the PCA ’s final, continent-sized stronghold, but they must’ve assumed that nobody is crazy or skilled enough to do this and just left it as is. 

And see, that’s the part you just can’t understand about the PCA ’s top brasses. After suffering crushing defeats after crushing defeats at your hands, the grunts and regional commanders have all learned to at least respect, if not outright fear sight of a lone F-15 with olive-green wings, but the generals and admirals just kept on underestimating you and putting glaring weaknesses in their defenses for you to exploit—sure, they got the numbers, the home-field advantage, and a mysterious boogeyman in a bullshit superplane at their side, but that’s no excuse for shoddy defenses and Maginot-line-styled strategic blunders.

Well, what’s that phrase by that old-world French general again? Oh right: “Never interrupt your enemies when they are making a mistake.” You don’t know how much Lord English boasted about his stuff to the PCA or what kind of copium those at the top are huffing to be so complacent and frankly, ignorant of your threatening presence, but you are not going to look a gift horse in the mouth—all is fair in love and war, and since you are for sure not the hero of this story, you’ll be damned if you don’t utilize every dirty trick in the book.

So, instead of over-thinking or mellowing over the morality of everything, you decide to just shut up and fly. You grip tight and hard onto your flight stick and throttle lever, making millisecond adjustments as you soar dangerously close to the cliff faces, narrowly wedging the EAGLE between columns of light beams all while keeping your eyes glued to your HUD, closely monitoring your altitude to avoid the invisible web of radar up above as you blaze across the salted and desolate earth in a cloud of dust and vapor. 

[AWACS Longeye]: Tomahawks are T-minus 8 minutes from being revealed. What’s your ETA?<

[AC]: <<ETA T-minus 7 minutes to target, I’ve got time.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: 1 minute to deploy the payload? That’s cutting it a bit short, are you sure about this?

[AC]: <<That’s the fastest I could go. You just gotta, uh, trust the process.>>

White knuckles, tense muscles, and burning gazes, the stress is immense but your resolve is stronger—sharp left, then roll right into a pitch to avoid a beam and pull into an aileron roll again for a rightwards pitch turn… You fly on muscle memories and instinctual reactions alone as if your trusty EAGLE is an extension of your own body. You feel every slight bend in the metal, every tiny tremble in the machinery, and every minute vortex on the edge of your wings… It’s as if you are in a deep trance, bonded with your mighty war-machine in ways that cannot be explained by science or reason, and you begin to feel… In sync with each other.

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 97.5% Complete--

--Please progress further to complete synchronization--

The toxic wind outside your canopy howls fiercely as you cut across the sky at speeds mankind was probably never meant to travel at. Seconds feel like years and minutes feel like centuries. You can feel your heart pounding and that mysterious resonance inside you vibrates with inconceivable power, beckoning from beyond the stars. You duck and wave across the tight valley and columns of light like an elegant dancer, precisely executing an endless chain of split-second reactions and high-G maneuvers like clockwork…

You breeze through the valley like a gust of wind, but that’s the easy part—up ahead, the valley cuts off abruptly with a steep cliff, leaving nothing but a small, two-lane tunnel at the base of it. It’s wide enough to squeeze an F-15 through but there’s not a lot of room left for mistakes. So you won’t.

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 arriving at Waypoint T-1, what’s the status on the Tomahawks, Longeye?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Tomahawks are on schedule, T-minus 4 minutes and 30 seconds to impact!

[AC]: <<Alright, that’s uh, that’s gonna be a bit too tight for comfort but it’ll work. Wildcat 1-1 vectoring towards T-2, it’s all or nothing!>>

You angle the EAGLE towards the tunnel entrance up ahead and you dive straight in, your mind and muscle memories working in tandem with your metal steed’s flight computers and milimeter-precise sensors to weave through impossible thin margins. You feel as if you are water—formless, shapeless yet immensely powerful and determined. You feel as if you can get through anything or anyone as long as you put your mind to it, and that resonating vibration deep inside you grows stronger and louder by the minute, begging to be set free…

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 98% Complete--

--Please progress further to complete synchronization--

[Underling Defender]: Hey uhh, there’s something wrong in the tunnels. The motion sensors are picking up something but… I dunno, it looks wrong.

[Underling Defender]: The old maintenance tunnels? What’s setting the motion sensors off?

[Underling Defender]: It’s something going at… about 2500 kilometers per hour? What the hell? That’s gotta be a glitch!

[Underling Defender]: Sheesh, should’ve known that green bastard was selling us second-rate equipment, I’ll send a maintenance team there. Sit tight, man.

[Underling Commander]: What’s going on in here?

[Underling Defender]: Eh, got a glitch in the systems, we are sending a team to fix…

[Underling Commander]: Wait, by the heavens! That’s… That’s not a glitch! That’s the fucking demon! It has to be her, she’s the only one crazy enough to fly through that tunnel! Sound the martyr-damned alarms, we are under attack!!!

You hear panicked chatters on the radio but it doesn’t matter because you can already see the exit up ahead. Seconds later, the EAGLE emerges from the tunnel like a blazing arrow. Your clock reads 1 minute and 30 seconds. 

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 arriving at target AZ, I got Positive ID on IRON CURTAIN, I repeat: Positive ID on IRON CURTAIN. Holy shit, the fucking thing’s massive!>>

[AWACS Longeye]: The bigger they are, the harder they fall, continue with the mission and give them hell, girl!

[AC]: <<Wilco. Wildcat 1-1 engaging targets! Let’s end this once and for all!>>

You pull up to regain altitude and a massive, imposing octagonal concrete fortress reveals itself underneath a moonless sky. The base reacts to the sight of a lonely olive-winged F-15 with panicked urgency—screams of jet engines intermixing with autocannon fire crackle like thunder, and a discordant cacophony of sirens and alarms blare out, echoing across the base and rudely disturbing the silent night, creating a sinister, off-tone symphony only war addicts like you would enjoy. Countless spotlights flicker back to life, followed by the activation of cluster after cluster of anti-aircraft weaponry. In a near instant, the pitch-black, moonless sky turns into a bright day with a dazzling display of fireworks, except the otherwise harmless fireworks are now replaced by barrages of proximity-sensing flak rounds and swarms of target-seeking missiles. However, you are not worried—defenses like those barely count as appetizers for someone as skilled as you.

[Underling Commander]: There’s the demon! Fire everything! We must not let this command base fall! For the PCA!!!

[Underling Defender]: Fire up The Eye! Zap her out of the sky like a lowly fly!

A new, definitively different alarm rings out throughout the base and the massive spherical building in the middle of the base opens its singular, unblinking eye. It hums with a low, beastial vibration and a bright, blinding red eye turns to lock gaze with you. It’s a massive terawatt-level laser weapon—the kind that can zap airplanes out of the sky from hundreds of kilometers away, the kind that renders your ship-launched cruise missiles completely useless, and by no coincidence, the kind that you intend to destroy.

[Underling Defender]: The Eye just finished charging! It’s ready to fire!

[Underling Commander]: Fire! Fire! Fire! Burn the demon into ash with our rage and our vengeance!

A wide, blinding beam erupts from the unblinking eye of death, turning the sky blood-red as the beam swings toward you. You yank hard on the stick and pull the EAGLE into a sharp break turn, the “Over-G” alarm blinking furiously on your instrument panel as immense G-force pins you against your seat. The beam follows relentlessly but fortunately lags behind, always a few inches too slow, achieving nothing except drilling a deep scorch mark into the mountains behind you as it swings across the base. As abruptly as it begins, the beam fades away, allowing your EAGLE to emerge from all this commotion untouched.

[Underling Commander]: She’s not damaged! Why have we stopped firing!?

[Underling Defender]: The Eye needs to recharge, sir! We can’t fire until the capacitors are full!

[Underling Commander]: Set the reactors to overdrive! The fate of the universe depends on us! We need all the power we can have!

[Underling Defender]: We can’t, sir! The safety limiters are still on!

[Underling Commander]: Disable them! It’s now or never! Give it everything we have! For our comrades, we cannot fail!

[Underling Defender]: Y…yes sir!

Another violent pulse of energy and the skies turn blood red once more, but you remain unfazed. Instead of redirecting your attention toward the gigantic laser or the millions of anti-air weapons currently spewing lead-shaped hate at your general direction, you simply max out your throttle and continue pulling hard turns, firing accurate bursts of autocannon rounds, shredding exposed radiators and cooling towers as you go.

[Underling Defender]: W…we just lost our external radiators! Our reactors are overheating! We need to switch overdrive off before one of them melts down!

[Underling Commander]: Curse the stars, damn it all! Fine, switch the reactors to safe mode. Tell HQ to send cavalries, we need all the help we can get when facing the Demon!

The beam fades away once more and gives you some breathing space, but then your headset crackles to life unexpectedly.

[AWACS Longeye]: Uh, no stress or anything but the first waves of Tomahawks just left the interference zone, they can see them now!

[AC]: <<Already!? I thought I had more time!>>

As if on cue, more panicked radio chatters erupt from the underlings’ channels.

[Underling Defender]: Fort Unyielding detecting dozens… No, hundreds of incoming missiles! Requesting support from IRON CURTAIN!

[Underling Defender]: Solidarity Airbase detecting multiple radar signatures, where the hell did they come from!? We need help from IRON CURTAIN! Requesting immediate active protection support!

[Underling Defender]: Integrity Habor also detecting a, uh a… A shit-load of incoming missiles! We can’t stop them all, we need the Eye!

[Underling Commander]: Curse the stars! It’s a saturation attack! We need to spin up the eye again! Overcharge the reactors!

[Underling Defender]: B… but sir, we’ll overheat!

[Underling Commander]: Open the auxiliary heat vents then! We are the impenetrable shield of our vengeance and our comrades need our support! Fire the Eye and clear the skies for our comrades!

Several massive hatches open up around the base, venting out clouds of steam and boiled coolants and the Eye starts up again, this time firing powerful bursts of laser over the horizon with pinpoint accuracy. Distant explosions light up the skies, with more undoubtedly concealed beneath the curvature of the planet.

[AWACS Longeye]: Oh no, no no no no! Blimey! Too many Tomahawks are being intercepted! At this rate, none of them will make it to their targets! Do something, girl!

[AC]: <<Hang on! I got this!>>

You pull the EAGLE straight up into a steep climb right above one of the opened vents. At around 5000 meters, you yank hard on the flight stick, and the pair of Pratt & Whitney P/YBNN thrust-vectoring nozzles pivot in response, swinging the EAGLE around into a near-vertical sharp dive straight towards the open vent below and as you dive towards the ground, you carefully line your bombsight up with the center of the vent—a bit to the left, a bit to the right, a little bit upwards… The ground approaches with alarming speed, but you force yourself to stay calm and continue adjusting your target trajectory, until… 

[AC]: <<One-in-a-million shot, here goes nothing, Wildcat 1-1, Pickle! Correction: Wildcat 1-1, Big, spicy fucking pickle!>>

A heavy “thunk” signifies the release of your payload and that’s your cue to turn around and hightail it out of there. From a rough eyeballing estimate, you reckon it’s way too close to the ground for any normal planes to pull up in time, but luckily for you, the EAGLE is not any regular plane, at least not anymore—you yank the flight stick, pulling hard, and the EAGLE briefly transforms into… something else . Physics suddenly loses its ever-present grasp on you and the EAGLE pulls an impossibly sharp 180 flip within a fraction of a second. G-force measuring up in the double digits violently assaults you and—even with your god-like resilience—fractures multiple bones in your body. But it doesn’t matter because you are climbing and gaining altitude and most importantly, not a red smear on the ground, so you’d call that a…

[Underling Defender]: The demon just dropped something down one of our vents!

[Underling Commander]: Fear not! The vents are designed to withstand all but the most powerful bombs! She can’t harm the reactors!

[Underling Defender]: Wait! Thermal level spiking! There’s something wro…

The radio suddenly spikes into static. You hear nothing except a deafening boom, overpowering everything else. It turns the world oddly silent. Bright flash, immense heat, followed by an immense shockwave, you feel the EAGLE shaking violently as every one of your instruments begins going crazy, and then, that eerily familiar, uncannily warm feeling of radiation. You look back and see the ruined remnants of a base engulfed in unforgiving, blinding nuclear hellfire.

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 confirming neutralization of IRON CURTAIN. Hostile super-weapon is no factor. I repeat: hostile super-weapon is down.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Jolly good work, girl! Destruction of IRON CURTAIN has been confirmed, Tomahawks impacting targets… now!

You can’t really see the swarms of cruise missiles impacting from this angle, but on your datalink screen, you see hundreds, if not thousands of dots marked as “hostile” rapidly disappearing one after another as the cluttered display of enemy emplacements and fortresses turns into a nice, clean display of nothing but the occasional friendly units. You pull the EAGLE out of your nuke-evading vertical climb above the clouds and take a slight breather. The broken bones have fortunately been healed already thanks to your god-tier regenerative ability and you are spared the surge of pain that would surely hit you in the privates if those bones remained broken.

All in all, you’d consider the mission a success. It’s, by all means, a hell of a close call, but you’ve done your part. You are this close to pulling off your oxygen mask and cracking open a can of ice coffee a couple of thousand meters up in the stratosphere, but alas, life throws you a curveball yet again—your headset suddenly crackles back to life with yet another mission update and rudely interrupts your dreams of high-altitude iced coffee.

[AWACS Longeye]: Wait, heads up, it’s not over yet! I’m picking up multiple, no, numerous hostiles converging on your location, seems like every combat-worthy PCA aircraft out there is coming to get you!

[AC]: <<Ugh, looks like we kicked the hornet’s nest with our little gambit. How many of them are we talking about here?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Got about eighty of them on radar as well as a big one, but taking their stealth fighters into consideration… I’d say roughly a hundred. That’s one hell of a furball! Hang tight, I’m routing Sasquatch Squadron, Thunderbird Squadron, and Wendigo Squadron to assist you!

[AC]: <<Tsk, nah, no need for reinforcements, this is my show. You guys focus on the primary objective, I’ll deal with these stragglers.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Wh… Are you crazy!? It’s you against an entire modern air force! Nobody in the history of air combat has ever done this!

[AC]: <<So let’s make history then. Wildcat 1-1, moving to engage!>>

Longeye is one of the first leprechauns to join your crew and has stayed with you the longest and yeah, he knows you well, but he still sometimes doesn’t get you—he worries too much, always caring about your safety and your personal well-being as if you are some real living person instead of the cold-blooded war-machine, or as if your personal feelings somehow still matter in the grand scheme of things. You, on the other hand, ran out of things to care for or care about a long, long time ago. Now, there’s only one thing on your list of priorities: there’s a massive fucking furball up in the air, a final hoorah of a two-and-a-half year campaign and no doubt the penultimate trial set by Paradox Space before your coronation as not only the Lord of Breath but the Lord of the Skies as well… But you are not part of it.

Luckily, the solution is quite simple.

>Amanda: Strife!

//Now playing: Showdown by Jose Pavli//

[Underling AWACS]: Lone bogey over Iron Curtain… Wait, that signature! Saints and martyrs, it’s the Demon! Attention all units: Demon spotted, BRA: 210 from Bullseye for 15 at Angles 12. All available PCA forces intercept ASAP!

[Underling Pilot]: Dragoon Squadron Wilco. Moving to intercept. The sacrifices of our comrades will not be in vain!

[Underling Pilot]: Copy, Kingsbane Squadron responding. For the PCA!

[Underling Pilot]: Bastion Squadron roger that, let’s avenge our comrades at Iron Curtain!

[Underling Ace]: Blade and Bulwalk moving to the target location. May the PCA bury the Demon under our collective wraith!

[Underling Ace]: Silver Fang responding. ETA: 2 minutes.

[Underling Air Admiral]: Dreadnought AD-99 en route, the unbreakable spirit of The Fleet lives on through us!

[???]: …Judgement shall come. Hang tight.

There’s a lot of chatter on the intercepted radio, but that doesn’t scare you. You simply turn to face the incoming squadrons and switch the EAGLE’s systems back to air-to-air mode. With a few flicks on your touch-screen MFDs, your mounted autocannon pods and laser-guided bombs fade into glitchy pixels, clearing pylon space for anti-air missiles and your signature fuselage-mounted railgun. As soon as your onboard systems finish rebooting themselves, your onboard AN/APG-82(V)1 Active Electronically Scanned Array(AESA) radar immediately picks up several enemies, and you act accordingly.

[Underling Pilot]: Spare 1-4 spike, the Demon has a lock on me!

[Underling Pilot]: Damn it, We are outside of the Dreadnought’s protection zone, prepare to evade!

[AC]: <<Go ahead and try, Wildcat 1-1, FOX-3!>>

Eight AIM-120D AMRAAM missiles release in sequence, igniting their solid rocket boosters one after another, racing toward the thick of the incoming furball, leaving behind eight bright white contrails as they do.

[Underling Pilot]: Shit, missile incoming, dump countermeasures and evade!

[Underling Pilot]: Affirmative, breaking… Curse the stars, the missile’s got a bead on me, I can’t shake it! Countermeasures aren’t doing anything!

[Underling AWACS]: Spare 1-4, it’s not working because you are dumping flares against a FOX-3 missile! Use your DRFM Jammers to disrupt the radars onboard the AMRAAMs!

[Underling Pilot]: The hell is a DRFM Jammer!? I’m flying a Mig-25, where am I supposed to find that!?

[Underling Pilot]: Then go low and try to notch it! Those American missiles are powerful but they are not invincible, they can miss!

[Underling Pilot]: I can’t! It’s too…

[Underling AWACS]: Spare 1-4 has been shot down! We need to avenge him!

Three of your missiles miss their targets but the remaining five did what they were designed to do, turning five out of the hundreds of jets into flaming wrecks. With the AMRAAMS on a cooldown and the AIM-9s far out of range, you switch to your onboard Tactical Laser System . 

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 deploying TLS!>>

A hatch opens from underneath the nose of the EAGLE and, after a brief delay, unleashes a searing red beam of death and destruction, streaking across the moonless night as six powerful radar-linked gimbals rapidly orienting the beam around toward whatever targets you manage to score a lock on—wherever the red glows illuminate, an explosion almost certainly follows.

[Underling Pilot]: Bastion Squadon suffering heavy losses! What in the martyr’s name was that!?

[Underling AWACS]: It’s a gigawatt laser weapon linked to the Demon’s radar! Avoid the beams and try to break her lock!

[Underling Pilot]: Easier said than done, man! Spare Squadron taking laser fire, she’s cutting us down like flies! 

[Underling Pilot]: Fire missiles! We need to return the favor!

[Underling Pilot]: Kingsbane 2-2, FOX-1! FOX-1!

[Underling Air Admiral]: SAM support from the Dreadnoughts en route, the S-400s will swat her out of the sky with one clear swoop!

The TLS system goes into cooldown and your onboard RWR warns you of a literal swarm of incoming missiles ranging from older R-27ERs to R-77s to the bulkier but much more powerful 40N6Es, to any ordinary pilot, this would be a death sentence, but you’ve got something alchemized just for this.

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 activating IEWS, running select-spectrum interference!>>

A sharp, high-pitched ringing noise begins resonating out of your EAGLE and almost immediately shuts your RWR up as the incoming missiles scatter like headless chickens, losing their lock on you and flying towards dust-knows-where. You can see the legion of Underling aircrafts far out on the horizon and that means the Beyond-visual range part of this fight is now over. You’d like to thin the horde out a bit more before engaging in a dogfight of this proportion but this will do.

[Underling Pilot]: There she is! I can see the Demon on my FLIR!

[Underling AWACS]: Visual contact with the Demon confirmed. All units focus fire on the Demon! Remember, the fate of the PCA lies on your shoulders!

[Underling Pilot]: Affirmative! Let’s show her our rage and our vengeance! For the PCA!

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1, deploying Aces’ Fury!, FOX-3, FOX-3, FOX-3!>>

A slight mechanical whirring signifies the hatches opening for your integrated micro-VLS launchers. A brief pause, a moment of silence, then, in impeccable synchronicity, countless micro-missiles burst out from their tubes, each blazing towards their own targets in streaks of fire. With the simple press of a button, your EAGLE turns into an angel of death, unleashing hundreds of unforgiving hellhounds, each with a soul to claim.

[Underling Pilot]: What the fuck!? How many missiles are there!?

[Underling AWACS]: The Demon has launched a saturation attack! Dump countermeasure and evade, those micro-missiles have worse tracking than ordinary missiles!

[Underling Pilot]: You heard the AWACS, dump countermeasures and break!

[Underling Air Admiral]: Dreadnought activating CWIS arrays! Let our mighty vessel be your shield!

The night sky lights up with flak fire and explosions sparkle like shimmering stars amidst the moonless night. You watch your missiles rapidly disappear on your data-link screen before they can reach their targets. Shit.

[AWACS Longeye]: Heads-up, Enemy air dreadnought is providing point defense support, you’ll need to take it down first before you can tackle the rest!

[AC]:<<Right, Wildcat 1-1 Wilco. I’ve downed plenty of those before. Anyways, what’s the status of Operation Midnight Thunder?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Proceeding as planned, our ground forces have surrounded The Entryway and are in the process of breaching it!

[AC]: <<Roger that, keep me updated.>>

You configure your onboard radar to focus on the AIR DREADNOUGHT and ignore everything else for now. At this distance, the city-sized airborne warship is only a bit larger than a car on your HUD, but you brought enough of these down to know precisely where to shoot.

[AC]:<<Wildcat 1-1, deploying Aces’ Judgment, guns, guns, guns!>

You take aim, pull the trigger, and the railgun responds—a brief second of charging is all it takes to throw a 20mm fin-stabilized depleted uranium dart at your enemies at relativistic speeds, and three of such slugs are now en route towards the Underlings’ AIR DREADNOUGHT, leaving behind a trail of static discharge and superheated plasma, bridging the kilometer-wide gap shockingly fast, way too fast for anyone to react in time. 

Impact comes almost instantaneously—the first dart lands way too low, punching a ship-length hole across the vessel, spewing sparks, molten metal, and uranium dust everywhere but missing the critical systems; the second dart overshoots slightly, grazing the deck and decommissioning several CWIS turrets as it zips pass, leaving the AIR DREADNOUGHT damaged, but still combat-capable. Luckily for you, the third dart lands just right, punching through the vital compartments of the AIR DREADNOUGHT and igniting ammunition storage as it goes. The mighty vessel—partially modeled after Russian Kirov-class battlecruisers—bursts into a dazzling fireball as anything from missile tubes to small-arms ammunition begins cooking off violently.

[Underling Pilot]: S… saints and martyrs! The Demon just took down our Air Dreadnought with only three shots! H…How is this even possible!?

[Underling AWACS]: Uh… Uh, the Demon has deployed an experimental railgun weapon! All units: watch out for sudden rises in energy signatures and evade accordingly, she has to aim those shots manually and she will miss! Fight on, for the PCA!

[Underling Pilot]: The Demon is in IR missile range! Fire everything and see if her EW equipment can save her from this!

[Underling Pilot]: Spare 1-9, FOX-2!

[Underling Pilot]: Kingsbane 3-1, FOX-2, for the PCA!

Your RWR starts screaming again but you remain unfazed and execute a standard missile evasion maneuver, swiftly cutting afterburners and breaking left, releasing a dazzling light show of countermeasures as you turn. Most of the missiles fired from older-gen Migs and Sukois go for the flares almost immediately, but some of the more advanced ones fired from incoming J-20s and SU-57s ignore the flares and continue to chase you. 

It’s disappointingly predictable, really. With the advancement of better, smarter, and faster missiles, the exciting rush of dogfights is growing rarer and rarer as missiles are getting harder and harder to dodge. This… is what you would’ve said if you were still flying a normal plane, but alas, you are not—dumping countermeasures and bulk-standard evasive maneuvers are out, and physics-defying 100-G turns are in. Flicking a special switch inside your cockpit, you make your moves known.

[AC]:<<Wildcat 1-1, activating AOA limiter!>>

The powerful pair of Pratt & Whitney P/YBNN thrust-vectoring nozzles gimbal in response to your input alongside your rudders, elevators, and ailerons. The laws of physics and aerodynamics suddenly become irrelevant, and the EAGLE executes a perfect cobra barrel roll. The missiles, unable to course-correct in time, miss and explode far ahead of you. You level your EAGLE out and punch the afterburners, regaining speed and aligning yourself against the incoming squadrons. You hear your AIM-9Xs’ signature low grumble turn into a full-on growl, and you fire.

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1, FOX-2!>>

Four AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles release from their pylons and ignite their solid rocket motors, screaming toward their targets with bloodthirsty ferocity. The targeted Underling fighters break and release countermeasures in response, but these newer-generation Sidewinders come with IRCCM systems that ignore countermeasures, much like those launched from SU-57s and J-20s against you a few seconds ago, except the Underlings can’t maneuver as fast as you. Four explosions blossom in the midnight sky and that’s four enemies you won’t have to worry about.

[Underling AWACS]: Kingsbane 2-2, Bastion 1-4, Dragoon 3-1 and Spare 1-9 have been shot down, their sacrifices will be remembered, all units, avenge your comrades!

[Underling Pilot]: The Demon’s out of missiles! Everyone attack! She’s vulnerable!

[Underling Pilot]: Spare 1-1, FOX-3, for the PCA!

[Underling Pilot]: Bastion 3-2, FOX-2!

More missiles come careening towards you and your RWR begins screaming bloody murders again, but you are not scared. Instead of wasting countermeasures or speed trying to evade them, you push hard on the EAGLE’s throttle and head straight toward the incoming furball, unleashing precise bursts of autocannon fire as you go, but you are not aiming at the Underling fighters themselves. 

[Underling Pilot]: She… She’s shooting our missiles down one by one! With her cannons! How is this possible!?

[Underling Pilot]: It’s not! She can’t shoot all of it down, one of them has got to hit!

That Underling pilot is right but he’s missing the point—you aren’t trying to shoot down all of the missiles, you are flying an F-15 ACTIVE, not a CWIS turret. You are simply trying to thin the horde, shooting down enough missiles for it to become manageable, and it’s working—explosions blossom across the skies like dazzling fireworks, and the clutter on your RWR reduces drastically as you continue firing.

[Underling Pilot]: Dragoon 2-1 is right! Look at the Spare 1-1’s missile, it’s getting closer! It’s gonna score a hit!

[AC]:<<Nope, not in a thousand years, Wildcat 1-1, activating AOA limiter!>>

You yank hard on the stick and the laws of physics become a stranger to you once more. The EAGLE reacts, executing a violent, physics-defying flip in midair, narrowly evading incoming missiles like Neo from the old-world movie Matrix . Immense G-force pins you against your seat and your vision blacks out for a split second, but you grit your teeth, regain control, recover your EGALE from the spin, and continue flying. 

[Underling Pilot]: This… this can’t be happening! She’s untouchable like a gust of wind! We can’t take her down! We need to…

[Underling AWACS]: Curse the stars, no one step back! We are the final hope of the universe, hold the line and defeat the Demon, for the PCA, for Paradox Space, and for everyone that has and will ever exist!!!

[Underling Pilot]: W… Wilco! For the PCA! Attack!

You are now right in the middle of the furball, surrounded on all sides by Underling fighters. To ordinary pilots, this is a sub-optimal situation, but to you, this is exactly what you live for. You push hard on the throttle and go all in. You see and feel and hear missiles careening through the sky all around you, and you feel incredibly alive , as if you’ve never lived before. You take aim and the EAGLE executes, tearing into Underling ranks with short, controlled autocannon bursts after autocannon bursts, painting the pitch-black night orange with flames. You roll, duck, and weave around incoming attacks like a professional ballerina, utilizing every trick you know—high yo-yos followed by Lag-displacement rolls followed by Herbst maneuvers followed by sharp pitchbacks, you maneuver yourself to optimal firing angles after optimal firing angles, positing yourself at the rear of enemy fighters again and again and again, never allowing anyone to gain a good tone on you. 

[Underling Pilot]: She’s tearing us apart up here, where are the reinforcements!?

[Underling AWACS]: All available combat aircraft under the PCA’s name are here, there are no more reinforcements! This is all we’ve got!

[Underling Ace]: She’s too fast, I can’t get a visual on her! Wait, she’s on my six, how did she get there!? I can’t shake her…

[Underling AWACS]: Silver Fang shot down! Friendly Ace has been shot down!

[Underling Pilot]: She just downed one of our Aces like nothing, how can we even stand a chance against her!?

You ignore the panicked chatter on your radio and continue your onslaught—a J-turn here, a rolling scissors to gain a good guns angle on this guy, a low yo-yo followed by a wingover for these two… You are unrelenting, unforgiving, and merciless. You feel like water, like air, and like a gust of wind, and you move like a raging hurricane. The growls of Sidewinders and the beeping tones of AMRAAMs blend together like a harrowingly beautiful symphony, contrasted by the high-frequency screams of your Tactical Laser System and annotated by the earth-shattering thunders of your railgun, threatening to tear the sky itself asunder with your determination. Your heart beats faster and that resonance inside you grows even stronger, no longer containable by anyone or anything, it rushes and surges and demands to be set free…

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 99% Complete--

--Just a Bit More, You Are Almost There--

Another good tone, another press of the trigger, another flaming wreck falls from the sky, and the little number on the side of your vision ticks up a bit more. “J-11 Shot Down, +120 Grist”, said the pop-up text. 120 more to a hoard of trillions is like a droplet to an ocean, but you are not adding a droplet, you are bringing a torrential downpour—a cobra here to put you behind this guy, a Kulbit there to evade missiles, and a series of rolling scissors there for that guy, you continue your relentless onslaught against your targets, showering the nuclear-flame-scorched land below in a rain of embers and wreckages. The panicked radio chatters on the Underlings’ channel soon give way to desperate lamentations, and then to grim acceptance as those who remain realize the futility of their struggles and their sacrifices. They ready themselves for a heroic last stand, and you oblige, cutting them down without mercy or hesitation. Hundreds turn into dozens and dozens turn into a few, and then… nothing. Nothing but the howling winds remain.

//Music end//

[AC]: <<Wildcat 1-1 to Longeye, Enemy opposition is no factor, got a couple of leakers running off to dust-knows where but the rest of our squadrons could handle ‘em no diff.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Wait, really? Oh, oh holy shit… You just took on an entire air force and won! That’s gotta be written in Paradox Spaces’ Hall of Legends!

[AC]: <<Well, if you say so. Tsk, it honestly felt more like a one-sided massacre than a fair fight…>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Are you uh, alright, girl? You sound… quite deflated for someone who just became the greatest ace pilot Paradox Space has ever seen.

[AC]: <<It’s just… Nah, no time for sentiments, I’m fine, just forget about it. What’s the status of Operation Midnight Thunder?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: It’s a success. The bomb has been retrieved and planted. We’ve just finished packing and are getting ready for liftoff.

[AC]: <<Good, I’ll rendevous with the Carrier Strike Group in Low Planetary Orbit then. See you guys in a bit.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: You got it, girl! Still… if there’s anything on your mind, talk to Fixer once you get back, alright? Your feelings matter here.

[AC]: <<Thanks, but I’m fine, seriously. If anything comes up I’ll talk, alright?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Alright. See you fleetside then.

Your radio dies back down. The droning howls of your engines, the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the windshields, and the occasional beeps and bloops from your instruments are now all that accompany you up here. Embers flicker and fall in the air like dying stars, and flames continue to burn down below, lighting up the night in warm glows of orange and yellow despite the drizzle. It’s eerily calming, like staring at the bombed-out wreckages of a city after the war has already ended, except you were the one who dropped the bombs. Like a murderer looking at their own crime scene, a demon looking at those they’ve condemned, you look at what you’ve created, and expect to feel something , maybe guilt, regret, or even a morbid sense of satisfaction or accomplishment, but there’s simply nothing , nothing but that crushing numbness that has always haunted you since dust-knows when.

…You think that’s what you are supposed to feel. After all, you take absolutely no pride in your actions, but you aren’t sorry for them either—you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, and ever since you understood what’s truly at stake, you’ve reluctantly resigned yourself to the role of the unwilling soldier, doing what needs to be done for a brighter, freer future, no matter how horrific the methods might be. The fate of the whole damned universe and some more lies heavy on your shoulders and your shoulders alone, and… As much as you want to, you just can’t turn away from that kind of duty because you still like to believe that you care—about justice, about making a difference in a cruel, indifferent world, and about wanting a happy ending, if not for you, then for everyone else.

[AWACS Longeye]: Heads up, we’ve got an unknown contact coming your way. BRAA: 155 at 15 for angles 20, hot!

Your radio crackles back to life with a warning, rudely interrupting your ongoing session of self-reflection. You look around and yep , there’s a lone bogey on your radar, headed directly towards you. 

[AC]: <<Shit, any IFF signatures or ELINT returns? What do we have on that guy?>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Nothing, but judging by the energy signatures and flight patterns, it’s our old friend.

You sign. Of course that invincible boogeyman who’s been chasing you down for the past few plants, cutting down your own forces like a vengeful revenant and always keeping you on your toes is here, you can’t say you are too surprised by this.

[AC]: <<Late to the party as always, ain’t he? Tell to fleet to take off immediately, we are not taking any chances with that fucker.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: Got it. You should get the hell out of there too before this whole planet gets sucked into the black hole. I’m transmitting an exit route to you right now.

You won’t lie, Longeye’s offer is tempting. The last encounter between you and the boogeyman ended in your defeat, and you’ve been on the run ever since. Rule one of the Mercenary Creed is “only picking fights you could win” and that creed never failed you once. You could turn and burn, get the fuck out of there and leave the boogeyman down here, seething and raging fruitlessly as he gets sucked into the black hole’s gravity well alongside the planet… 

But, there’s just one tiny little issue: You are not a mercenary anymore. 

No, a mercenary wouldn’t risk their lives for the vain promises of a better future, a mercenary wouldn’t stare down an entire army to defend something as ethereal as an ideal, and a mercenary sure as hell doesn’t care about the fate of other people, but you do. You’ve changed a lot, for better or worse, and now, you are more than just a lowlife mercenary. You are a soldier, a warrior, bound not by profit, but by honor and duties, and you should be held to that standard—no more running, it’s time to face the challenges head-on like you should have done a long, long time ago. 

[AC]: <<No need, I ain’t going anywhere when that fucker’s still alive. He’s going down and I’ll fucking make sure of it.>>

[AWACS Longeye]: I really should have seen this coming, don’t I… Well, I can’t exactly stop you from doing that, so I guess I should just wish you good luck because I’m bloody sure you’ll need it.

[AC]: <<That’s all I need. See you on the other side. Wildcat 1-1, over and out.>>

You take a deep breath, and steer the EAGLE around for one last merge—no AWACS, no wingman, no reinforcements, it’s just you and him, a worthy challenge, a real fight between two aces, and you think it’s time…

It’s time to settle a score.

>Amanda: Strife!!!

//Now Playing: Archange by Project Aces//

[???]: You are a slave to history. Even after HIS arrival, you continue to fight against the only order that can guarantee the stability of the timelines. You, solely, are responsible for this.

[AC]: <<Hey, who the fuck are you really? It’s been five fucking planets, spill the beans already!>>

[???]: I am the vengeful revenant of your own creation. I am your judge, your jury, and your executioner. I am Judgment.

[AC]: <<Ugh, I mean a callsign or a name, not this poetic bullshit, asshole!>>

[???]: …

No response from the radio except an incoming missile from beyond the horizon, no doubt carrying the hatred of 15 planets with it as it screeches toward your position. You break left and evade, dumping a dazzling shower of chaff and flare as you do so. The missile continues its trajectory, unaffected by your rudimentary moves. Right, Plan B it is . You activate your AOA limiter and yank the flight stick. The laws of physics and aerodynamics become irrelevant once more as the EAGLE pulls an instant 90-degree turn, you push hard on the throttle and the EAGLE accelerates in a way that shouldn’t be possible, boosting you far out of the missile’s reach. 

[???]: …What do you have to show for yourself, Demon? Blood? Grist? A broken throne? I will bury you so completely, Paradox Space will turn over a thousand times before your body is dug up…

[AC]: <<Dang, got you fired up huh? Come shoot me down then!>>

[???]: Gladly.

Your RWR goes crazy as thousands of swarm missiles emerge from the unknown fighter, darting toward you with bloodthirsty intent. You turn and evade, littering the sky with countermeasures in a high-G maneuver as explosions ripple out behind you. With the attacks diffused, you turn to face your assailant.

[???]: You can’t run! You can’t hide! You made this decision long ago, you can’t back out of The Deal!

[AC]: <<What makes you think I’m running? Wildcat 1-1, FOX-3!>>

[???]: …Predictable.

Eight AMRAAMs ignite their solid rocket boosters and darts towards the unknown fighter but it turns an impossibly sharp turn at the very last second, perfectly evading them. You push the throttle as far as it can go and chase after the boogeyman, firmly placing yourself behind it. Immense G-force assaults your body and you can feel your vision blacking out, but you grit your teeth and fly, your Sidewinders growls a bloodthirsty growl and you fire. Two sidewinders scream out, riding on flames and smoke, but the unknown fighter accelerates in a burst of speed and moves out of the way, way too fast for any missile to react in time. A split-second lapse of attention is all it takes for the unknown fighter to place itself firmly behind you. Fuck .

[???]: If I had killed you over LOCAC, this war would’ve been over by now. It was a mistake, and I intend to correct that. The PCA used to call me obsessed, but now… I am the only solution.

[AC]: <<Well, looks like we both got our second chances. Hope you won’t waste yours!>>

[???]: I don’t intend to.

Another missile streaks towards you from behind. Ignoring your G-force-ravaged body, you pull hard, executing a smooth Cobra maneuver and putting yourself behind the boogeyman. It’s starting to feel like a dust-damned switcheroo that never seems to end, but you fire regardless.

[???]: You use the title of a Lord, but what do you rule over, the dead!? I fought for peace in this war, and you denied me of that!

[AC]: <<Well, I guess we are more alike than I’d imagined. I’m also fighting for peace, you just can’t see it yet.>>

[???]: Look around you! Does this look like peace to you!? When you are up here fighting for peace, blood is being shed down there, some peace! Paradox Space will prove you wrong even if you win this war!

[AC]: <<Maybe, but It’s not like you’d live to see it! Wildcat 1-1, FOX-2!>>

Another pair of sidewinders scream out and predictably miss their targets as the unknown fighter pulls another physics-defying maneuver, flipping right over you and unleashing another missile at the apex of its flip. You push the throttle even harder and the EAGLE boosts forward with a violent burst of acceleration, easily countering the attack, but now the problem is becoming apparent—none of your missiles could reliably hit the boogyman and with a bit of finesse, none of his missiles could hit you either. It’s an endurance run where the first one to slip up loses, and you know you are not good at endurance runs—all this dogfighting and high-G maneuvers are putting a serious strain on your body, and you aren’t sure how much longer could you last. The boogyman seems to understand this too, taunting you over the radio again and again and again as he prepares to evade another attack.

[???]: Don’t you see!? You are never meant to play this game! You don’t even belong to this timeline! You could’ve lived a happy life in your quiet wasteland bunker and you would’ve never suffered through any of this, but you just don’t know when to stop, don’t you!? Well… Now you’ve taken too much, and you’ll lose everything in return.

You try your best to ignore his taunts and focus on flying, carefully lining up your gunsights for a clear shot—you’ve seen pilots dodge missiles on a semi-daily basis, but you've never seen anyone dodge bullets. Violent G-force pins you against the seat as you struggle to keep up with the boogeyman, your head is getting lighter and you feel like you are on the edge of passing out, but you manage to line up a shot.

[???]: The people of Paradox Space! Do you know what you are taking from them!? Their stability, their safety! And for what!? To gain more power!? Do you even care why you are here!?

[AC]: <<It’s not about power, damn it!>>

[???]: What is it about then!? Are you really here for your delusional idea of peace!? Just think, how many people have you killed!?

[AC]: <<It’s about freedom! freedom to choose your own destiny, freedom to do what you think is right without the whole paradox space breathing down your neck, freedom to be who you fucking are, not what some bullshit cosmic order thinks you should be, is that so fucking hard to fucking understand!?>>

You pull the trigger and the powerful M61 Vulcan autocannon onboard your EAGLE unleashes a thunderous roar, catapulting a barrage of 20mm proximity-fuzed rounds down range. The result is immediate—a chain of explosions rips across the unknown fighter, tearing an ugly scar in its smooth carapace armor. It thudders and stumbles in mid-air, but somehow keeps on flying.

[AC]: <<How the fuck are you still flying!? That’s bullshit!>>

[???]: Try hitting something other than a non-critical area next time, “Ace”.

The unknown fighter pulls a sharp 180 turn, aligning its nose with you, and a powerful burst of laser zips through the midnight sky. You try to roll out of the way but you can’t move faster than light, and the beam cuts off a significant portion of your right wing. All sorts of alarms start beeping in your cockpit but you try your best to remain calm. The boogeyman continues to taunt you over the radio as he flies past you for another attack.

[???]: How does it feel to fight against the natural order of things? To not have a written destiny to define yourself against the world?

[AC]: <<You see any destinies from here? What has your inevitability bullshit ever given us!?>>

[???]: ...

[AC]: <<Admit it, it’s a twisted fucking scheme that needs to be reset! I’ll fucking burn it all down and start from zero if that’s what needs to be done!>>

[???]: Have you not burned enough!? Look around, you did this! All this death and destruction, millions of lives lost… So many ghosts. Do you think they deserved it!?

[AC]: <<There is no mercy in war, people live and people die, it’s kill, or be killed! Learn to accept it!>>

[???]: …I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!

Another overwhelming barrage of missiles burst out from the unknown fighter, converging on your location. Your steering is hampered by your damaged wing but it’s not enough to stop you from executing your moves—you pull, turn, and burn in a perfect Herbst maneuver, narrowly evading the swarms of incoming missiles and aligning your gunsight with the unknown fighter once more. Violent G-forces hammer your body with intense ferocity, but it doesn’t stop you from pressing the trigger, unleashing a searing red beam of your own and cutting the unknown aircraft’s rear left horizontal stabilizer clean off. You now taste blood in your mouth, but you ignore it and keep on flying.

[AC]: <<...And now we are even, how’s the taste of your own medicine?>>

[???]: Do you even understand what you are doing!? What happens if you shoot me down!? Where will you return to!? Where will you go!? Can you even think!?

[AC]: <<Oh, I more than understand what I’m doing… The question is, do you? Do you really understand what you are fighting for? WHO you are fighting for!? Or are you just another mindless dog blindly following its orders!?>>

[???]: How dare

The unknown fighter maneuvers itself right behind you again and begins unleashing a deadly barrage of railgun rounds. You yank on the stick hard, pulling the EAGLE into a near-vertical climb to avoid the barrage and narrowly evade a deadly shot aimed right at your cockpit. The unknown fighter chases after you, firmly placing itself on your six. From the rearview mirrors, you can roughly see its internal weapons bay open for another attack.

Then, a blinding flash, a thundering boom rings out, and an earth-shaking shockwave sends the very planet shaking. You pivot your head around and see a massive fireball far off in the distance—the telltale sign of a planet-destroying bomb explosion. It’s too far to cause any real damage to you, but it’s not supposed to, it’s supposed to nudge the planet just a smidge off course and the black hole it orbits will do the rest. It means you’ve won, but it also means you are now on a strict countdown to your inescapable demise. Great .

[AC]: <<Look! You’ve lost! This planet is going to get destroyed and you can’t stop it, just give up and give both of us an exit route, won’t you? You can retire to dust knows where and enjoy the rest of your life sipping… I don’t know, champagne or some fancy shit like that! It doesn’t have to end like this!>>

[???]: No… Paradox Space may try to forget you, but I won't! This is for the good of the world! Die! Demon!

[AC]: <<Fucking fine then, fire away, asshole! Just remember to crash somewhere I can’t see you when you die!>>

Two missiles dart out toward you and you evade with a swift cobra maneuver. The missile overshoots as expected but the unknown fighter swings its nose in an unnatural manner and somehow lines up a clean shot on you as you try to regain airspeed. You try to roll out of the incoming attack but it’s way too late. The EAGLE shakes violently as a barrage of autocannon rounds connect, tearing your onboard electronic systems apart and badly damaging one of your engines. Sparks fly out of your instrument panels and two of your MFD screens show nothing but static, your HUD flickers and glitches, and some shrapnels even manage to make their way through the delicate internals of the EAGLE, hitting you square in the abdomens. But despite all this, you are still conscious and the EAGLE can still fly, so you grit your teeth and fly.

[AC]: <<...Gotta…Argh…Gotta try a lot harder than that to kill me!>>

You ignore the dazzling display of flashing warning signs and keep on flying, entering into maneuver after maneuver, exchanging shot after shot with the boogeyman. The two of you dance above the fire-scorched, decaying land slowly sinking into the black hole’s gravity well. It’s a tango between equal foes, between a vengeful spirit and a powerful demon. Both of you fight with all you’ve got, powerful afterburners shine brightly against the moonless sky like rising stars while physics-defying maneuvers distort the very fabric of realities around you. You are bleeding, suffering from extended G-force exposure, and fucking tired , but you can’t stop. You need to fight on. You grit your teeth, focus, and fly. Carefully crafted air combat theories give way to muscle memories and then to pure instinct—you can feel the EAGLE and the EAGLE feels you, both of you badly wounded but neither intends on giving up. Dazzling explosions and powerful energy beams rending the sky above you apart as falling embers make way for more embers. You remain unfazed and keep on flying , until…

--Continuing Synchronization For User: aerobaticCatnip[AC]... 100%--

--Synchronization Complete. Congratulations, Ace of Aces--

That resonance inside you breaks free, surging wildly across space and time itself, bridging impossible gaps of life and death, fiction and reality. It courses through your body like a jolt of lightning, sending supernatural shivers down your spine as it sharpens your senses. You close your eyes, open them again, and you feel an overwhelming sense of Connection as if you are not one, but many.

You are the Red Baron, Rene Fonck, Richard Bong, Ilmari Juutilainen and you are Ivan Kozhedub; You are Captain Maverick, Blaze, Talisman, Cipher, Mobius-1, Trigger, and Monarch, but you are also Mihaly, Solo-Wing Pixy, Yellow-13 and Crimson-1. You are simultaneously every Ace pilot that has ever existed in fiction and in reality, and you now represent every single one of them—their sins and their virtues, their strengths and their weaknesses, their victories, defeats, accomplishments, and their regrets… 

But at the same time, you are still Amanda Winston. You are still…you. You are still that kind but stubborn Appalachian girl, trying her best to survive in spite of an unforgiving world; you are still that amature wasteland mercenary, living for the thrill of the hunt and the excitement of battle amidst a land of anarchy and decay, and you are still that grizzled fighter pilot, reluctantly doing what needs to be done for a greater ideal she may never see. You are a paradox, an impossible superposition of conflicting selves, outside of reality’s jurisdiction, unconstrained by any rules, restrictions, and limits, you are as free as the wind, and you feel like you can do anything .

[AC]: <<I…I get it now.>>

The world suddenly looks so clear, and your body feels unreal . You pull into a sharp turn, and double-digit G-force violently assaults your body, pinning you against the seat, but you feel nothing . Your vision remains as clear as ever and you don’t even break a sweat. Despite the EAGLE’s heavy damage, You maneuver like a formless breeze of wind, easily positioning yourself behind the boogeyman. It tries to out-maneuver you by pulling a physics-defying turn but you keep up effortlessly, keeping your sights glued on target amidst hundred-G turns. You stop feeling like an ordinary pilot and more like a… concept. Like what a perfectly ideal, optimized abstraction of an Ace pilot should be: You move with pinpoint precision, react with inhuman speed, and fly as if you’ve done a thousand simulations of your next move. You line up your shots, pull the trigger, and a precise railgun blast punches straight through the unknown fighter’s center mass, sending sparks and debris everywhere.

[???]: …How!?

The unknown fighter tries to evade by pulling an incredibly sharp Wingover, vapor clouds forming on its wings as it swings around mid-air like a puppet moving on strings, but it’s ultimately useless—you keep up your pursuit, predicting its flight path perfectly and lining up another shot. Your M61 Vulcan autocannon roars to life and a stream of bullets tears into the unknown fighter’s left engine, shredding countless delicate components into pieces. It sputters and shakes like a wounded beast, barely keeping itself in the air.

[???]: No no no no no! I almost got her! Not yet, god damn it! Come on! I can’t fail now!

The boogeyman fires a series of desperate attacks, blindly firing railgun barrages and missile salvos at your approximate location, hoping to score a lucky hit. You deny him that hope and line up one last pass.

[???]: Come on, come in for the kill, you demon! Kill me! Kill me and find out what happens to this world! Either way, your life ends today, mark my words!

[AC]: <<Dead man’s words hold no weight, buddy.>>

Mechanical fans start whirring, static electricity fills the air, and you watch your railgun’s charge meter rise, 50%, 75%, 100%, 150%... You watch the charge meter reach unstable levels, and you take aim. The boogeyman maneuvers desperately, thrashing around like a caged beast, but your aim stays true.

[AC]: <<I won’t miss!>>

You take a deep breath…

And You fire.

>???

>???

>???

>Sometimes later…

The irradiated wastelands of midwest America remain as hot as ever despite the lack of any real sun. Supernatural brightness illuminates the landscape, revealing an imposing temple of alien designs sitting above the wreckage of a ruined city. A fleet of old-world American warships calmly rests ontop of sun-scorched sands nearby, their well-maintained appearance contrasting sharply with the desolation and decay that surrounds them. Deep inside the temple, a lone silver-haired teenage girl stands in front of a massive snake monster, seemingly in conversation.

[Yaldaboth]: Welcome back, Player, or should I say… Lord of Breath?

[AC]: <<Hey Yaldaboth.>>

[AC]: <<Look, we all know how this will end, so… Why don’t you just skip the congratulations and give me that last trial you talked about?>>

The silver-haired girl raises her FN P-90 Submachinegun, she looks tired and a bit hungover, but nevertheless ready for a fight. The monster, however, does not change its posture.

[Yaldaboth]: If you come seeking a fight, I’m afraid I cannot fulfill that demand.

[AC]: <<Wait… You aren’t gonna fight me? I mean, I’m more than glad I won’t have to do another fight but uh, what about that trial thing? Aren’t you gonna test me and see if I’m worthy?>>

[Yaldaboth]: The… contents of your challenge have escalated far beyond the intended difficulty. The trials you faced during your campaign have more than proven your worth as not only the Conquerer but that of the Leader as well.

[Yaldaboth]: You have raised an army, united two eternally warring kingdoms towards a shared purpose, and fought valiantly against your foes. You have faced trials and tribulations far beyond what Paradox Space could reasonably conjure, against impossible odds and insurmountable foes, and, in spite of everything, in spite of a universe hell-bent on your failure, you have come out on top.

[Yaldaboth]: I’m afraid if I were to act as a final challenge at the end of your difficult journey, it would've been a sorely anti-climatic end to an epic tale never before written.

[AC]: <<But I just flew fighter jets and acted as commander, I’m still not that good in hand-to-hand combat, aren’t you gonna test me in that?>>

[Yaldaboth]: Your expertise in piloting and leadership will prove more than enough, for you will acquire invaluable allies during your crusade against Lord English. They will compliment your weaknesses as you compliment theirs.

[AC]: <<Wait, what do you mean by “allies”?>>

[Yaldaboth]: Indeed, you will soon encounter the likes of valiant Knights and wise Seers; steadfast Heirs and brilliant Witches; cunning Thevies and nurturing Slyphs. You will encounter Mages and Maids, Princes and Bards, Pages and Muses, both familiar and alien, and you will lead them to a glorious victory.

[AC]: <<I… Okay, I see…>>

[Yaldaboth]: So go now, claim your ultimate reward, and realize your dreams. Paradox Space awaits, and I can only bestow upon you my humble blessing, Young Lord—for you have certainly earned it.

[AC]: <<...Thank you, Yaldaboth.>>

The young girl lowers her gun and nods in a nod of gratitude. The monster vanishes, leaving behind a ticking clock and an unlocked chest, beckoning the girl to open it. The girl obliges and opens the chest. From it, she retrieves a rifle made of pure ivory, it radiates an aura of unfathomable power, yet so utterly dwarfed in potency compared to the girl’s. With the rifle in hand, the girl turns to look at the clock, she raises her new-found weapon, takes aim, and then, with a pull of the trigger, she shatters the antique clock into splintering wood and surging cosmic shards. Something deep inside the very fabric of reality trembles and shakes, setting a chain of dominos into action, but to the Girl, all she can see is a broken clock. She shrugs, turns around, and begins her climb back to the sun-scorched sands above.

And Paradox Space will never be the same again.

“You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.”

–General Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1944.

Chapter Text

--Intercepting Emergency All-Frequency Transmission from [SNet Facility 0413]--

[TT]: Hello? Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out there?

[TT]: My name is Rose Lalonde. My friends and I are being hunted down by the Alternian Empire for the crime of merely wanting to survive, and I’m afraid they have found us.

[TT]: There are military ships actively firing on our positions, and I don’t know how much more could these walls take. We are doing everything we can to stay alive, but… I’m afraid we couldn’t hold out for much longer.

[TT]: So please, if there’s anyone left out there, we need your help. You are our only hope. 

[TT]: …

[TT]: …

[TT]: …And, if we are truly the only ones left alive out here, then let this message be our final testament, let Paradox Space know that we tried to make a difference against the cruel indifference of the universe, that we tried to make things right, and that we failed. We’ll see you in the Dream Bubbles, Rose Lalonde, out.

--Triangulating Transmission Source Via WATCHTOWER V.3.0--

--Triangulation Complete, Astronomical Coordinates Generated--

--Initializing Connection to EAGLE-NET V.4.1--

[???]: U.S.S. Tradewind of the USCG First Carrier Strike Group responding to your distress call. Hang tight, Mrs. Lalonde, help is on the way.

Esteemed Admiral Pisine Syzikk stares at the view outside the meters-thick reinforced alloy-glass window of her mighty vessel, and she stares at it with a silent glee—for sweeps, she and countless have been entrusted by Her Imperial Condescension herself to hunt down a rebel group hiding somewhere in the Furthest Ring. It hasn’t been easy—finding anything amongst the starless voids of the 

Furthest Ring is like finding a needle in a stack of dried plant products, and even with the advanced sensors onboard every Alternian warship, most of it is really down to luck.  

Thankfully, Luck is one of the many things Pisine Syzikk has in abundance, and her fleet had already successfully located the rebels earlier today. As she speaks, the mighty guns onboard the heavy battlecruiser HCS Hammer of Tyranny and its escorts are bearing down on the rebels’ defenseless base with the full righteous wraith of the Alternian Empire. It’s only a matter of time before the walls come crashing down, and then it’s just a matter of sending drones at the problem until everything inside that primitive meteor facility stops moving.

Of course, the rebels aren’t completely defenseless. One cerulean-blooded traitor and two aliens—one mutant-red and the other royal-purple—have been giving Pisine and her fleet some noticeable but not insurmountable trouble. The cerulean-blood managed to take down one of Pisine’s light frigates before she got too overwhelmed by the fleet’s firepower and the royal purple alien managed to disable a destroyer before being forced back into the meteor alongside the cerulean, leaving its mutant-red compatriot as the only one standing against the fleet.

Pisine… hates to admit this, but the red alien is proving to be a major annoyance, weaving between their ships and slashing components apart with its blade. None of the damage dealt is particularly damaging, but Pisine knows even small cuts can soon add up, and in murky waters like this, who knows what drops of blood may attract…

“Admiral! We’ve got a communications request! It’s…it’s not from Alternia!” Someone on the bridge calls out to Pisine, and her bloodpusher sinks just a little bit. An unknown third party out in the Furthest Ring is an ominous sign for sure—her briefings made it very clear that the only things capable of communicating out here are the Alternian Navy and the traitors. Whoever this third party might be, it introduces an unknown variable to an otherwise simple equation, and, as much as Pisine considers herself lucky, matters like top-priority imperial battle operations should never be left up to luck.

“Get them on comms and trace their locations, I want to know who or what they are.” Deep down, Pisine knows her concerns are just that signature cautious paranoia of the Syzikk bloodline acting up again because nothing can rival the might of the Alternian Empire—alien pirates, cosmic beings, opposing empires… It doesn’t whoever or whatever sent that request, the might of the Alternian Navy will definitely come out on top as usual, but that Syzikk Bloodline paranoia saved her from the culling fork for countless times already, what’s could she possibly lose with one more?

--Initializing Connection to EAGLE-NET V.4.1--

--Warning: Anomalous Connections Detected, Deploying Corporate ICE--

--Line Secured, Counterhack completed. Initiating Communications--

[U.S.S. Tradewind | EAGLE Suppercarrier]: Attention unknown vessel, this is U.S.S. Tradewind of the USCG First Carrier Strike Group and Eagle Private Military Contractor Company. You are currently attacking an unarmed neutral facility, cease fire immediately. Repeat: Cease fire immediately.

[Hammer of Tyranny | Alternian Heavy Cruiser]: Th1s 1s Esteemed Adm1ral P1s1ne Syz1kk of the Altern1an Heavy Cru1ser HCS Hammer of Tyranny. You are 1nterfere1ng w1th off1c1al Altern1an affa1rs. We are s1mply tak1ng care of some tra1tors. Leave us alone and we won’t attack you.

[U.S.S. Tradewind]: We respect Alternia’s national sovereignty but you are attacking unarmed civilians. This constitutes a violation of Article 51 of the Geneva Convention. Cease fire immediately or we will have to intervene.

[Hammer of Tyranny]: What the fuck 1s a Geneva Convent1on? Sect1on 21, subsect1on 9 of the Altern1an Wart1me Codex prem1ts the use of deadly force aga1nst anyone deemed a tra1tor to the Altern1an Emp1re. Plus, these grubfuckers are anyth1ng but unarmed! Now fuck off already!

[U.S.S. Tradewind]: No can do, this is your last chance: disengage and exit the area, or you will face immediate military action.

[Hammer of Tyranny]: 1… you know what? Sure, go the fuck ahead, do you th1nk we care!? We are the Altern1an Navy! 1’m already extend1ng all of you a k1nd hand by g1v1ng you the opt1on for peace you fuck1ng al1ens! Now get lost or we w1ll see you as an enemy to the emp1re alongs1de these tra1tors!

--Communication Ended by Other User--

“The fucking nerves! Who the fuck do they think they are!?” Pisine slams her hands on the “End Communications” Button in a fit of rage. Of course, the one fucking time she decides to listen to her moirail’s words and be kind is gonna be the time when she meets the biggest assholes on this side of the Furthest Ring—she’s doing what she’s told to do, dealing with ALTERNIAN traitors in accordance with ALTERNIAN LAWS , and this fucking so-called United-whatever-the-name-is comes over and just randomly decides to intervene in ALTERNIAN AFFAIRS and had the fucking gall to ignore ALTERNIAN LAWS !?  She doesn't know what kind of alien got their think-pans toasted enough to mess with the Alternian Empire, but if they decide to show up, she’ll be sure to teach them a lesson about who really owns the galaxy…

Plus, it’ll be a fun thing to brag about to her kismessis—that teal bitch (affectionate) in charge of the HCS Spears of Domination always said she’s not cut out for the fleet life despite being a fucking violet. Now she’ll show her! Pisine can almost see the humiliated look on that bastard’s face…

>Elsewhere in Paradox Space…

“Ma’am, they’ve cut communications and aren’t responding to further hails.” A Carapacian dressed in a U.S. naval uniform put her headset down on the table, turning around to face a certain very familiar silver-haired teenage catgirl. The ex-Dersite naval officer looks at the silver-haired catgirl, waiting for a response, and she doesn’t have to wait long.

“The fucking nerves on those motherfuckers!” The girl sighs as her fluffy white tail swishes around in annoyance and mild anger: “Blatently violating the Geneva Convention, trying to prosecute people without due process, and telling the motherfucking United States of all governments to fuck off!? Who the fuck do they think they are!?”

“The uh, the Alternian Navy, apparently.” Another officer—this time an ex-Prospitian—chimes in: “Excluding the facility that sent out the distress call and the one that’s not moving, the boys at CIC says we’ve got about 5 active blips on the radar. 1 big, 4 small. But uh…”

“What, there’s a problem?” The girl gives the officer a look between curious and confused.

“Ay ay, big fucking problem, Ma’am.” The officer nods grimly: “Those ships are, uh, how do I word this, uh, they are weird as hell! Their energy readings are off the charts, and WATCHTOWER is picking up some mad electromagnetic anomalies around them, like a… force field?” The officer sounds unsure at the last sentence, but it’s enough to make the girl concerned.

“Like, no-shit sci-fi force fields? Oh damn, can we, uh, do anything about it?” The girl asks, but immediately adds: “I’m not taking ‘running away’ as an option, by the way.”

“Wait, hold up, we’ve got something! According to the CTs over at cybersec, they tripped our ICE trying to hack us, and even though we probably didn’t get to fry anything, we did gain access to their back doors.” Another officer, this time a blue salamander, joins in on the conversation: “Their data structure has god-awful readability and again, weird as hell, but we did manage to get their shield specs out of that.”

“So what’s the specs on them, spill the beans already!” The girl turns to the salamander officer, her fluffy white ears turning toward them in curiosity.

“Right, as EA2 McLean Smoothtails explained, the enemy seems to be using some sort of bio-electrical device as a shield generator and the way the shield is projected makes it basically impenetrable for conventional weapons.” The salamander looks down at their tablet and starts reading off it.

“So all that money spent installing lasers, particle cannons, and railguns on our ships is basically wasted, huh?” The girl sighs: “So much for high-tech solutions…”

“Not precisely.” The salamander officer corrects the girl and continues: “It seems their shields neutralize attacks by absorbing the energy of the attacks into the bio-electric device—a sufficient amount of energy from, say, those nuclear railguns onboard the Iowa and Missouri can overload and fry their systems to a crisp with a single salvo. Plus, it won’t react to anything going below Mach 2, so our missiles will go right through them—assuming their CWIS systems don’t tear them all to shreds first.”

“Oh, right, okay, that’s some real good news right there...” The girl’s annoyed face brightens up slightly. She then adjusts her stance, clears her throat, and continues with a newfound confidence and assertiveness: “Good, so quick battle plan: fry their shields with railgun attacks, neutralize their point-defense systems, and then finish them off with a saturation missile attack. Is that clear?”

“Ay ay, that’s doable, ma’am.” Someone on the bridge responds and a couple of other “ay ay”s chime in from elsewhere, and that’s all the girl needs.

“Alright, sound the general quarters alarm and get ready. Let’s teach ‘em a lesson about proper diplomatic etiquette!”

>Meanwhile, back on the Alternian Ships…

“Esteemed Admiral! Those ships are not turning away! I think they are preparing to fire at us!” A teal-blood turns around with a concerned tone and Pisine… actually feels excited for once—it has been a long, long while since the Alternian Navy faced any real resistance, and while bombing helpless primitives from high orbit is undeniably fun, some real fleet-on-fleet action, as one-sided as it might be, is a welcoming change in her book.

“Get those idiotic grubfuckers on screen, I need to see just what kind of navy we are up against!” She commands, and her crew obeys. Within less than a second, the massive holographic display shifts, a clear view of the offending fleet appears, and Pisine almost can’t believe what she’s looking at.

A dozen primitive sea-faring military ships clumsily move across the starless void, propelled by clearly makeshift, hilariously crude thruster engines, and in the middle of everything is a Runway Barge , roughly not larger than the average Alternian battleship. It’s like a crude joke—these pathetic aliens that are still primitive enough to use Runway Barges and thruster engines somehow have the nerve to stand up to the Alternian Empire! Condenses’ Sake , Pisine almost wants to laugh, but she decides against it and rather opts to watch the soon-to-occur massacre with some seadweller-appropriate bloodthirsty glee. 

Which, admittedly, her moirail wouldn’t like, but Adoynx is onboard the Blade of Vigilance, and here onboard the Hammer of Vigilance, Pisine makes all the rules.

“Our guns are aligned, Esteemed Admiral, should we fire?” A cerulean blood asks Pisine, and, after a bit of contemplation, she decides to play it safe.

“Yeah, sure. Cull those grubfucking, pan-fried idiots, why not.”

>Back onboard the U.S.S. Tradewind…

“Hostile SAG opening fire! Energy projects bearing 211 incoming, fast! Estimated time to impact 1 minute!” Someone on the bridge shouts out and the girl responds with swiftness. 

“Max power to front deflectors on all ships and deploy ablative interceptors!” 

“Ay, ay, deflectors on max power.” One officer shouts in response, and another one adds: “Interceptors out of the tube and beginning burn towards simulated impact point. Estimated average probability of intercept around 90 percent!”

Several clusters of missiles release from their VLS tubes and fly out toward an empty point in space. Once a noticeable distance from the fleet has been reached, they deploy their payload—massive heatshields unfold from the missiles as they position themselves onto the path of incoming laser fire. Explosions dot the sky seconds later as bright, crimson-red beams stream across the empty void, promptly impacting the unfolded heatshields and vaporizing them almost instantly.

“Initial salvo intercepted! More incoming, bearing 210! Interceptors en route, Probability of intercept 87 percent!”

More explosions blossom like tiny stars amidst the starless void, but a few laser shots sneak past the web of barriers toward the fleet. Most miss and continue off into the void, but one manages to score a hit against a Ticonderoga-class missile cruiser, sending chunks of metal and debris everywhere.

“U.S.S. Bunker Hill taking fire! Damage control teams report significant damage portside! Main gun and portside C-RAM are inoperable!” Someone on the bridge calls out: “Initial estimated casualties at 10 and growing, but she’s still afloat, the deflectors took the brunt of the hit!”

“Yeah, I can fucking see that from here! Angle the Iowa and Missouri for a broadside, rest of the fleet, evasive maneuvers!” The girl responds with a slightly more urgent tone: “Scramble the air wings and deploy MALD drones, let’s give ‘em something else they can shoot!”

>Back onboard the Alternian ships…

“Successful hit on one of their ships, it’s taking heavy damage!” A teal blood report with confidence, but then she looks down at her screen and adds: “Wait… they are deploying something with their small crafts, Esteemed Admiral!”

“Uh, Esteemed Admiral, our targeting systems are overloaded, those things are messing with our sensors!” The cerulean gunnery master calls out immediately, and as much as Pisine hates to say it… these aliens are a clever bunch: intercepting laser beams with deployable heat shields, jamming sensors with disposable miniature crafts… If these ideas were proposed by some highblood in the Alternian Navy they would’ve gotten enough promotions to get their names scribbled on the Imperial Hall of Fame. But alas , they are from a bunch of pan-scrambled alien idiots who are about to get turned into space dust by the righteous might of Her Imperiousness. Pisine almost feels sorry for them, almost.

“Ditch the sensors and use manual targeting. Let’s show them what superior Alternian naval training can do!” Pisine commands, and the cerulean nods in response. The gigantic turrets onboard the HCS Hammer of Tyranny begin rotating toward their targets.

“Main batteries aligned, firing for effect.” A salvo of devastating laser blasts fly out into the void. On the central holographic display, Pisine watches the shots fly above the alien fleet, she notices two of the ships moving into a broadside position, but she’s not worried. What can two primitive ships possibly do against her tight fleet?

“They missed! Overshot by 13 positive standard imperial degrees.” Someone calls out and the cerulean officer responds: “Roger that, adjusting!”

The turrets rotate once more into position and another salvo goes careening into space. One of them manages to score a hit on one of the smaller vessels, ripping it in half, but the majority got intercepted by the aliens’ peculiar heatshield barriers.

“Esteemed Admiral, they’ve returned fire with mass drivers!” A panicked olive blood calls out before Pisine can issue another order.

“Mass drivers? Those primitive things can barely make a dent in our armor, not to mention our shields! Why are you so worried?” Pisine sneers. Mass drivers are cheap and crude, commonly used by primitive civilizations and space pirates—both posing little to no threat to the Alternian Navy. A few mass driver rounds are nothing to be concerned about.

“B…but there’s something wrong with these mass drivers, they are not normal!” The oliveblood responds with an even more panicked tone: “They have weird energy signatures! Wait, those rounds are carrying radiation bombs !”

A mass driver firing radiation bombs!? Pisine feels her already-ice-cold royal blood growing just a bit colder—out of everything the Alternian Navy has to contend with, both real and theoretical, radiation bombs are the only thing that could theoretically take out an Alternian ship. While most civilizations using those weapons like to put them on chemical rockets which are laughably easy to intercept, a mass driver-fired one is something the Naval Academy never mentioned, and worst of all, if a round like that is fast enough to get through their point defense systems, they could cause some real damage to her ships. Only theoretically , of course. Pisine needs to know just how fast these shells are coming.

“Give me a rough estimate for their velocity!” She shouts, and a blueblood looks down at his screen for a brief moment before looking back up with a horrified expression.

“They are traveling at a significant portion of the speed of light! Esteemed Admiral! We can’t intercept them in time!”

Pisine feels her bloodpusher sink, but if she can…

“Incoming! Brace for impact!”

Three bright purple trails of ionized plasma streak into sight and something smashes into the Blade of Viligance, their incredible velocity manages to overwhelm the shields on the Alternian light frigate. Three blinding flashes blossom in the starless void right in front of Pisine’s eyes, vaporizing the stricken vessel in a near instant. The meters-thick blinders on the Hammer of Tyranny slam shut to protect the fragile eyes of its nocturnal crew, obscuring the ongoing devastation, but the holographic screens on the bridge continue to broadcast Pisine’s worst daymare to the rest of the bridge.

Two bright trails of plasma appear on the horizon on a collision course with HCS Harbinger of Armageddon—captained by no other than Pisine’s fucking matesprit , the first one hammers the golden-age Alternian destroyer’s shield with violent momentum before erupting in a blinding flash, and Pisine hopes, no, she prays that the shield will hold—for everyone else onboard, yeah, but mainly for Durana, Pisine need her in one piece for that fleet-side date they were talking about before this assignment…

To her worst fears, the blast continues to expand, and the battle-tested vessel’s shields flicker and falter. Pisine’s blood runs cold but before she can process what’s going to happen, the second alien projectile punches deep into the core compartments of the Harbinger of Armageddon, ripping the bright purple, hundred-sweeps-old ship in half with another ball of flame. 

Three more trails connect with the light frigate HCS Wings of Subjugation, condemning it to the same fate as its sister ship. Invisible rays of radiation echo out, showering the nearby light cruiser, HCS Spears of Domination in a deadly barrage of radiations and overloading its shields, no doubt condemning its helmstroll to an agonizing death in the process. 

And even after all that, the aliens—as the merciless bunch they are—send another two radiation bombs directly into now defenseless HCS Spears of Domination, vaporizing its bridge and carving a massive hole on its side, exposing the interior of the ship to the vacuum of space, sealing the fate of any crew still left alive from the lethal barrage of radiation, and the now-crewless ship spins aimlessly adrift in the emptiness of space.

And all Pisine Syzikk can do is stand and watch in stunned silence.

Hundreds and thousands of Trolls—some of which she knew on a personal basis—all gone in the turn of a few seconds; Four venerable vessels that have survived for eons are now reduced to nothing but space junk in the passing of a few countable seconds, and all that sacrifice, all that loss was in exchange for one badly damaged alien warship and one destroyed uncrewed alien missile barge. 

Pisine doesn't really know what she’s feeling right now. It could be unbearable grief from losing her moirail, matesprit, and kismessis all at once, it could be utter humiliation from being the officer-in-command in the face of the single greatest loss of the Alternian Navy since the Summoner Rebellion… Or it could be a plain, unfiltered sense of shock of sweeps of schoolfeeding turning upside down, but… Whatever it is, it doesn’t really matter. Pisine knows if she goes back to the Alternian Navy, she’s going to get culled for her failure, and if she even thinks about defecting her life strings would be instantly severed by HIM . It’s a lose-lose situation she can’t get out of.

From the edge of her blurry vision, Pisine sees her crew trying to do something, maybe evading another salvo of incoming shots or redirecting the shields, but whatever they are doing, it’s far too little and far too late. Five massive explosions violently shake the HCS Hammer of Tyranny. The golden-age Alternian heavy cruiser trembles, and its neigh-impenetrable energy shield flickers and shatters in a rain of red and blue psionic sparks.

The lights flicker, then dim, and the systems begin shutting down one by one.

Silence.

Fear.

And then, pure panic.

The emergency light flickers back on, illuminating the bridge in an eerie crimson glow—the helmstroll is dead, its brains fried by overwhelming radiation and surges of lethal energy. The HCS Hammer of Tyranny is dead in the water, and everyone on the bridge knows this is the end.

>Meanwhile, Onboard the U.S.S. Tradewind…

“Hit! Hostile ships hit! Confirmed destruction of three vessels, one displaying erratic movement patterns and the big one’s not moving! We got those bastards! Hostile Surface Action Group neutralized!” The weapons officer looks at his screen and reports back, and the silver-haired girl lets out a breath of relief, but before she can say anything in response, another officer replies from somewhere on the bridge.

“Wait! The big one’s not out of the fight yet! It’s systems are still operational!”

“Hey, don’t worry about it! Tomahawks are closing in on it! ETA: 3 minutes!” Some other officer replies, but then the girl suddenly thinks of something, and she shouts out with an urgent tone.

“Wait, put those missiles in a holding pattern! I want to hail the disabled vessel.” She gestures to the weapons officer: “Let’s at least try to get them to surrender.”

“...Are you sure about that, ma’am? They weren’t very talkative before, remember?” The weapons officer obliges, but his voice betrays his doubt.

“Well yeah, but that’s before they are down four ships and become stuck dead in the water. Maybe those nukes changed their mind, like Japan did, y’know?” The girl shrugs.

“Ay ay.” The weapons officer shrugs and the communications officer gives the girl a nod. The ex-Dersite carapacian officer puts her headset back on, but before dialing in the channel, she looks to the silver-haired girl, and in a confused and curious voice, asks:

“Wait, what is a ‘Japan’?”

--Establishing Connection via EAGLE-NET V.4.1--

--Connection Established, Initiating Communications--

[U.S.S. Tradewind | EAGLE Supercarrier]: Attention hostile vessel, this is the U.S.S. Tradewind. Can you hear us? Repeat: Can you hear us?

[Hammer of Tyranny | Alternian Heavy Cruiser]: Th1s 1s P1s1ne Syz1kk, capta1n of the Hammer of Tyranny. Most of my crew are dead. We lost, you’ve won, what… what else would you poss1bly want? Just f1re the cull shot and get th1s over w1th already.

[U.S.S. Tradewind]: Tell your men to down your arms and surrender, Captain Syzikk. Your fleet has been neutralized, and your vessel is no longer combat-capable. Let’s not have any more senseless bloodshed today.

[???Pisine Syzikk | Captain of HCS Hammer of Tyranny???]: 1…no, 1t won’t matter. She’s go1ng to cull me 1f 1 go back, and 1f 1 surrender He’s go1ng to cull me. 1’m dead e1ther way. Just end th1s already.

[U.S.S. Tradewind]: The USCG First Carrier Strike Group is under the jurisdiction of the United States. You and your crews will be treated with dignity as prisoners of war and entitled to a fair trial under United States Laws. If you surrender, you don’t have to die.

[???Pisine Syzikk???]: No, you… you don’t understand. Whoever you are, 1…1 thank you for your k1ndness and your stup1d fuck1ng forg1v1ng heart, but 1 w1ll d1e no matter what. HE controls whether 1 l1ve or d1e, you can’t do anyth1ng… Just…just cull me already, 1n that case, at least 1’ll have a hero’s death.

[U.S.S. Tradewind]: Hold up, what do you mean, “He”?

[???Pisine Syzikk???]: Yes, Lord Engl1sh. He owns my l1fe and every other Troll’s l1fe and we serve h1m. He’s 1mmortal and all-powerful, you can’t beat h1m, just take th1s victory and get on w1th your l1ves.

[???U.S.S. Tradewind???]: <<...Wait! This is Amanda Winston, Lord of Breath, leader of the EAGLE Company and acting president of the United States Contingent Government. Lord English is my mortal enemy and I have the power to defeat him—no, it’s my dust-damned DESTINY to defeat him. You are safe in our hands. C’mon, you can trust me!>>

[???Pisine Syzikk???]: …Does 1t even matter? Everyone 1 know 1s dead because of you. Just… Just fuck1ng cull me and send me to my quads already. 1t’s over, don’t you see that?

[???U.S.S. Tradewind???]: <<I… No! Come on, Syzikk, don’t be stupid! I can fix this! I’ve never even met you before this in my life but I swear I’ll make sure you are safe from that english bastard! Just lay down your arms and surrender for once, please!>>

[???Pisine Syzikk???]: 1…No, not like this. Fine, 1f you won’t f1re, then 1 w1ll. 1’m a ps1on1c, 1 w1ll charge the weapons. Crew! F1re at those sh1ps!

[???U.S.S. Tradewind???]: <<WAIT!!…>>

--Connection Severed by Other User--

The headset crackles into static and the girl slams it back down on the table.

“FUCK! FUCKING DUST DAMN IT! EVERY FUCKING TIME!” She let out a frustrated scream, much to the concern of the naval officers present at the bridge. The communications officer notices tears on the edge of the girl’s eyes, but before she can make a comment, someone on the bridge calls out with great urgency:

“Hostile vessel charging its weapons again, how is it still functional!?” Another officer shouts with a slight panic: “ We are out of ablative interceptors! Those shots are going to connect!”

Every single eye inside the bridge is on the girl now. Everyone knows what must be done, but everyone also knows the girl wouldn’t like that.

“Energy signatures spiking, they are overcharging their cannons! Ma’am! We need to do something!” Someone shouts out, but the girl responds with nothing.

“Charge at 45 percent! One more minute and it’s ready to fire! The Tomahawks are literally right next to them, Ma’am! Give us the word and we can trigger the warheads!” Tension rises, and the girl mumbles something under her breath.

“M…Ma’am?”

“Should’ve…should’ve fucking seen this coming, every single damn fucking time…” The girl mumbles but then she shakes her head, takes a deep breath, and speaks up just enough to convey an order: “Fuck it, do what needs to be done…. Better them than us.”

“Understood.”

Far off into the distance, around a meteor facility surrounded by wrecked ships, a thousand suns ignite all at once. It lights up like a bright beacon, alerting every single Horroterror hiding amongst the Furthest Ring to the presence of a new power and making them cower at the sight of the man-made destruction beyond eldritch comprehension. When the flash finally subsides, nothing but the meteor and space junk remains.

And so, the Alternian Navy suffers the first of its many losses at the hands of one certain silver-haired catgirl…

>Go somewhere else, be someone else…

You look elsewhere, away from the troubled girl and her victorious fleet. You are now someone else.

You are now DAVE STRIDER, and… To say you had the wildest day possible would be an understatement. Shit, it might as well be a complete 180 with how fast things went down—as recent as five hours ago, you were on a three-year inter-universal journey with your friends, living a life of routines, relaxation, and the occasional practice strife. That life had its ups and downs, but all things considered, you and your friends are doing pretty damn well. Like, you even found yourself a stupidly cute alien boyfriend (or “matesprit” in his language) during all that! It was great!

And then fast forward five hours and your life is now completely upside down—first, a bunch of aliens comes knocking with big guns and big ships and turns your humble meteor communal abode into a fucking scene from STAR WARS ; then your sister Rose said she somehow got into contact with good ole Uncle Sam of all people out here in the middle of nothing, and the next thing you know somebody’s out there setting FUCKING NUKES off like it’s the Fourth of July. Nothing makes any sense anymore and you are confused as all hell—about why aliens with big scary invasion ships are now hunting you down (when your alien boyfriend made it VERY clear that he and his friends are the only ones left of their species), sure, but you are a bit more confused about the sudden and UNEXPECTED re-introduction of the Star-Spangled Banner into your life.

Like, everyone on Earth is dead from THE RECKONING, how in the world is there still a United States of America out there!? It could be ghosts in a dream bubble, but that doesn’t explain the fireworks show quantity of nukes that just went off outside. Did some alien find relics on Earth and decide to FLRAP…wait, no, LARP as Uncle Sam? You suppose that could happen, but even if they somehow decide to venture this deep into the Furthest Ring… Aliens would surely have fancier technologies than nukes, right? Ugh , nothing is making sense, but since all of your friends survived the attack, maybe you should feel more thankful about this whole deal.

“Dave?” Someone drags you away from your silent ramblings, it’s Rose! You turn around to respond.

“Yeah? What’s up, sis?”

“Now that the world outside is decently silent again, maybe it is in our best interest to head out and investigate the aftermath.” She says in that elegantly eloquent tone of hers: “Furthermore, I do wish to see America’s apparent new aspiring imitators. I must admit, I am insatiably curious of them.”

You roll your eyes, but you must admit you are also curious…

“Hey! Wait, I can’t believe…ow…You grubfucking idiots want to go outside after…ow ow fucking ow…all that!” Karkat, your adorably cute mutant alien boyfriend pipes up despite his injuries: “Outside is danger, outside is one-hundred-and-thousand-percent guaranteed death! Let’s just stay inside like reasonable sapient species for the rest of the day, can we?” 

“Calm down Karkat Dear, you are stressing your stitches!” Kayana, Rose’s jade-blooded alien girlfriend—and coincidentally the only one here who knows proper (big emphasis on the word “Proper”) first aid—chimes in, gently holding Karkat back as she speaks: “But I do agree with Karkat. From my limited schoolfeeding programs, I can recall radiation being a particularly… unpleasant element to handle. If those are indeed radiation bombs-”

“Nukes.” You correct her. Rose gives you a subtle eye roll from the side.

“Thank you for correcting me, Dave,” Kayana gives you a nod, ignorant of your attempt at sarcasm. She keeps on holding Karkat down, and continues: “But right, if they are truly ‘Nukes’, then maybe it’s too dangerous to go outside right now.” 

“Bah! We are gods, worrying about radiation is for weaklings… ow ow ow Terezi stop poking at my bandage, it hurts! I’m being serious!” Vriska chimes in and immediately got poked by Terezi, her moirai-plus-part-time-kismessis. The cerulean-blooded, spider-themed alien girl grimaces a bit, jokingly slaps her teal-blooded companion on the head, and continues: “As I said, we should totally go out and meet these guys!”

“Okay, we are currently three to two, what’s your opinion on this, Terezi?” Rose turns to the teal-blooded girl and asks, only getting a shrug as a response: “I will consider that an abstain then.” She stands up: “Three for, two against, one abstain. Alright, we have democratically decided that we should go out and meet our would-be saviors!”

“Wait, since when are you in favor of democracy? I remember you always liked to make decisions for everyone else!” You look at Rose and toss her a jab, and she responds with a chuckle:

“Since I have gotten into contact with our new friends. We wouldn’t want to get ‘liberated’ like the Middle East, don’t we, dear brother?

“Nah, we’d be fine…” You shrug: “We don’t have any oil.”

>Dave: Go Meet Your New Allies

Allies? You are not sure what the narrator is talking about! For all you know, what’s coming over the horizon could be a bunch of alien pirates playing pretend! Still, you follow Rose and walk towards the exit. You swing open the hatch and the surface of the meteor lab comes into view, and it’s not pretty.

There’s little to nothing left standing outside. Everything is bombed out and utterly leveled, and the meteor surface itself is littered with all sorts of craters. The debris field of destroyed alien warships is a bit further away, drifting in space. (sometimes you almost forget you are constantly moving…) The rest of your friends walk out of the meters-thick blast door hatch after a bit of hesitation, and sooner than you realize, everyone is outside, sitting or leaning against random piles of debris and bits of ruins and waiting for something to happen.

And you don’t have to wait for long—a few minutes later, the formless void around you suddenly distorts and shifts even more than it usually is. Blackish, unnatural clouds materialize and, pale white lighting strikes flashing inside them as they converge. Then, what sounded like a foghorn rings out, and a massive rift tears open right next to your meteor. Fleets of warships materialize out of the rift and even though you are not a military enthusiast, you still immediately know what those ships belong to—those industrial-grey, aggressively-edged hulls, those neatly painted flawless white english letters and numbers, and of course, those uncannily familiar flags of red, white, and blue… It seems unreal, like some sort of surreal dream, but Karkat’s magnesium-hot hand firmly clasping your left arm reminds you that this is real life or… At least part of your ongoing four-years-and-counting fever dream, and to be completely honest, you are not sure which one is preferable.

You turn to look at Rose and find her staring at it all with a dumbfounded look on her face. It doesn’t really belong to your all-knowing sister, but you think out of everything, this is probably the most acceptable time to be dumbfounded. 

“Are you… seeing what I am seeing?” Rose stammers out something, and you aren’t sure if she’s talking to herself to you, or to anyone else.

“If you mean a bunch of real, actual, completely 100% undeniably American military warships just tore a hole through space and appeared right in front of us, waving the star-spangled banner like it’s Fleet Week all over again then… yes, I am seeing what you are seeing.” Here you are, rambling again, but unlike the usual, Rose doesn’t even bother stopping you: “I am seeing exactly what you are seeing, in fact, I am also seeing Fourth of July fireworks, fighter jet flybys, football commercials, and hearing bald eagle screeches even though that’s totally not what they sound like in reality. I am feeling so incredibly American right now you would not believe it, like, I am so ready to pay taxes to the IRS, get bullied for being gay, and get screwed over by fiscally-irresponsible megacorporations like it’s 2008 again. I’m saying “Thanks Obama” and it’s only 50% sarcastic this time unlike the usual more than 150%…”

Karkat jabs you in the ribs and you shut up. Annoying Rose is your favourite pastime but annoying your unbelievably hot alien boyfriend is a big no-no. By now, the ships have already stopped moving too much, and you see a squad of helicopters rise from the fleet and begin flying towards you. One of them is a weird out-of-proportion plane thing with two comically large propellers, it is painted a distinctive white and olive paint job that you think belongs to the President. Holy shit, you are actually going to meet Obama, you can’t believe it, you are actually going to…

The helicopters land somewhere near you and your friends, and a side hatch pops open on the big olive-and-white one. Some dark-skinned figure hops out, but…

Wait, that’s not Obama!

Well, probably, unless Obama is secretly a silver-haired catgirl(Like an actual catgirl like those in Japanese cartoons), then, in that case, you think there’s going to be a lot more questions than if that person isn’t Obama… Either way, the silver-haired catgirl—roughly your age, maybe a tad bit older—hops out, and a bunch of CONSORTS in secret service outfits follow suit(wait wait wait why are sburb consorts working with America this doesn’t make sense…), they begin walking towards you, stopping a couple of steps in front of you. You also see squads of Carapcians dressed in U.S. military outfits get out of the other helicopters and forming up next to the helicopters.

“Uh, hi?” You give the silver-haired catgirl and her escorting secret service consorts an awkward wave, and you see Rose visibly facepalm right next to you.

“Hi. We, uh, we come in peace. Please ignore the fleet of military ships in the back group, that’s uh, the only thing we have these days. Inflation and the end of the world is one hell of a bitch I tell you what.” Luckily for you, the silver-haired catgirl is equally awkward—she greets you, then looks at your alien boyfriend, then at the rest of your alien friends, and then straight up makes a STAR TREK “Live long and prosper” gesture: “Does uh, do your friends over here speak english?”

“...What the fuck are you doing?” Karkat pips out: “And why is every single grubfucking human calling Alternian English?”

“...So he does speak english! I’m beginning to like this guy already!” The silver-haired chuckles, but then returns to her pretend seriousness: “Ahem, sorry, got a bit off-topic.” She straightens up, clears her throat, and begins: “Anyways, My name is Amanda Winston, the Lord of Breath, Current CEO of the EAGLE Private Military Contractor Company, and the acting president of the United States Contingent Government. We—as in those onboard the fleet behind you—represent what is left of the United States of America, her freedom-loving spirit, and her great constitutions, and considering the state of the world… Well, we are more than willing to establish an official Alliance with, er…”

“Ugh, great, a corporate stooge, an arms dealer, AND a politician, we truly are in the latest stages of capitalism…” You hear Rose mutter something under her breath but before the silver-haired catgirl (Who’s an actual Lord Player and apparently the fucking President, though you aren’t sure which one shocks you more) can ask anything else, your sister changes her tone to a theatrical one: “I am Rose Lalond of the Free People’s Independent Republic of the Meteor, as long as you respect our national sovereignty and our way of life, we are more than glad to form a temporary alliance with you.”

“Y’know, usually regimes that like to call themselves ‘free people’s independent republic’ or some other commie bullshit is neither free, for the people, independent, nor a republic.” The girl looks at Rose with an incredulous stare but then shrugs: “Eh, whatever, y’all look pretty alright even if you guys are unironic commies. Sure. Alliance it is. Mrs. Lalonde, shall we?”

She reaches out a hand in your general direction, and Rose walks up with confidence and shakes it. The girl nods and then relaxes her posture again: “Now with that official business out of the way… you guys look pretty roughed up, wanna go tour the fleet and stop by the Tradewind’s med bay for some patches? The first time’s free of charge.”

“Free healthcare doesn’t sound very am…” And you are now the one jabbing Rose to shut up, wow, how the tables have turned…

Anyways, since the catgirl offered, you might as well take it—being raised in bumfucknowhereville, Texas with Bro, you never really got any chance to tour American military ships. So you nod to the catgirl and say: “Sure dude! That sounds fun!”

And she gives you this warm, genuine smile. You are not in love, but damn , she can actually be pretty friend-shaped if she wants to.

>Dave: Do the Tour.

…

The catgirl offers you and your friend a seat in the weird presidential helicopter-plane thing, and there are real leather sofas and a mini-fridge full of drinks in that thing! You can’t remember when was the last time you had real Coca-Cola, but it tastes as delicious as you remembered. Rose still looks pretty grumpy and cloudy, but her face changed pretty fast after being handed a bottle of some really fancy wine. 

…

You try your best to ignore the logistics of how helicopters can fly in the vacuum of space. You think this kind of science stuff should best be left to Jade, speaking of her, you really miss her. 

…

Karkat apparently never rode on a helicopter before, so throughout the entire ride he’s practically clinging onto you like a kitten. Gog, he’s so fucking cute . You can never get enough of your adorable shouty grey ball of emotions.

…

The weird helicopter (An “Osprey” according to the catgirl) landed on the big aircraft carrier without much fanfare. The aircraft carrier looks bigger and a bit different than the ones you saw on TV. Did they make a new one when you aren’t paying attention? Oh, and there are even more carapacians and consorts. The girl, you, and Rose seem to be the only humans onboard.

…

Holy shit. They actually have a Starbucks. There is a real, no-kidding Starbucks on the ship. You don’t exactly hate Rose’s antique wizard-themed coffee percolator, but it feels so damn good getting some semi-decent coffee after four years.

…

The girl offers to get you guys something to eat at the cafeteria. You kindly decline her offer on the basis that you already had lunch today, but the steaks and lobsters they are serving there are absolutely mouth-watering.

…

There’s a grocery store on the ship. Of course there is a grocery store. Why are you even surprised? They sell a bunch of stuff and accept both U.S. Dollars and Boonbucks, so you decide to buy some apple juice, and by some, you mean TWO WHOLE BOXS of actual Capri Sun apple juice. Too bad you have to lug that around for the rest of the tour…

…

The Hangar is absolutely massive. Way, way bigger than you could’ve ever imagined. There’s a crap-ton of military jets in here, most of them (an “F-35” according to the catgirl, you don’t remember ever seeing one of those on TV, but you did see some planes you recognize from watching Top Gun with John way too many times) look like they belong in a sci-fi movie. Oh, and it turns out that aside from being a Lord Player, a CEO, and the President of the United States, the catgirl is also a legendary fighter jet pilot. At this point, you won’t even be slightly surprised if she turns out to be the second coming of Jesus Christ or some shit like that.

…

Everything on this ship feels like they are a decade in the future, which, considering Paradox Space’s time shenanigans, they probably are. Everyone’s phones have a touchscreen and are apparently smarter than your shitty Nokia, and almost everything is hooked up to the internet. You even saw a bunch of smart toilets that can apparently wash your butt for you in the ship’s restrooms. Wow, future .

…

The sick bay/hospital thingy is pretty impressive, and they patched your friends up without breaking a sweat. Even Kayana is impressed by their needlework. Is this what Rich People's healthcare feels like? No wonder every rich guy in Texas loves America. Too bad you grew up as a piss-poor gay kid with Bro. Ah well, at least you can experience the top-percenter life on a catgirl’s United States aircraft carrier out in the middle of nowhere in space…

…

The tour came to an end soon after that. You’ve seen all you are allowed to see on the ship (A lot of rooms are top secret or off-limits, which is fair you suppose), and now Rose and the Catgirl are sitting inside a conference room discussing the details of the alliance. Apparently, the Catgirl (She has a name, maybe you should stop calling her The Catgirl and use her name instead) got some mad beef with that weird Lord English guy too, and she’s willing to give out all sorts of supplies and weapons in exchange for a harbor for her fleet, which, in layman’s term, means the Meteor. Rose is significantly less grumpy after the bottle of fancy wine and knowing she and the Catgirl have a common enemy, which is good. Grumpy Rose is bad for everyone including herself.

…

By the time you guys got back onto the meteor, there were already a bunch of construction guys rebuilding all the destroyed stuff and building a bunch of extra stuff. Thankfully the noise of the construction doesn’t reach the facilities inside the meteor, which is where you guys sleep. The catgirl even got herself a makeshift hangar bay as her own room courtesy of the meteor house rule. She’s not sleeping in there yet, but you suppose she’s eventually gonna do something with it.

…

All in all, the tour was pretty nice—you didn’t really expect just how good the re-introduction of familiar consumer products into your life can feel, but you won’t lie:  when the Carrier docks with the meteor again, you’ll be sure to visit that grocery store and the Starbucks again. You suppose you are excited about a new powerful ally too, but the grocery store thing is still fresh on your mind like how the taste of real AJs is still fresh in your mouth.

Anyway, today was… a lot to process and you are getting tired. Karkat is already sleeping and purring next to you, and you think you should get some shut-eye. Whatever awaits you tomorrow is going to be wilder, and you better have all the energy you need—a voice deep inside your mind tells you you’ll need it.

>Dave: Cuddle Karkat and Sleep.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Paradox Space, amidst the starless voids of the FURTHEST RING, is a meteor. It drifts across the vast emptiness, propelled by the lingering wills of two long-gone psychics and seven hastily tacked-on fusion engines. A couple of undoubtedly American warships rest calmy in the Meteor’s makeshift dockyard while a few more circle the ageless rock, much like birds around their nest. A few turrets, missile launchers, and radar dishes dot the surface, transforming what used to be a peaceful installation into a primitive but effective military outpost.

Deep inside the Meteor, somewhere in between winding corridors and convoluted staircases, is a room. High-performance data cables extend and flow out of its barely closed door like writhing snakes while the droning hum of cooling fans and the occasional beeps and boops of computers echo out into the vacant halls. Inside the room, amongst numerous obelisk-like server racks and even more monitors, is a certain silver-haired teenage catgirl. She perches cross-legged on top of an unassuming office chair, coffee in hand, staring at an overwhelming array of screens in front of her with a nonchalant but intense focus.

Of course, she’s a familiar figure that needs no further introduction, so let’s skip the formalities and see what she’s doing, shall we?

>Be The Silver-haired teenage catgirl.

You are now the silver-haired teenage catgirl. Your name is Amanda Winston, it has been one whole week since you last appeared on this ongoing narrative of yours, and after all that time, you can confidently report that things have been, uh, well…

Shit , you honestly aren’t sure if things are going well or badly at this point—an even split of progress and setbacks makes it hard to judge your progress and even harder to judge your success. It’s like taking baby steps on a molasses-slow treadmill while being blindfolded: you are pretty sure you are making progress, it certainly feels like you are going forward, but it’s just so damn slow it might as well be a total fucking standstill.

Part of the problem can be attributed to yours truly as always since you have critically, catastrophically underprepared for this war—you spent the better half of your game session building an unquestionably AMERICAN military and you barged into this universe expecting to fight like an AMERICAN, but instead of overwhelming firepower and downright unfair technological overmatch against your foes, you now find yourself out-gunned, out-manned, and most egregiously, out-teched against the ALTERNIAN EMPIRE. In fact, the only thing keeping the calculus of war somewhat in your favor is your reserve of roughly 3000 thermonuclear warheads, and that number is rapidly dwindling with every engagement you find yourself in.

Still, the lack of quality in your weapons can usually be made up by sufficient quantity. As long as you can produce enough nukes and find enough people willing to lob those nukes at anything flying the Alternian flag, you’d still theoretically be on the winning track. Too bad you are in the middle of a rapidly collapsing non-euclidian void filled with nothing but Alternian ships, cosmic horrors, and decaying facilities that once belonged to SBURB’s mysterious creator with nobody to recruit and no land to grab. Whatever progress you make is… minuscule at best. Even with your engineers working around the clock figuring out novel ways to recycle destroyed alternian vessels and establishing makeshift production facilities onboard any non-combat-critical ships they can put their hands on, things are just developing too damn slow for your comfort.

Of course, it would’ve been faster if you had some more real estate, more knowledge of SBURB’s game mechanics, and more manpower, but you are incredibly bad at making friends. As of right now, the only foreign organization that roughly tolerates your existence here is a group of plucky rebels hiding onboard a meteor facility, and calling them “an organization” seems to be an incredibly far stretch—they are more like a ragtag group of friends clinging on despite the apocalypse than a professional anti-regime rebel cell. And despite every one of them being highly professional specialists in either combat, SBURB insight, or magical prowess, they are simply far too disorganized and tiny to mount an effective resistance against either Lord English or the Alternian Empire.

Plus, you don’t exactly see eye-to-eye with them. Between ideological gaps, cultural differences, and their admittedly honorable reluctance to submit to authority, most attempts at cooperation and communication have been unproductive at best and outright disastrous at worst. Like shit, you could still remember the absolute dumpster fire that was the last meeting…

>During the last meeting, a few days ago…

“… in conclusion, the current readiness level of F.O.B. Meteor, which is sitting at the mind-bogglingly low number of ZERO by the way, is completely and utterly unacceptable. Something needs to change right here right now, or someone is going to die a very preventable death somewhere down the path. Let’s not make that happen, shall we?” flipping to the final page of your slideshow, you conclude your hour-long presentation with a summary, eliciting a cacophony of annoyed groans and unimpressed sighs across the room.

“Gee, thank you SO MUCH for pointing out how much our plans sucked with this hour-long presentation, there is absolutely NO way we couldn’t figure all of that out by ourselves!” Karkat Vantas, the short, grey shouty Troll boy speaks up with a thoroughly unimpressed tone, looking at you with his pretty but constantly scowling face: “Is this it? An entire hour shaved off our lives just to tell us how much we suck without giving a solution? Are all Humans this stupidly unproductive or is it just a ‘you’ issue?”

“Karkat, I can assure you that this is just a ‘her’ issue.” The blonde-haired, attractive but also incredibly annoying human girl, Rose Lalonde, chimes in, and you can already feel your blood pressure rise: “Most humans are actually quite productive, but our institutions—as in, the governments, the militaries and the corporations—are all horribly inefficient bureaucratic nightmares, and this girl in front of you is sadly all of them at once. I’m only glad she didn’t ask us to sign ten different forms just to attend this meeting.”

“...I’m still here and listening, y’know.” You sigh and look at Rose with a slightly annoyed expression but then turn to look at the rest of the room: “Anyways, all of that was necessary to lay the groundwork for a semi-comprehensive infrastructure renewal and force reorganization project that will hopefully drastically increase your odds of survival.” You close your current presentation and—despite the audible protest and groans—pull up a new one on the conference room Macbook.

“...United States—Independent Free People’s Republic of the Meteor Joint Force Reorganization and Readiness Renewal Project Phase 1, and I thought the titles of Alternian romance novels are long enough!” Somebody reads the title out loud and you could hear a couple of dismissive chuckles across the room. But you continue…

“Now, I’ve prepared this 100-page detailed presentation about a comprehensive force restructuring project, but considering just how long this meeting has dragged on, I have elected to give you the TL;DR version instead.” You flick through your slides until you reach a page with some blueprints: “The United States Contingent Government and my EAGLE PMC will be building a couple of military installations onboard the meteor that should greatly enhance our operational capacities while providing solid protection for you guys. It’ll be uh, mostly surface-level changes and shouldn’t affect your daily lives all too much. You have my words.”

“Wait, just what exactly do you mean by ‘surface level changes?’ I need to see the fine print before I feel comfortable to decide anything.” Rose pipes up with a question and an incredulous stare: “I certainly do not look forward to one day waking up and seeing nuclear missile silos and oil rigs on the meteor.”

“Huh, the hell’s your obsession with oil, girl??” You tilt your head slightly at Rose’s weird question, to which she grins smugly and replies something down the line of “You would know because you are American.” You think it’s supposed to be one of her annoying jabs at you, but it completely went over your head, so you choose to ignore her and continue as she gives you this annoyed look.

“Ugh, whatever the fuck was that… anyways back on topic. All I’m asking for is some basic military infrastructure like a temporary dock, some SAM systems for self-defense, a couple of deep space surveillance relays for communication and that’s it. No nukes, no factories, and absolutely no oil rigs, I promise.” You pull out another slideshow filled with proposed construction plans, and Rose responds again, this time a lot angrier than before.

“Well absolutely not! You people may consider building bases wherever it fits an appropriate act, but Dave and I know it for what it really is: it’s pure, unfettered, and unapologetic neo-colonialism! You people have already messed up enough things with your capitalist and imperialist mindset back on Earth, you are NOT colonizing this meteor with your CIA spy base nonsense!” Rose sounds a lot more confident and serious this time, too bad she’s speaking absolute fucking gibberish.

“Huh? Colonization? Imperialism?? CIA spy base??? W… what the fuck are you on? No, like, seriously! All I’m asking is some mutually beneficial low-impact infrastructure that makes BOTH of us safer, how the hell is that imperialism!? Are you seriously going to look at Lord English and the fucking Alternian Empire then go ahead and call ME the imperialist??” Now you are the one who’s sounding incredulous, and it seems that sentiment is shared among the rest of the room.

“Rose, my darling, I am as weary as you are when it comes to allowing strangers to build war-related buildings on top of our home,” Kanaya Maryam, Rose’s charming vampire Troll girlfriend chimes in with her elegantly posh British accent and delightfully reasonable mannerisms: “But, considering her actions during the past few days, I believe she is truly trying to help, and on the basis of our last encounter with the Alternian Empire, I think it might be in our best interest to accept her offer.”

“Not you too, Kanaya! Ugh, you don’t get it, she’s a right-winger, and right-wingers are all evil war profiteers! According to Noam Chomsky and Karl Marx…” Rose tries to argue further but Kanaya gently holds her hands and murmurs something in her ear and it somehow magically calms Rose down to a much more reasonable mood.

“I… Ugh, fine! Build your bases, just leave the whole surveillance state thing out of this, six years of PATRIOT Act is torture enough…” She rolls her eyes and leans back into her seat, grumbling as she does so.

…You uh, you still have no fucking clue what Rose is talking about. Whatever, at least that’s out of the way. Now for something else.

“Oh, and another thing,” You flip the slideshow to the next page: “During my initial survey of the Meteor, I spotted a couple of largely empty bedrooms over here, here and here. There are quite a few items in them but they seem to be otherwise unoccupied.” You point to those rooms on the schematics and continue: “I always need more data centers for our WATCHTOWER neural-network analysis system if they aren’t…”

“NO, Wait! Those rooms are…fuck, were lived in! Some more of my friends used to live there, those are for them!” Karkat shouts out with a panicked tone, eliciting a concerned look from Kanaya and Dave: “Just leave those rooms alone! Anything else’s fine!” 

“There are inches-thick layers of dust in those rooms, Mr. Vantas. Anyone living there is either a ghost or hasn't been in those rooms for at least a year.” You look at the shouty gray Troll boy in front of you with slight concern: “I’m sorry to break the news, but… whoever uh, used to live in those rooms is long gone, those rooms are no longer lived in, not anymore.”

“Oh, do you think I don’t know!? Thank you SO FUCKING MUCH for telling me, the troll who saw their friends die in front of their own fucking eyes that “Yes, yes your friends have indeed died because you are an incompetent idiot”, I couldn’t have possibly figured that out without you!” Karkat sounds acidic and toxic but also on the verge of tears: “I know, I know they are all dead! They are all dead because of me and those rooms are all that’s left of them!”

“And pretending those rooms are still occupied is not a healthy way to deal with loss, Mr. Vantas!” You look into Karkat and you feel like looking at yourself 4 years ago. But that also means you know what can get him out of that pit: “I lost people before, and I know how that feels, but getting overwhelmed by grief and pretending they are still there is a poor coping mechanism. They are dead, long gone, you just… Well, you just gotta carry on and keep on living, if not for yourself, then for them! You can’t be stuck in the past like this. Dead people can’t come back, and all you can do is move on and let time dull the pain of your loss, there is no other way!”

“Wait, I believe there is a slight misunderstanding between you and Karkat, Mrs. Amanda!” Kanaya interrupts you: “What I assume Karkat might have meant is that those rooms are no longer bedrooms, but memorials for our fallen friends, is that right, dear?” She looks to Karkat, and he gives her a small but noticeable nod.

“Oh… Okay, that’s significantly less concerning but,” You pause and ponder whether you should say what you are going to say next, and eventually decide that the pros outweigh the cons: “My last point still stands—like it or not, we all lose people in our lives, and eventually we just need to harden up and accept that. Souvenirs and memorabilia like these just make that pain last much longer. If anything, repurposing those rooms and turning them from graveyards into something useful is actually beneficial… ack!” Your words get caught in your mouth as a razor-sharp sickle slashes just a few inches shallow of the vital parts of your throat, leaving a thin rivulet of red in its path before pressing down against your air pipe. Your eyes refocus in an instant on one sickle-wielding, teary-eyed Karkat Vantas. How the fuck did he do that!? you didn’t even see him move! 

“Don’t you EVER talk about my friends like that.” His sickle-wielding hand is still shaking from intense emotions and adrenaline as he looks right into your eyes: “You don’t know SHIT about the bond we had nor will you EVER understand what I've been through. So stop fucking pretending you do. I don’t care what else you have in mind for our home, but the rooms stay, end of the debate.” He stares right at you, red-hot fiery gaze locked onto your ice-cold glacier stare as he makes his ultimatum: “Mention that shit about destroying my friends’ stuff again, and the sickle won’t land so shallow next time.”

The room erupts into chaos, you see Dave dragging Karkat away while Kanaya does that weird alien “shoosh pap” routine on him as she tries to apologize to you on his behalf. You see Terezi doing some unknown thing and you see Vriska chuckling to herself, and out of all of that commotion, you hear Rose saying “I told you she’s a heartless right-winger…”

The meeting ended soon after that. Most people left without a word, Rose gave you a look of pure hatred and disgust, Karkat didn’t even bother looking at you, and Dave, busy chasing after Karkat, just said one thing.

“Not cool, dude. Not cool”

>Amanda: End your flashback.

You end your trip down the “Amanda fucks up horrendously because she’s a fucking idiot” memory lane and return to the present. It’s been a few days since that meeting, and thankfully most of what you proposed—with the obvious exception of the extra server room plan—has been completed without much hiccup. Plus, there hasn’t been another attempt on your life or any more troubles coming from Team Meteor either, so that’s great.

Well, to be fair, the whole “no troubles” thing mainly comes from your renewed attempt at leaving them the fuck alone for the rest of eternity. You aren’t sure if Karkat’s dead friends are truly haunting this meteor or not, but you are definitely in the process of becoming a ghost—you try your best to stay in your room when you are off-duty, going to the common area only when it’s empty and otherwise tip-toeing around your new “allies”. You don’t talk to them, and they don’t seem to talk to you.

It’s, uh, pretty suboptimal, but you can make it work: You are not here to make friends, you are simply here for a no-string-attached alliance against a common foe, and once Lord English and his cronies have been defeated, you are more than happy to go separate ways with these kids—their disorganized civilian lifestyle doesn’t really sit well with you anyways.

Still… No matter what you tell yourself, you just can’t kill the lingering sense of bitter jealousy that just keeps on bubbling up whenever you walk past one of their fun friendly get-togethers—the way they chat and banter and enjoy their lives when you are not around keeps reminding you of the times you spent with your old friends. It’s been a very, very long time, but memories like that tend to last, and despite everything, the days when you were loved, when somebody cared about you, and when you weren’t a cold-blooded murder machine but an actual, living human being still lingers inside your mind like the echoes of a long-gone song.

And fuck, it still hurts. You know you can’t, and probably don’t deserve to have them back, but all the what-ifs and could-haves just keep bubbling up whenever you think about the good days that will never come again. 

… Yeah, in retrospect, maybe you were the asshole telling Karkat all that bullshit, cuz’ you don’t even practice what you preach: You still miss the countless nights spent watching movies while cuddling together with your best buds on a scrappy hundred-year-old sofa; you still miss the celebratory parties and drinks whenever you scored a big contract, and you still miss—above all else—the hugs, head pats, and gentle kisses that kept you going in spite of a hateful world. You know you could’ve, should’ve done more, but you didn’t, and the guilt and regret are eating you up alive.

…Which means you should stop thinking about them. You tend to believe that dead-friend-related bad vibes cannot legally mess up your day without your consent, and as long as you try your best to not think about it, you don’t have to worry about it. All you need to do is to figure out something else to occupy your mind with. You think you should get out of your damn room, get some coffee, some snacks, or just a cup of water. Shit , at this point anything other than staring at the same damn screen for another minute would do.

>Amanda: Go do something else.

You think you’ll grab another cup of coffee—that bitter, blackish-burnt bean liquid has you in its supernaturally alluring grip and you just can’t quit. You stand up from your seat, walk past the tangled mess of cables and server racks, and out of your room. The hallways of the Meteor are dark and winding as always, but it’s alright. You have your cat-like eyes and your trusty FN P-90. Creatures lurking in the dark—imaginary or not—are not so scary when you have a fine piece of Belgian engineering capable of firing 900 rounds of 5.7X28mm polymer-coated armor-piercing bullets per minute tucked snugly inside your jacket.

You continue down the snaking hallways of the Meteor, walking past old battle scars and decrepit, abandoned rooms. It’s a… different feeling than what you are used to: compared to the neat, brightly-lit hallways of the U.S.S. Tradewind that invokes emotions of confidence and control, the vacant hallways of the Meteor instead echoes a melancholy tone of loss, despair, and people desperately holding on despite it all. It’s oddly familiar, except this particular sense of familiarity isn’t something you want in your life ever again.

Ah well, all of that can wait. You are here for a cup of coffee and a nice ‘ol bit of escapism, not more depression. Speaking of which, you can now see the kitchen area is just up ahead. Judging by the sounds and lights coming from the common area, Team Meteor is having one of their movie nights again. Good. The sound of the movie will drown out the sound of you getting a cup of coffee, that’s one less chance of them noticing. You make your way to the Kitchen. Tip-toeing your way inside, you find…

Karkat Vantas, staring right at you, microwaving a bag of popcorn.

Ah, shit.

>Karkat: Confront the Catgirl.

You are now Karkat Vantas.

You are currently standing inside the Meteor’s meal block, preparing your corn-based confectionary snack for the movie, and of course, staring at the new and bizarre human purrbeast girl (whom you had previously threatened to cull over an argument) with a shocked and flabbergasted expression.

“H…hey, Karkat.” She breaks the silence first in that mildly awkward and distant tone she always uses around you and your friends: “How’s the, uh, how’s your day been, huh?”

“...Good, How about you?” You watch her walk toward the so-called ESPRESSO MACHINE which is apparently totally different and better than the Meteor’s Coffee Gadget and decide to respond with the best neutral tone you can conjure, which, admittedly, probably still makes you sound angry and shouty to her.

“It’s uh, alright.” She continues fidgeting with her coffee-producing contraption and responds back without even looking at you: “Been a pretty tough day doing paperwork and shit. Thankfully I got a day off tomorrow so it’s not that bad.”

“Cool.” You respond briskly and silence envelopes the room again. The tension in the meal block is so high you can probably reach out and grab a clawful of it. Seems like she still hasn’t gotten over your catastrophic fuck-up. You suppose you can only be glad she doesn’t appear any colder or elusive than usual.

You won’t lie, you are tempted to leave this conversion as is—you heat up your corn-based confectionary snack, head back to your friends while she gets her bitter caffeinated anxiety drink and fucks off to wherever she stays at. Sure, everything will stay the same and the human purrbeast girl will continue being cold and aloof, but at least you won’t piss her off even further. It’s not great but it’s not terrible either. But…

 You had this big talk with Kanaya and Dave a few nights back and you promised to do something about this exact situation. Sure, you are a pan-rotten emotional trainwreck wrapped in a thick cocoon of lowblood incompetency, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least try to fix your mistakes.

“Wait,” You turn to the human purrbeast girl, look her in her eyes, and say: “There is… something I wanted to talk to you about.”

The girl looks back at you with a surprised and slightly concerned look as if you’ve just challenged her to a strife. You can feel the tension in the room rise to a new high and seconds suddenly feel like sweeps, but thankfully she doesn't pause for too long.

“...It’s, uh, about our last meeting, right?” She replies in an apprehensive tone and you wonder if you had fucked everything up already. Well, it’s too late for you to back out now.

“Uhm, yeah.” You take a deep breath, put on your most sincere expression, and continue: “I want to apologize for what I did back then.”

“...Huh?” The girl sounds incredulous. You suppose that’s fair: an apology, according to Dave, usually needs a lot more details than what you just said.

“Yeah, I’m sorry for threatening you with my sickle during our last meeting. I was overreacting a lot and I want to apologize.” You blurt out some jumble of words and then realize how robotic you sounded. Fuck. Your extensive vocabulary is mostly geared toward conjuring creative insults, not blood-pusher-felt apologies. Unless you count the half-assed shit you and Sollux fling at each other, but… The girl’s not Sollux. She’s not even your friend.

“Well, I mean, you don’t really need to apologize about that.” The girl shakes her head, her glacier-cold gaze shifting to something equally cold but a lot less harsh as she lets out a slight, unnoticeable sigh: “I admit, I was being inconsiderate about your cultural norms and clearly pushing some boundaries with that request. Even though your response was a bit, uh, extreme, it’s ultimately understandable. You don’t need to apologize for that. The faults’ on me.”

Annnnd fuck, now you are feeling even guiltier than before—you were the one who snapped and threatened her over something that could’ve been resolved through normal conversation, but she’s the one to apologize? That’s simply not fair! You got quite a few underserved apologies before but you think if you just accepted hers without saying anything right now you’d never sleep well ever again, not even with Sopor slime. So you won’t.

“Well, still…” You open your mouth again and try to argue the case for her to accept your apology instead of vice versa: “I shouldn’t have done that! I mean, A lot worse has been said to me, some of them from my own fucking friends and I never threatened words with action. In fact, Kanaya and I talked about your advice after the meeting and…” You try your best impression of a thankful expression (no doubt failing miserably judging by the girl’s reaction): “I think what you said did have some value. Especially the whole thing about moving on and carrying the legacies of fallen friends not through souvenirs, but through memories. Instead of just mourning my dead friends, I should’ve learned from my mistakes and focused more on my alive friends. If anything, I should be thanking you for reminding me…”

You pause your sentence because the girl now looks absolutely distressed with your words and you wonder if you said something you shouldn’t have. She looks at you with this complicated emotion and her pair of purrbeast ears are swooped downwards. From what limited interactions you had with Nepeta—your long-dead friend plus once-crush and local purrbeast whisperer—if a purrbeast swoops their ears down, it means they are NOT happy with something. Okay, not good, you probably just fucked up big time again! You need to…

“I…” The girl responds faster than you could, and you swear this is the first time you hear her say your actual name: “Karkat… Oh god, I… I’m so fucking sorry.” Fuck, She looks like she’s on the edge of tears: “I… Fuck. Listen, I…I was bullshitting you with advice that never worked! What I said back then was nothing but a bunch of nonsense I fooled myself into believing and was somehow delusional enough to try to teach to everyone else!” She then let out a much more audible sigh and continues: “Shit like that might’ve worked if you, I dunno, lost someone in your platoon or like, a random squadmate you’ve been assigned to, but friends… friends are just… different. I don’t know what was your relationship with your old friends, but I lost a lot of friends before, and… and I…”  Her usual glacier-cold gaze gives way to a never-before-seen expression of soft melancholy, sadness, and unimaginable pain: “I still miss them, I still miss them, every waking fucking moment .”

That soft expression, of course, does not last. It disappears as quickly as it comes, and before you know it, the girl’s alien-yet-strangely decipherable olive-white eyes return to their icy, steadfast glare, and with another deep breath, she returns to her regular stone-cold professionalism like nothing ever happened: “...But… I guess that doesn’t matter here. ‘Fact is: I fucked up. I overstepped my boundaries and intruded on your internal affairs, and I lied straight to your faces while doing so. Those behaviors were utterly unprofessional and unacceptable, both as a diplomat to a sovereign foreign nation and as a person. I'm not expecting forgiveness for what I’ve done, but I should at least try to apologize. So... yeah: I... I’m sorry, It won't happen again. I promise.”

“...Apologies accepted.” You thought about continue trying to get her to accept your apologies, but you know it’s a losing battle. So you instead decide to conceit: “And of course, I forgive you.”

“...Thanks.” She responds with a tiny smile and picks up her now-finished coffee from her fancy coffee machine, no doubt planning to walk back to her room doing gog-knows what, but you just can’t her brief expression of sadness out of your mind. The way she talked, the way she handled herself around you, the way she acted… It somewhat reminds you of Dave before he came out of his stoic shell, and you have a hunch that her similarities with Dave don’t end with just that—there’s a lot more than meets the eye about this girl, and you want, no, need to know more about her.

Dave once joked about you being pale for everyone on this meteor, and while you can neither confirm nor deny that accusation, you suppose adding another to the ever-growing list of “people Karkat is stubbornly platonically pale for” wouldn’t hurt.

And oooh boy, you’ve got just the idea for a start.

>Amanda: Watch a movie with Karkat

You are now Amanda Winston, fresh off of your apologies and your brief trip down bad memory lane, and out of everything the shouty grey Troll boy in front of you could’ve said after accepting your apologies, the sentence “Do you want to watch a movie with us” was definitely not one of them.

Yet… that’s what he said. A hundred percent sincere and totally devoid of his usual Karkat-flavoured sarcasm. And for once, you don’t know the answer.

Do you want to watch a movie? Maybe. It’s been a long, long time since you last watched a movie with other people, and you know—from experience—times like that are usually good times all around. Karkat said something about watching a “movie about humans flying the loud flying machines like the ones you fly on a ship much like yours.” You suppose that means they are watching TOP GUN, and, despite having watched the original enough times to recite the entire movie with your eyes closed, you’ll never say no to an opportunity to watch TOP GUN.

But… on the other hand, it’s with Team Meteor. You are still apprehensive about both the idea of loosening yourself up to the group and the thought of watching a movie with Rose “I’m smarter than you and I’m annoyingly smug about it” Lalonde. You know movie nights—if done right—are gateway drugs to friendship and Dust-mother knows you are not ready to be friends with these kids. Your friends tend to all die because of you, and you do not want your only allies in this cold, dark void to die.

Nevertheless, those are all personal feelings. You know from a purely diplomatic standpoint, a movie night should clear the ice a lot quicker than other efforts, and you need a quick kickstart to your currently non-existent “hearts and minds” campaign onboard the Meteor—cozying up to the locals means an easier time exchanging information, expertise and maybe eventually manpower. As the Acting President (at least until the first election in 2 months) of the United States Contingent Government and her chief diplomat, you are obligated to do whatever you can to advance America’s national interest, and if that means watching a movie… You suppose you can’t say no.

“I’ve got a day off tomorrow and I’m mostly done with my stuff, so…” You give Karkat a shrug: “Sure, sign me the fuck up. Let’s watch this movie!”

>...

You follow Karkat to the communal area and yep, the TV is playing the first few minutes of the original TOP GUN. Everyone else is already there. They turn to look at you and Karkat and, as expected, all of them have this perplexed and slightly concerned expression on their faces.

“Guess what bulge-suckers!” Karkat announces with a cheerful voice and an… unfittingly vulgar greeting: “The Human Purrbeast Girl and I had a talk in the meal block and we resolved our differences, and now she’s going to watch the movie with us!”

“What, she pointed a gun to your head and forced you to 'memory hole' the incident ?” Rose speaks with a genuinely confused but still annoyingly snarky tone: “Blink three times for yes. We are all here for you, Karkat.”

“Wha... Hell no! Did you get your think-pan fried by cosmic rays, Rose?” Karkat seems to be as annoyed as you are: “She apologized to me and I forgave her, that’s it!”

“Really? You got her to apologize? Damn, Kar-babe, you got some impeccable diplomacy skills.” Dave responds with a chuckle and turns to look at you, gesturing you to sit down with the rest of the group: “Well, if Karkat forgave you I forgive you too, c’mon, let’s watch TOP GUN, I bet you’ll like it.” You, of course, happily oblige. 

That being said, there doesn’t seem to be an extra seat or padding. Which means you have to sit on the floor, next to Dave and Karkat, and (preferably) as far from Rose as humanly possible. It's alright though. You've had your fair share of experience on this whole "sitting on the concrete" thing, and you manage to find a comfortable spot in no time.

Then, Dave grabs the remote and unpauses the film and before you know it, you are watching Tom Cruise get up to his plane shenanigans alongside a bunch of kids you’ve met less than a week ago.

>...

The movie goes on and you aren't sure if you are more interested in TOP GUN or whatever's happening around you: Aside from the audio of the movie, You also hear Karkat blabbering on and on about potential Troll romance quadrants between all the characters with Dave (And you honestly agree! Mav and Rooster are totally gay for each other!); Terezi asking nonstop questions about the “bizarre” customs and laws of human society; Kanaya casually critiquing every single character’s fashion sense and a lot, lot more snark from Rose that you have elected to ignore. You won't lie, all this friendly chatter does bring you right back to the good 'ol days, and for once, you don't object to revisiting those memories. Instead, you simply choose to remain silent, sitting on the sidelines and enjoying the scene unfolding right in front of you.

And throughout all of that, you never once stopped wearing that slight, unnoticeable smile on your face nor did you stop feeling the lingering sense of warmth inside your heart. Fuck, You won’t lie, these kids (You keep calling them kids even though they are the same age as you are…) do have something special between them, and maybe, just maybe, you can have a part of that too.

Sure, they will never care for you the way Avie did, never cherish you the way Katt did, never love you the way Joey did, but that’s alright. You know you no longer deserve friends like that after what you’ve done. So a group of amicable allies whom you can occasionally bond with is already good enough. You can already imagine the occasional movie nights, friendly small talks in the hallway, and maybe a few diplomatic bouquets with these guys, it honestly sounds pretty damn awesome. It's not true friendship, but it’s more than enough, and you’ll try your damnedest to keep them alive—not because you want more people in your life, but because you’ve still got one hell of a debt to pay.

All you need to do is to watch their backs and not get too attached. How hard can that be?