The Sky is Clear, ft. TWICE Momo
tags: oversized robots go boom
length: 23k+ (!)
author's note: This is probably the longest fic I'll ever put out. Boy was it exhausting. And this picture has nothing to do with the story.
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“Attention! Officer on deck!”
The pilots quickly get on their feet at the sudden notice, the shout silencing the murmurs and chatters. A deep cut scar slices the lieutenant general's left cheek as he paces the rows of fighter jet pilots. Every pilot holds their breath, unsure of where this summon is heading. The clacking sound of his boots is a metronome counting down to zero, each one carrying a sense of urgency. Captain Chael Flint―his fists clench so firmly that it almost hurts.
The elderly officer finally stops pacing, his eyes sweeping across the rigid line of pilots. He doesn't smile. He doesn't even blink. He stops directly in front of Chael, his shadow momentarily eclipsing the fluorescent light above. "The war is changing, ladies and gents," he announces, his voice not a shout but a low, dangerous rumble that still manages to fill the massive hangar. “The enemies are taking the fights to outer space―what options do we have but to meet them there?”
Chael releases his grip on the table, swallowing a dry gulp as the large monitor behind the General stirs to life, where a large, circular symbol is taking nearly the whole space. “The Cazador Program,” he thinks, recognizing the right-facing helmet that resembles that of ancient Sparta from a previous briefing. He’s heard of this initiative before, from his same-rank brothers and superior officers alike, but now that it’s about to manifest, to become more than just a whisper among soldiers―it sends a different kind of dread through him. This is the call-up he’s always wanted and feared. This is not a simple promotion; this is a transition to a new self.
“Captain Flint,” the old General shifts his attention, “you know why you’ve been summoned here, do you not?” Straightening his neck, Chael nods, his eyes locked with the General’s. “Sir, yes, sir,” he replies, his voice tight, his breath controlled. “As I’ve estimated, based on other personnel present in this room, we are the first initiates for this program.”
The General’s mustache twitches, a smile forming for a split second before it’s quickly erased. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, crowding Chael's space, the weight of his stare palpable. He slips his hands into his pockets, the casual gesture somehow more threatening than a salute. “And why do you think you are the first initiates, Flint?” he continues. “Sir, it is because we are the aces of the Generation 7 fighter jets, sir.”
The General’s eyes glitter with a cold satisfaction. "Aces. Yes, but that is the secondary reason." He glances at the large screen behind him, which now shows a dizzying, complex schematic of a strange war machine—something bigger, stronger, and more demanding than the Gen 7 jets everyone in this room is familiar with. “The primary reason, my son, is that Generation 7 fighter pilots are the only ones capable of handling a neural interface. You, in particular, are proven to be a natural with it―your records speak for themselves, Flint.”
Everyone knows the Gen 7 interface is taxing; it feels like holding lightning in one’s skull. Chael knows his aptitude is just a higher capacity for pain. Nevertheless, it is that high capacity that has helped him score fifty takedowns in four years of service, a record that is second only to the legendary Captain Mikhail Winstrom-Popov, promoted to Colonel posthumously, who accumulated a staggering record of seventy-one takedowns in five years. He did it in a Gen 3 jet, his beloved Maelstrom―a generation that looks ancient to current technology―during the peak of the War of the Nations.
“Sir,” Flint’s whisper cuts through the heavy silence, “may I suggest… getting to the point?” The General follows Flint’s eyes towards the large screen. Pushing off from Chael's space, the sharp clack of his boots returns as he strides toward the raised podium. He gives one last, searching look at Chael, a cold acknowledgment of the captain's mettle. "The words of a top ace are a command to all," he says, taking his place behind the black metal lectern. His eyes, however, are still on Chael. "And you’re going to love this, Captain. I can tell already. Now sit down and let’s get to the point."
The lights in the hangar dim until the only source of clarity is the glow from the massive monitor. “The point,” the General begins, his voice amplified by the podium’s mic, “is that we’re getting new war machines to crush our enemies with.” The screen shifts to a blueprint of strange, never-seen-before armor. His eyes glued to the design, Chael swallows hard; that thing stands taller than a Gen 7 jet if it were to stand vertically, its proportions so wrong his mind keeps trying—and failing—to fit it into the world he knows.
“This is the Cazador Frame, ladies and gents,” the General says, scanning the rows of current-gen fighter pilots before him. “You’re going from sitting in a cockpit with a neural interface connected to your head to…” He lets the pause stretch, long enough for the implication to settle. “To having an extension of your very body. Every step it takes will feel like your own. Every blow it lands will start as an impulse in your spine.” A few pilots shift in their seats. Flint doesn’t. He can’t stop picturing what it would mean to inhabit something that big—and what it would take to ever feel small again afterward. “And this… This is the future of warfare.”
“Enough talk,” the General says, stepping down from the podium. The monitor goes dark, leaving them in a sudden, disorienting gloom before the lights turn back on. “Blueprints are for engineers. Pilots need to see the steel.” He gestures towards the doors of the hangar as a couple transport trucks come to a stop outside. “Let’s go see it, then, hm?” One pilot after another leaves their seat, filing out the door and heading towards the trucks.
Just as he’s walking out the door, Chael’s steps are halted by a hand that suddenly finds his shoulder. “Captain Flint,” the General’s aide murmurs, leaning towards his ear. “Please stay for a moment. There’s a briefing reserved for you and only you.” The rhythmic thud of combat boots on the metal ramp fades, replaced by the distant, heavy rumble of the transport trucks idling outside. The hangar feels twice as large now that it's empty. “This way, please,” the aide says, his left arm pointing to a closed door, the sconce mounted over it the only source of light. He doesn't just point, though; he stands with his back to the exit, his posture stiff, blocking the path to the trucks like a human barricade.
“That orange door, Sargent?” His eyes flickering between the aide and the door, Chael’s hand hovers near his side, a reflex move towards a sidearm he isn't carrying, his fingertips trying to find the cold steel that isn’t there. “Can you at least tell me where that door leads?” Sargent takes a deep breath at his question, hesitation drawn all over his features. “Yes, Captain,” he glances at it before meeting Chael’s eyes again, “I was told that since you will be providing a demonstration, you will need special equipment.”
Chael stares at the orange door for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he moves, his rapid steps leaving Sargent behind. As he approaches, he glances over his shoulder; Sargent is still guarding the exit, as if afraid that Chael will turn around and escape. “What an odd fella,” he thinks. Arriving in front of the door, Chael knocks. The first knock gets no reply, so he knocks again―louder this time. Before he could knock the third time, the door parts open, revealing a woman in a mechanic’s suit. “Captain Chael Flint,” he introduces himself. “I was told I’m to get some special equipment for some sort of a demo?”
The woman chuckles, wiping her forehead with the back of her grease-stained glove. ”Special equipment? I mean, it is special in its own right―but is that what they really called it?” Stepping aside, she opens the door wider, letting Chael peek into the opulent room. The inside looks oddly clean and pristine with only a suit-wearing mannequin standing in the middle, a set of rolling shelves surrounding it. “Come on, then, Captain. Let’s take a closer look, hm?” With a nod, Chael follows the woman inside, inching closer towards the statue that has his measurements.
Chael stops a few feet away, his chest tightening. Seeing his own proportions rendered in cold plastic, draped in an experimental suit, feels like looking at his own coffin. The mannequin has no face, just a smooth, featureless head of white polymer, yet it stands with Chael’s specific, forward slouch―one he got from an bicycle accident over 20 years ago. It isn't just his size; it's his ghost. “You alright, Captain?” she asks, looking up and over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” he clears his throat, the dryness causing a sore, “it’s just that it looks too tight―that can’t be comfortable to wear.” As she closes the last few inches, the woman slides the glove off her right hand, her fingertips landing on the special fabric. “Well, actually, it can’t be any more comfortable than this, Captain.”
She takes a step back, inviting him to touch it himself. Chael hesitates but then reaches out. The moment his skin meets the fabric, he feels a faint, static hum—a vibration so low it’s more of a feeling than a sound. “It’s soft… and warm,” he whispers, surprised. “Like I said, it can’t be any more comfortable than this,” she says. “The goal is to make you forget where you end and the machine begins. Total sensory integration.” Chael pulls his hand away as if burned. The idea of forgetting himself is exactly what he fears most. “How do I get into it?” he asks, his voice barely a murmur.
Scanning him from top to bottom, she shrugs. “I mean, take everything off first and then put this on?” A chuckle breaks out from the thin gap of her lips. “Look, it’s just a suit. It’s not too different than your usual Gen 7 flight suit.” The woman reaches for a tablet on the shelf, her forefinger zipping across the screen, as if looking for something to show him. “Okay, look here,” she begins, her nail hovering over a specific part of the schematic. “This vertical gap... is intentional.” She taps the screen, and a simulated plate snaps into the spine. “Once that plate locks, Captain, you aren't just wearing this―the entire Cazador Frame becomes your suit. Hence the other name, mobile suit.”
“Mobile suit…” he echoes, his voice sounding thin in the pristine room. The woman points to the changing area—a small, recessed alcove with a frosted glass door. “Everything off, Captain Flint. No watch, no dog tags, no underwear. You want a perfect fit for optimal… performance.” His eyebrow rises promptly at the casual mention of no underwear, but Chael complies, nonetheless. “And make it quick, will you? The General would want to start the demo as soon as possible.”
-
Chael arrives at the demonstration site in an armored SUV, the viewing stands positioned around one kilometer away from a closed hangar, filled to the brim with spectators. As the car slides in via a side entrance, he finally gets the first peek at a Cazador Frame, but he can only see the bottom of its oversized feet. “Is it laying down?” he wonders to himself, but the driver hears him. “Yes, Captain. We would need to open the roof if we were to make it stand on its feet.”
The SUV comes to a smooth halt. The driver doesn't say a word, only hits a switch that releases the door locks. Chael steps out, his boots clicking against the polished concrete. Above him, the oversized feet aren't just feet; they are pedestals of steel, each one the size of a main battle tank. Suddenly, a siren blares—a deep, chest-rattling wail that signals the start of the demo. High above, the hangar’s ceiling begins to part with a tectonic groan. Beams of natural sunlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the prone titan like a god in a tomb. "Ready yet, Captain?" the General's voice crackles over Chael's earpiece. “One moment, sir,” he deflects, forcing his tone to stay flat, “still appreciating the scale of this thing.”
The General says something else, but Chael tunes him out. With his helmet in hand, he heads towards the gantry, the stomps of his heavy boots echoing throughout the hangar. Ascending the stairs, he’s approached by some engineers, each asking different questions, some of them can be answered by a yes or a no. Before long, he’s standing on a platform, where a seatless cockpit, suspended in the air by eight steel cables, is waiting for him.
“Captain Chael Flint,” an engineer lowers her tablet to her belly, “I’m honored to finally meet you in person. Especially since all I knew from you was your combat data.” “The honor is mine, miss,” he says, putting one palm on the glass door, trying to peek inside. “You know,” the engineer continues, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice, “it’s fascinating that you’re still alive―perhaps even a miracle―considering that your flight pattern seems to be a cycle of heading straight towards the enemies, fire your missiles, and running away fast.” Pulling his face away from the cockpit door, Chael shoots the engineer a puzzled look. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess it is a miracle.”
With a giddy giggle, the engineer taps her screen once more, the large pistons holding the door compressing with a cold hiss as the locks unlatch. She puts one foot in the interior, turning back towards Chael. “Come, Captain,” she offers an open hand, “let’s have the Frame recognize its master and get it to stand.” Taking the offered hand, Chael tangles his fingers with hers, grounding himself in her presence before taking full control of a machine―a very large one.
There’s only one structure inside the cockpit: a spinal interface that’s hanging off the ceiling, underneath that a pair of pads, likely used to house the pilot’s feet. “Alright, Captain. Put on your helmet and stand on those pads, please,” the engineer says, her focus returning to the tablet. Closing the distance to the structure, Chael puts on his helmet as instructed, lowering the visor due to force of habit. “Okay, then what―” Chael’s speech is interrupted as he feels the back support making contact with the metallic plate on the back of his suit. A series of heavy, magnetic latches fire in sequence up his spine—thunk-thunk-thunk—locking the suit’s plate to the Frame’s core. The pressure is immense, pinning him against the interface like a specimen on a board.
“Breathe, Captain. Breathe,” she soothes, her tone softer now. “You’re not fully connected yet. It’s just a biometrics verification.” Closing his eyes, Chael nods slowly, his fists relaxing from a tight ball. Each inhale he takes feels heavy, each exhale feeling the same―but he’s determined to control his nerves, assuring himself this is just newcomer’s anxiety. After all, he was on the verge of vomiting when he first took a seat in a Gen 7 cockpit. “Okay, I’m ready. Do whatever you need to,” he says, even as his heart races in his chest.
"Initiating full synchronization," the engineer whispers. A split second of total silence follows, and then Chael’s world is replaced by a tidal wave of electricity. It isn't a sound; it's a sensation of a thousand needles sewing into his subconscious. Sync: 20%... 40%... 60%... 90%. His visor is suddenly flooded with bright, nauseating graphics, but Chael doesn’t flinch, doesn’t buckle―he stands solid, letting his senses merge with the Frame’s. But there’s this urge to close his eyes that is growing irresistible, and he eventually relents to the pull. Finally, as the man and the machine successfully become one, Chael opens his eyes. “Pilot confirmed,” a robotic voice echoes in his head. “Welcome aboard, Master Captain Chael ‘Three-Strikes’ Flint.”
The engineer frantically taps the screen of her tablet, her fingers pacing across the glass surface. “Connection established, pilot identity confirmed,” she mutters to herself, her own heart starting to race. She’s about to press a button, but the realization that she’s still in the cockpit halts her at the last second. Rushing out, the engineer closes the door and locks it behind her, retreating a few steps for clearance. “Okay, okay,” she huffs, finally pressing the button, “embedding cockpit now.”
With a hydraulic hiss and a metallic whirr, the cockpit is taken away, slowly lowered into the cavity in the head of the Cazador Frame. As it’s finally settled, the steel cables detach, rolling up into the ceiling. Its head closing, the Frame begins to get power as the fission engine stirs. It stirs with a sound like a distant, captive sun beginning to burn. Finally, with a series of loud clicks and clacks, the head of the Frame fully closes, thus keeping its master inside, relying on him for control of every titanium alloy muscle strand.
Soon, the light on the forehead of the Frame turns on, the beam shining through the gap in the roof. The engineer gasps, almost dropping her tablet at the shock. Reaching for the radio on her waist, she yells into it. “This is Nicole Gage,” she begins, her fingertips turning white as her palm maintains a firm grip. “The Space Giant is awake. I repeat, Space Giant is awake. And Captain Chael Flint is its master.” The person at the other end acknowledges the report, but as a reply comes, Nicole isn’t paying attention, letting her radio dangle by the straps as she hops and screams.
However, Nicole’s hops and screams quickly come to a stop as the ground under the gantry begins to rumble. Panicking, she dives for the rail, gripping a bar firmly with her sweaty palms. “Easy, Captain, easy. Please, please, easy,” she begs, as if Chael could hear her pleas. With a thunderous stomp, Chael’s Frame fixes one foot on the ground, and with another stomp, it fixes the other. “Yes, yes, that’s it―but keep it nice and easy,” she adds, her grip around the rail relaxing slightly. As the palms of the Frame find purchase on the walls of the hangar, the reinforced concrete in them shrieks and crumbles. The sound is like multiple battle tanks slamming through one piece of wall. Having secured enough leverage, the Frame pulls itself to kneel in the hangar, low enough to still not be seen by the spectators waiting outside.
“Hey, get off that thing,” Chael’s voice booms, the walls trembling from the sheer volume. This isn’t a radio; his voice is being projected through the machine’s speakers, as though his voice is its. With a frantic nod, Nicole beelines for the steps, feeling ridiculously small compared to the kneeling Frame. But that’s the point; the war is heading to space. It’s inevitable that war machines will become bigger and bigger―even then, space will still have space for everything.
With Nicole clear of the gantry, Chael finally commits. “Alright, let’s put on a demo.” He starts pulling himself to his feet, the Frame following his exact movements, until he’s fully standing. The suit on Chael's shins tightens, compensating for the phantom gravity the Frame’s sensors are feeding his brain. He feels the sway of the wind against the Frame’s head as if it were a breeze against his own cheek. And the world looks smaller from up here; the scales are dizzying, to say the least. Because that APC next to the stands can transport 12 fully armed personnel at once, but it looks like it could crumble under one press of the Frame’s thumb.
The Frame’s long legs let Chael clear the hangar easily, taking small-but-gigantic steps. As he quickly closes the distance, his visor shows a notification: Weapon Systems Ready. “Oh, really?” he thinks, looking at the schematic right before his eyes, specifically the thighs that are blinking red and white. As the Frame’s hands settle right beside its thighs, hidden mechanisms cause the robot’s “flesh” to split open, pushing out two sticks that seemingly only function as something to be held.
Without thinking twice, Chael grabs the sticks, and suddenly, it activates. From each stick, an intense beam of light comes out. The energy is so intense that the air crackles around it―seems like this weapon isn’t meant to be used on Earth. Curious, he lifts one hand, trying to get a closer look. “Hey, hey,” the General’s voice echoes in his ears. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing, Flint.” Looking up, Chael’s eyes land on a helicopter floating nearby, its pilots looking at him with a frown. “Copy,” Chael says. “Apologies for that.”
-
Years have passed since Chael’s first run in a Cazador Frame. The Federation has gone from having a singular Frame, Chael’s―currently known as the Knightfather―to thirty of them, each one assigned to either a fighter jet veteran or a pilot specifically trained for the program. However, only a fifth of the fleet are special-made Frames; the rest are smaller, mass-produced units with limited combat and survival abilities. This often makes those Frames the primary target for enemy operations, and if not for these war veterans… the program―no, the Federation itself―would cease to exist.
The alarm in Chael’s quarters doesn't ring; it hums, a frequency only a Frame pilot can feel. He doesn't need to look at the monitor to know what's happening. Another "Green-Horn" squadron of mass-produced units has been ambushed in the debris fields of Sector 7, just a few clicks off Greenland. Getting off his bed, Chael’s joints pop with a mechanical stiffness that mirrors his Frame. He walks past the rows of gleaming, standardized suits of the new recruits, heading toward the corner of the hangar where the Knightfather waits surrounded by its gantry, awards and banners hanging off the rails. "Another run, Master Captain?" the AI’s robotic voice asks, sounding as tired as he feels. "Let's go," Chael rasps. "The kids are in trouble again―and get me Mom, hm?"
Even though the military is now more focused with mass-producing units as quickly and as many at a time as possible, it doesn’t forget the big guns that have allowed them to wake up on a new day time and time again. Their technology and arsenal consistently get upgrades, the current schedule being every 2 years, the upcoming one being a multi-stage rocketship that can be attached to the back of every Frame. The Knightfather is especially not forgotten. It has multiple weapons to excel in close- and long-range combat, with shoulder-mounted, collapsible missile batteries as the latest addition to its firepower.
As Chael’s cockpit is descending to enter Knightfather, the voice of Lieutenant Minatozaki, his aide, comes from his earpiece. “Master Captain,” Minatozaki says, the clicks of her keyboard seeping through her microphone. “Mom will deploy after you. She is, erm… she’s taking a bath, sir.” A chuckle slips through his lips, the sound echoing off the walls. “Sana, tell Captain Hirai to finish as soon as possible,” he says, shaking his head out of pure amusement. “The kids will need someone to fight for, and she is definitely someone to fight for.”
As his chuckle fades, his cockpit has attached to Knightfather, the sounds of whirring hydraulics and interlocking panels all too familiar in Chael’s ears. “This is Master Captain Chael Flint. Reporting for deployment,” he says, pressing some buttons on the instruments panel in front of him. “Syncing with Knighfather in 3, 2, 1.” At his countdown, Sana turns her attention to the monitor to her left, keeping close attention to the synchronization process. A status line causes her eyebrow to rise; Chael is under-rested after a quick series of back-to-back missions.
“Sir,” Sana puts the microphone right against her lips, “after this deployment, please visit the physio and infirmary for a checkup.” On her screen, the sync graph doesn't show the smooth, rolling waves of a healthy pilot. It’s a jagged, frantic line, riddled with the "noise" of Chael’s exhaustion. But he’s not saying anything, putting on a tough demeanor as usual. “Sir, please. I’m respectfully asking you to―” “Yes, Lieutenant, I heard you the first time,” Chael interjects, his tone accepting and understanding. “Please remind me later, though, hm?” Sana can only sigh and nod at her captain’s order, knowing better than to press him.
"The catapult is engaged, Master Captain," Sana reports. Chael closes his eyes, firing up the propulsors on his back with a practiced flick of his finger. “Ready for launch, Sana,” he announces, turning his head around to stretch his stiff neck. “Confirmed, sir. Launching in 3, 2, 1.” Right after the countdown ends, the catapult pulls Knightfather forwards, accelerating it to high-G in less than 15 seconds. Chael opens his eyes just in time to start flying with the propulsors, heading straight towards the problem, a habit that is prominent as ever.
Within seconds, the Knightfather pierces the stratosphere, the blue sky darkening into the cold velvet of space. Ahead, Sector 7 is a graveyard. Chael sees the flickering strobes of emergency beacons and the jagged silhouettes of enemy raiders circling the remaining Squires. His HUD begins painting targets, the "noise" in his sync momentarily suppressed by a surge of adrenaline. "This is Knightfather," he announces over the fleet-wide channel, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of panicked chatter. "Form up on my six, kids. The party’s over." He tilts the Frame's nose down, the shoulder missiles shifting as they track the first wave of pursuers, and as he lands with an Earth-shattering slam, they are turned to dust.
“Come on, kids. Let’s wrap this up before Mom gets here,” Chael urges, his wrist cannons shredding enemy armors like they were made of papers. “Sir, did you say Mom is coming?” says one of the Green-Horns, a girl named Lily Browning, desperation clear in her voice. “Yes, Browning,” Chael pauses to fire a missile at an artillery battery over yonder, “now get your asses over here and start shooting back, will you?” These mass-produced Warthogs begin to form around Knightfather that is towering over them like a literal father, taking as much advantage as they can from the natural cover of the hill.
The enemy raiders, rattled by the sudden appearance of the Knightfather, throw whatever plans they have out the window, shooting anything their targeting systems lock on to. Chael, being in the largest, deadliest unit, becomes the primary target, and he can only take so many cannon rounds before the neural link registers the hits as stabs. “Take cover, soldiers,” he calmly commands, the comms filled with the recruits’ short, ragged breaths. “We’ll be―”
The rest of his command is muffled by the loud, echoing series of explosions, confirming the turn of the tide to be on their side. “Denmother here,” Captain Hirai’s calm, soothing voice is smooth in everyone’s earpiece. “You guys alright down there? Knightfather?” The recruits’ cheers boom through the chatter, the burden of battle forgotten in the face of the Federation’s beacon of hope. “Took some damage, but nothing that can’t be fixed,” Chael answers, pulling out of the hill’s cover. “You’re welcome, Captain,” Hirai adds, her teasing smirk audible over the radio.
Looking up, Chael spots the slender, elegant Cazador Frame that is Denmother on its slow descent, a mobile suit that could not be more perfect for Master Captain Momo “Peach” Hirai. The callsign should fool no one; silly it might sound, but no one has ever laughed at it. She is on the program for a multitude of reasons, and someone as good as her can choose whatever callsign they want. Others will know that there are better things to do than laugh.
“Thinking about something?” Momo asks, switching to a direct channel to Chael. “No, not really,” he grits his teeth, a stinging pain sharp in his right thigh. “One of their tanks busted the plates on my thighs, and now it hurts.” On Chael's visor, the right thigh assembly is strobing a violent, angry red. Every time the Frame's leg shifts, a surge of electricity shoots through the neural link, mimicking the sensation of a hot lead against his flesh.
The direct channel is crystal clear, stripped of the static of the battlefield. In this private space, Momo’s voice loses its commanding edge, replaced by the worry of a partner who has seen him bleed too many times. “Disengage, Chael,” Momo urges, her heart clenching with concern. “I’ll call a Carrier over to extract us.” Adhering to her suggestion, Chael begins the disengagement protocol, starting with turning off the cannon and missile modules. The weapon modules tucking into its unarmed position, Chael notices a glint coming from the mountainside, but before he can react―
“FUCK!” He screams from the top of his lungs as a projectile pierce through Knighfather’s right shoulder, the neural link forwarding the acute pain from the impact to his flesh. Chael’s knees buckle as his pained grunts flood the communication channel, the Frame falling to its knees with a violent rumble. “Shit, shit,” Momo panics, hurrying to call an extraction Carrier to their position. “Denmother to all units, find the attacker—NOW!”
Chael can’t breathe. His right arm hangs limp at his side—both in the cockpit and on the Frame. The suit is pulsing with a frantic, rhythmic heat, emulating a wound that isn't physically there on his human body. "Warning, warning," the AI drones, sounding distant through the haze of pain. "Right arm actuator disconnected. Neural feedback reaching critical levels." Through the blurred vision of his HUD, he sees the Warthogs scrambling. He sees Browning’s unit rushing towards him. He wants to tell them to run, to save themselves, but all that comes out of his mouth is a ragged, pained gasp.
“B-Browning…” he manages through his heavy pants. “C-Cover me, dear. Don’t leave me.” Lily leaps to close the final few dozen meters of distance, covering Knightfather with the entirety of her mobile suit. She doesn’t care if hers is a smaller mass-produced unit; what matters is the heart and soul of the pilot―Master Captain Hirai’s words. “Disengage, sir. Disconnect from the Frame!” Drawing focus and strength from his aspirant’s ear-piercing scream, Chael lifts his healthy hand towards the control panel, continuing the disengagement protocol, this time to fully disconnect from the neural interface.
While Lily stands her ground, the air above them shatters. Momo has stopped being a protector and started being a hunter. "Found you, bitch," she snarls over the fleet-wide channel, her Frame's long-barreled railgun humming with a lethal charge. She doesn't wait for a lock; she pulls the trigger on the thermal bloom of the enemy’s last shot. The ridge a kilometer away disappears in a bloom of fire and pulverized rock. She doesn't stop to check the kill. She turns around, her thrusters screaming, to land in front of Lily and Chael. "Carrier is here! Browning, get the Knightfather onto the lift! Move, damn it!"
Lily rushes to latch the carrier’s hooks on the back of Knightfather, and right as it’s getting lifted to the sky, Momo secures Chael’s detached cockpit in the palm of her Frame. “Three-Strikes is secured. I repeat, Three-Strikes is secured,” she announces, igniting her calf rockets. “Denmother is boarding the Carrier now.” The Valkyrie-class Antonov Carrier sways for a brief moment when Denmother lands rather crassly on the platform. “Give me space,” Momo demands, her voice booming all over the place. But people are only looking around among themselves. “I said,” the Master Captain raises her tone. “Give. Me. Space!”
Getting her Frame down to its knees, Momo carefully places Chael’s cockpit on the platform. “If I don’t see an ambulance in the next minute,” she pauses, quickly thinking of a way to threaten every living soul on board, “I’ll personally tie each of you to a pole for 24 hours.” Much to her satisfaction and relief―she hates the idea of punishing people with her own hands―an ambulance speeds out of the med-bay, sirens blaring in utmost emergency. Quickly disconnecting from her cockpit, Momo jumps out of it with a parachute, landing right by the ambulance. “I’m going to tag along, and no one can tell me otherwise.”
-
Sana looks through the glass window of the door, the sight of her superior lying asleep in bed eating at her heart. Never before has she seen the revered Three-Strikes in such a weak position, and it reminds her that behind the accolades and medals… he’s a human. One who has limits. One who can get hurt. The silence in the ward is deafening. After hours of monitoring his jagged, noisy vitals throughout the battle, the steady, slow ping of his heart monitor feels terrifyingly fragile.
Sana yells when she feels someone’s hand on her left shoulder, her knees getting weak from the shock. “C-Captain Hirai,” she mutters, searching the captain’s eyes for signs of disappointment or anger. Finding none, she swallows a tight gulp, her throat burning from the dryness. “M-May I ask why you’re here, madam?” Momo only sighs at the question, her eyes locked on the neural-shocked pilot. “I’m here for him, Lieutenant,” she tilts her head towards Chael, “can you give us space?”
When Momo asks for space, it isn't a command from a superior—it's a plea from a woman who needs to let her guard down, away from the eyes of anyone’s aide. “Y-Yes, madam,” Sana lowers her head, looking down at her own boots, “I… I’ll be in the waiting room if you need me.” Momo waits until the sound of Sana’s boots dies down before pushing the door to Chael’s ward. Entering slowly, she locks the door behind her, covering the glass window with a curtain. “Alright, Chael. We’re alone now.”
As she closes the distance to Chael, Momo unzips her Skin suit, the cool, sterile air of the med-bay biting her bare skin. She stops right in front of his bed, she steps out of it, leaving it forgotten on the floor. Pulling his blanket off, she places her entire bare body on him, the contact of skin meeting skin warmer than any blanket could offer, and a soft sigh escapes her lips. “There we go…” she murmurs against his chest, her palms coming to rest on his shoulders.
As time goes on, exhaustion begins to settle, her eyes fluttering as the pull of rest grows irresistible. But suddenly, Chael stirs, a heavy grunt escaping through the thin gap of his lips. “Chael…?” She pulls away just enough to look at him in the eyes, her hands quickly finding his face. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?” A smile slowly spreading across his features, he nods, one hand settling on the back of her nape. “I’m okay, Momo,” he whispers, his voice a low timbre. “I overheard some nurses saying that it’s just a grade 1 neural shock.”
"Grade 1, huh?" Momo murmurs, her hands still framing his face as if afraid he might vanish if she lets go. "You always were a lucky bastard." She glances at his heart monitor and then turn to him quickly. "Sana is in the waiting room. She’s been watching your vitals like a hawk. I should probably let her know you're awake, but..." she pauses, her grip tightening slightly. "I'm not ready to be a Captain again just yet." Chael pulls her closer, the shared warmth finally chasing away the last of the Arctic chill. "Then don't be. Just stay. The Federation won’t turn to dust just because its best pilots are cuddling with no clothes on."
Momo rests her head on the broad plane of his chest, careful to avoid the bandages on his right side. “Momo,” Chael finally breaks the silence, “thank you for saving me. I think I would’ve slipped to grade 2 or 3 if not for your quick thinking.” She nods, her cheek rubbing against his chest. “You’re welcome, love.” The sigh that flies out of Chael’s lips just now is long and heavy. “Momo, not… not now, please.”
A sting of hurt crosses her features, and she quickly pulls away from him, fixing her palms on his bed, as a protest forms in her head. The bed frame groans under her palms, and the heart monitor gives a sharp, high-pitched chirp as Chael’s pulse spikes in response to her anger. “Then when, Chael, hm? You’re almost dead from neural shock, yet you still say this isn’t the time. So, when is the time? Once we’re too weak and frail to be in a Cazador Frame?”
Chael’s healthy hand finds the back of her elbow, his thumb tracing small circles on the smooth surface of her skin. “Momo…” he whispers her name like a prayer, begging her to calm down. “I understand where you’re coming from, my heart, but the war―” “Fuck the war!” Momo cuts the rest of his words, his pulse spiking once more at the knife-sharp scream. “I… I just want to be with you, Chael. Not on some battlefield watching each other’s back or babysitting some rookies. But somewhere where we can be ourselves. Somewhere we don’t have to be Master Captains, to lead assaults, to… to get shot at.”
Her words hang in the air, defiant and out of place against the hum of the Carrier’s engines and the cold, grey walls of the medical bay. And Chael doesn’t stop his thumb, trying his best to soothe her fire. “Momo, Momo,” he calls to her―not as a fellow Master Captain, but as a man. “I understand, love―I really do. But we are defending the future and sustenance of humanity. If we don’t fight today, we won’t have a place to call home tomorrow.” Fixing his palms on her forearms, Chael pulls her down, whispering her name softly, until Momo comes crashing down. “I know, love. I know,” he murmurs as she begins to break into tears, her entire body shaking with a dangerous mix of frustration, exhaustion, and longing. “I… I don’t want to deploy tomorrow,” she manages, her words barely comprehensible amidst the tears. “If… If the Green-Horns die in those Warthogs as they salvage a debris sector, I… I’ll let them die.”
Chael holds her head against his chest, letting her tears drop onto his skin. "You wouldn't," he whispers, his voice thick with a certainty she doesn't currently possess. "Because if you let them die, you'd never forgive yourself. And I won't let you carry that weight." He strokes her hair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could see through the hull to the stars they’re meant to defend. "We’ll go out together―” “STOP!” Chael grunts as her fist lands on his side, the impact echoing throughout his body, thus forcing him to cough in pain. “Just… just stop for a moment, Chael,” she begs, her vision blurry from the tears. “Please, I’m begging you.”
Momo’s fist slowly unfurls, her fingers splaying flat against his chest. The "STOP" she screamed seems to have drained the last of her energy. She sags against him, her head falling back onto his shoulder. “I’m tired―” A series of knocks interrupts her, and she quickly looks over her shoulder. “Identify yourself!” A brief moment of silence settles in the bay, but it quickly breaks as the person outside collects some courage. “T-This is Lieutenant Sana Minatozaki, m-madam,” she announces, her voice muffled by the door. “M-My apologies, I… I just wanted to check on… on Captain Flint.”
With an annoyed sigh, Momo pushes off of Chael, fetching her discarded suit from the floor. “One second,” she says, zipping it up to chest level, just enough to cover her cleavage. Approaching the door, Momo looks at Chael over her shoulder, checking if he’s presentable. She points at the messy blanket, and he fixes it just enough before the door is opened. “Come in, Minatozaki. Your Captain has missed you.”
Taking one step into the ward, Sana looks to her left. Momo is busy tidying her hair while her Suit skin hisses into place―it doesn’t make that sound unless it’s only put on recently. “Yes, Lieutenant?” Momo crosses her arms over her chest, her jet-black hair cascading down on shoulder. “N-Nothing, madam,” Sana dodges, turning her focus to the TV on the wall. Reaching into her back pocket, she fishes a tape with a wine-red casing―the program’s signature color. “I was given an order to check on the Master Captains before… before playing this tape.”
Sana inserts the tape with a trembling hand. The mechanical click of the drive sounds like a hammer cocking. The screen doesn't show a battlefield; it shows the President’s office, a pair of banners of the same color as the tape casing hanging in the background. "Greetings, honorable Cazador Frame pilot," the President’s voice is a low, gravelly rasp that seems to fill the small ward. "If you’re watching this recording, it means your General is no longer able to continue to serve, whether as a result of man-made or natural causes.” As the President finishes his line, Sana pulls out another tape, one with a purple casing, keeping it clutched in her hand for the time being. “Therefore, as Article 1 of Section 3 of the SHIELD Mandate states,” the President’s recording continues, “upon the absence of a General, the President may appoint a high-ranking pilot from the Cazador Frame Program to the position of Marshal. The Marshal will assume the authority of a General for an indefinite duration, albeit limited to only commanding the Cazador Frame Army of the Federation of Nations of Earth.”
Chael quickly finds the remote, pausing the recording right as the President was about to continue. The term "Marshal" hangs in the room like a heavy fog. It’s a title of desperation, not honor. It’s a title that screams “we are lost and in need of a leader” more than anything else. “Sana,” Chael rasps, cranking the back rest upright. “What has happened?” Easing her tense clutch on the purple-casing tape, Sana shows it to the two Master Captains. “At around 1400 hours, the Osprey that was carrying General Victor Johann was shot down by an unidentified long-range weapon. The General was on his way to meet us at sea, 5 kilometers southwest off Cape of Good Hope, South Africa, where the Federation’s Liberta Carrier had been standing by. The plan… The plan was for us to board the carrier, head to the Space Elevator south of Madagascar, and... and head to Near Orbit Station.”
Momo’s arms fall to her sides, her gaze drifting towards the floor. Johann wasn’t just a General; he’s a dear friend, a shield that has protected the program from out-of-touch politicians―those who thought the program and its Frames are a waste of money, even though they were only able to speak because the Federation had protected the capital from a missile strike the day before. “Momo,” Chael interjects, a hint of jealousy lying underneath his raspy voice. “You know what, nevermind―I won’t say anything.” Momo catches the sharp edge in his voice, a flicker of the man who used to compete with Johann for her attention when she was first initiated to the program. She doesn't argue; she just closes her eyes, the weight of the loss too heavy for a lovers' spat.
Chael watches the way Momo’s shoulders slump, and the jealousy in his chest instantly turns to bitter, acidic guilt. He knows Johann wasn't just a rival in romance; he was one of the few who knew exactly what it cost Chael, Momo, and every other pilot to be in their cockpits each and every day. He reaches out with his left hand, his fingers barely brushing Momo's wrist. "I'm sorry," he rasps, the petty fire gone. "He was a good man, Momo. And the President was right—we will need a new leader to carry the torch. We don't have time to argue. We need to move."
“Sir,” Sana begins, stretching out her arm and bringing the tape closer. “This is from the President himself. It wasn’t specified to be exclusive for you or Master Captain Hirai, so I’ll stay here and watch along―if that’s okay with you, of course.” Nodding, Chael gestures for Sana to swap the tape, the TV showing a brief static before the recording starts. Just before the first word leaves the President’s lips, Chael sits upright, the phantom pain on his shoulder brushed aside.
The static clears to reveal the President’s face, not in the polished halls of the Capital, but in a darkened, secure bunker. "Hello, Master Captain―whichever of you it is," his voice is devoid of its usual political flair. “By the time you are watching this, the SHIELD Mandate will have been activated. While the article says only one pilot could be promoted to Marshal, I have decided to promote two, as advised by the Secretary of Defense: Master Captains Momo Hirai and Chael Flint, callsigns Peach and Three-Strikes.” Chael’s eyes drift away from the broadcast to find Momo’s, finding her looking right back at him, biting her bottom lip in uncertain nervousness.
The recording continues, the President detailing the immediate relocation of the new marshals to the Near Orbit Space Station. Closing his eyes, Chael tunes out the rest of the announcement. Marshal is a non-combat role, something that he’s anything but familiar with. But a particular revelation from the President manages to capture his attention once more―after all, he’s a fierce predator whose ears are tuned only to the sounds of the hunt. “As your president, I certainly cannot tell you that you are still allowed to engage in combat when required, nor can I tell you that your Frames will be receiving upgrades earlier than scheduled.”
While Chael sits back with a sense of relief in his chest, Momo’s heart clenches with worry. Marshal is a non-combat role, something that should be safer by a few orders of magnitude. But since they’re still authorized to fight, it’s inevitable that they will have to dip their toes into the pool―after all, they are fierce predators whose every muscle is dedicated to the hunt. “Momo…” Chael’s hand finds hers, their fingers interlocking. “I know you’re worried, but this is better than a disarmament. Bad comes to worst, we won’t die in a silly office with pristine floors and white walls.”
"I just want one night," Momo whispers, her voice so low only Chael can hear it. "One night where nobody is hunting us." Chael pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers, the hum of the medical bay the only sound left. "We'll get our night, my heart. But it’s going to be on a station watching the stars, not in a hospital ward." He kisses her knuckles, the gesture light but reverent. "Now, let’s rest for a moment. We’ll officially be Marshals in the next few hours."
Making sure Sana is still tuning into the President’s recording, Momo leans down, planting a soft kiss on his lips. But she’s not content with just one, so she chases him for another, this one as sweet as the last. Noticing the odd silence, Sana turns around, catching the top brass pair of the Federation’s military in such an intimate tangle, and quickly turns around as a flush creeps to her cheeks. “He… he’s taken?” she wonders to herself, trying to figure out how she’s missed that after all this time. Often relied upon to catch the gaps in information, Sana is now the one getting caught missing a piece. “I mean, it makes sense for them to be together…” Sana’s memory races through the last few years of service as his aide—the way Momo always stayed on direct channels with Chael even with other Frames around, the way Chael would always jump between her and enemy fire, the way they would sit next to each other during debriefs. “It was all there,” she realizes. “The signs were always there.”
As she stands there, a specific memory from the Battle of Fort Copacabana flashes in her mind. She remembers Chael’s vitals spiking—not when his own Knightfather was hit by the enemy’s experimental incendiary round, but when Denmother’s fission output dropped below ten percent, thus slowing down the entire Frame. The "noise" on the telemetry had been jagged, frantic. It wasn't an error in the sensors, Sana realizes. Three-Strikes was genuinely in a panic. He hadn't been protecting a strategic asset; he had been protecting his world, the one person that had kept him going, hit after hit, blow after blow, one day after another.
Behind her, the sound of the second kiss breaks with a soft, lingering sigh. "Sana?" Momo’s voice is steady again, but there’s a new warmth to it that Sana never noticed before—or perhaps she just finally understood it. "Is there anything else you can tell us?" Sana takes a breath, smoothing her uniform and masking her flush. "No, madam. Just waiting for your confirmation before we head to the Space Elevator." She turns around, and for the first time, she doesn't see the Denmother and the Knightfather. She sees Momo and Chael.
“You’re holding something back, Sana,” Chael says, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “We both know you do.” Avoiding eye contact, Sana bites her bottom lip, holding back her thoughts from spilling out. They are her superiors, both in terms of age and rank, but she knows she can’t keep this forever. Inhaling a breath of the ward’s cold air, Sana begins. “Sir, madam,” she says. “I… I’m getting this urge to… to call you mom and dad.” The first sentence sends Momo and Chael’s eyebrows to space, lines forming across their foreheads as shock settles. “I’m sorry, Master Captains,” she bows profusely, “I know it’s weird, but I promise I mean no disrespect.”
The silence stretches long enough to make Sana’s heart hammer against her ribs. Finally, Momo lets out a breath that is half-laugh, half-sob. She looks at Chael, then back at the trembling Lieutenant. "Sana," she says, her voice thick with an emotion that the program doesn't have a label for. "You’ve spent over three years with us. If you haven't earned the right to call us whatever you want by now, nobody has." She reaches out her free hand, beckoning Sana closer. "Come here. A Marshal’s daughter shouldn't be bowing in a hospital ward."
Sana doesn't hesitate. She moves into Momo’s reach, and for a moment, they are far beyond gray uniforms―they are orphans of war, taking care of each other as if they share the same bloodline. “It’s… it’s not just me, Mom,” Sana adds, her lips trembling. “The Green-Horns… each of them sees the two of you as role models. Not just as pilots, but as people. Especially Browning. Browning wants to be you. She wears her hair in that same tight braid you used to wear at the Academy. She fights your AI in the simulators.”
Momo looks to the side at Chael, her features an unreadable mix of surprise, confusion, and everything else that cannot be labeled. “Momo, the Space Elevator. The mandate,” Chael says, begging for this topic to be discussed at a later date. She nods firmly, understanding the demand of the situation. “Sana, look,” he says, his hand finding her forearm. “We are touched by your words―we really are. But we’re still on duty.” He pauses for a second, letting the weight of each word settle in her head. “Make sure that we’re on schedule to reach Near Orbit. We have plenty of work to do.”
-
“Sir,” the head navigator turns to Chael, who is now sitting in the highest seat in the Carrier’s cockpit. “We are approaching the Near Orbit Station.” With a nod, Chael puts on a headset, initiating communications with the station’s traffic controller. “Near Orbit Station, this is―” He breaks, the word “marshal” almost slipping through his teeth, and so he clears his throat before repeating. “This is Master Captain Chael Flint, ID Echo-Foxtrot-Juliet-8-0-2-1-1. Requesting landing clearance for the Liberta Carrier.”
Outside the bridge's panoramic glass, the Near Orbit Station looms—a sprawling lattice of white polymer and solar arrays that look like a crown for the world below. “Liberta Carrier, this is Near Orbit Station. Identity confirmed, Echo-Foxtrot-Juliet-8-0-2-1-1. You are clear to dock in Hangar 4. Welcome aboard, Marshal.” Chael sighs―that woman did not have to say his new title like that. But he shakes off the annoyance, his mind focused on duty and duty alone. “Copy, Station. On our way.”
As the carrier slowly descends onto the platform, Chael leaves his seat, heading straight to the exit hatch. He crosses his hands behind his back as he waits for the large craft to settle on its landing gear. With a smooth compression of hydraulics, the door unlocks, thus allowing everyone to deboard. “That was smooth, Navigator,” he quips, taking the elevator off the carrier and onto the station.
Fast walking towards his left, Chael spots a welcoming party over yonder, immediately turning in the other direction. “No, I refuse,” he says to a deck operator. “I didn’t come here for a ceremony.” The deck operator freezes, his glowing landing batons halfway through a formal salute. He looks from the marshal to the waiting welcome party, caught in a confusing bureaucratic nightmare that is far beyond his pay grade. “I… I’m just an operator, sir,” he murmurs, unsure of what else to say.” A small smile plays on Chael’s lips. “And I’m just a pilot.”
As Chael swerves away from the main group, he nearly collides with a young pilot standing near a stack of cargo crates. It’s Browning again. She’s standing in solid attention, her eyes wide as the newly appointed marshal marches right past her. She sees the bandages peeking from under his uniform and the weariness in his eyes. The marshal doesn't look like a war hero; he looks like a man trying to find a place to hide. "Sir?" she squeaks out, her voice cracking. Chael stops, looking at her braid, then at her face. "Nice braid, Browning," he grunts. "You remind me of a certain someone―from when things were simpler."
Before Lily can respond, the rhythmic clack of dress boots approaches. The Secretary of Defense has caught up. "Marshal Flint, I see you've already begun inspecting the troops," the man says, his voice dripping with forced joviality. Chael doesn't turn around. He keeps his eyes on Lily. "I'm not inspecting troops, Mr. Secretary; I'm talking to a pilot―my pilot." He leans closer to Lily, his voice dropping to a quiet, conspiratorial whisper. "Find Marshal Hirai. Tell her to wait for me in the executive wing." As she races away to complete the order, Chael turns to the Secretary, his face a mask of stone. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Secretary?”
The Secretary sighs, his hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. “Marshal, I know the President said you could still engage in combat as a last resort,” he begins, looking as tired of bureaucracy as Chael is. “But we need you to be able to run the show, not just be a part of it.” Chael lets his eyes close―the only way he knows how to run the show is by being a part of it. “I’m a pilot, Mr. Secretary. I run the show by personally partaking in it,” he defends, no nonsense in his answer. The Secretary takes one step closer, leaning into his ear. "I know you are, Marshal. But we need you to be more than that now."
The Secretary pulls back, his eyes searching Chael’s face for a hint of understanding. “Marshal, the weapon that hit you and killed General Johann wasn’t fired from the ground―it was guided by a ground targetter, yes, but the weapon itself was fired from space.” Lines quickly form on Chael’s forehead at the revelation. “Excuse me? Fired from space?” Reaching behind him, the Secretary of Defense gets a report from an aide, handing it to Chael. “One of our satellites captured these images a few seconds before the arm of Knightfather was hit.” Chael hasn’t finished looking when the Secretary flips the pages over, the latter’s forefinger tapping the center of the new page. “And these were taken just before the General’s Osprey was shot down.”
The images are of a satellite that is seemingly innocent, its long, foot-like structure pointed towards Earth. The size and shape don’t look like typical military hardware―but perhaps that’s the point. It’s likely designed to be able to move quickly and adjust its aim to wherever the ground targetter is pointed at. “That looks like a thruster,” Chael mutters, the tip of his forefinger tracing a circle over the suspected part. “Maybe it is,” the Secretary shrugs, as clueless as he is. “Normally, we’d send a scouting crew and get a closer look, but that sector has a high Neo Umvukeli presence.”
“Umvukeli…” Chael’s gaze is long, a shiver running down his spine as the name hangs in the air. The old Umvukeli was a rebel group that was first established in South Africa, way back when President Simon Dlamini was in office. Their old domain, located a few kilometers north of the Cumberland Natural Reserve, was then turned into the Federation’s training center for aspiring Cazador Frame pilots. “I told your predecessor, Mr. Secretary,” he says, his sharp gaze holding unresolved grudge from years ago. “We should’ve given Willem van der Merwe the shooting squad. None of this would have happened.”
The Secretary sighs at the mention of Van der Merwe, but there was literally nothing he could’ve done differently back then. “Perhaps, Marshal,” he relents, understanding the weight of letting such a dangerous figure walk. “But not everything is completely doomed―we can get him and put Neo Umvukeli down now.” Stepping closer once more, the Secretary offers an open palm, inviting Chael to take it. Chael catches a glint of something shiny hidden in his hand, so he quickly shakes hands. “Marshal, in this drive are upgrade plans for both Denmother and Knightfather,” he whispers. “Also, there is a Silver Slip somewhere in there, courtesy of the President. You can unlock it by entering your biometrics data. Upon authentication, you and Marshal Hirai will have been given complete control of the Federation military, both on Earth and in space.”
Chael pulls his hand away, the drive disappearing into the specialized pocket of his marshal tunic. He looks at the Secretary, his eyes cold. “If I do have complete control, then my first order is to hand-select engineers and scientists for the Cazador Frame Program,” he begins, his tone steady, uninterruptible. “I want Denmother and Knightfather in optimal shape. The mass-produced Warthogs will serve alongside us, not drag us down.” The Secretary only lets out a chuckle at Chael’s words, pivoting on one foot away from him. “Of course, Marshal. Just be sure to win this thing, hm?” Chael clicks his tongue as the Secretary walks away. “I’m a pilot, Mr. Secretary. And pilots win,” he barks. “It’s politicians like you who like losing.”
As the Secretary disappears into the lift, Chael turns back to the hangar floor. Racing past the row of the welcoming party personnel, he grabs a radio from the holster on his waist, turning to a direct channel to Sana’s personal chatter. “Dad? Where are you?” she asks, her voice hurried. “On my way to the Executive Wing,” he simply says. “Are Mom and Browning with you?” The radio crackles for a moment―Sana must be pressing the mic piece against her lips; old habits truly die hard. “Yes, Dad. We’re waiting for you.” Picking up his steps, Chael jogs along the first hallway of the station. “Alright, good. I’ll get there soon.”
Chael tries his best to navigate through the maze that is the Near Orbit Station. Having never been this far deep into the structure itself, he finds himself relying on the direction panels that are scattered throughout the interior; some are attached to the walls, others hanging off the ceiling. His eyes eventually stumble on a double door, four fully armed personnel standing guard in front of it. Driven purely by intrigue, Chael approaches―even if he’s wrong, what’s the worst thing they might do? Shoot the Marshal for taking a wrong turn? As he moves closer, the guards snap into attention, lowering their standard issue magnetic rifles to the side. “At ease,” he commands in a light tone. “Is this the Executive Wing?” One of the guards, Kohler, turns his eyes towards the Marshal, a glance at his arms enough to confirm his identity. “Sir, yes, sir,” he answers firmly. “Would you like to be escorted inside, sir?”
Chael shakes his head at Kohler’s offer. "No escort needed. After all that, I think I can handle the last twenty yards." His hands planted on the doors, he looks at Kohler from over his shoulder. “Kohler, no one is allowed to enter this wing unless I say otherwise. Clear?” Kohler nods and offers a salute, assuring the Marshal that he will follow his order, and with it, Chael disappears into the entrance hallway of the Executive Wing.
The butterfly door on the other side of the hallway snaps open, revealing Momo in a Marshal’s coat, her Skin suit peeking from underneath. With no words exchanged, the two begin running towards each other, meeting halfway through with a soft bump. “Momo.” “Chael.” They wrap their arms tightly around each other’s body, as if trying to out-hug the other person. “Marshal…” Chael murmurs into her ear, testing the taste of the word. “No, Chael. Not to you,” she places peck on his cheek. “When I’m with you, it’s just Momo Hirai. Always have been, always will be.”
Chael pulls back slightly, his hands resting on her waist, looking deep into her eyes. “We’re dealing with something bigger than we initially thought,” he begins, his eyes searching hers for comfort, for understanding. “But I will try my hardest to see this through. For you, for us, for the Green-Horns.” Digging the tips of his fingers into her flesh―not out of aggression, but like a man clinging to a buoy in a storm. He leans closer, his nose almost touching hers. “Help me, my heart. I need you, more than ever before.” Momo’s hand comes up to his wrist, placing a tender peck to his pulse point. “I need you too, Chael. Today, tomorrow, and when all this ends―especially when all this ends.”
Through the gap in the butterfly door, Sana peaks her head through, but she quickly hides again. Catching her in the corner of his vision, Chael pulls away from Momo, whispering to her, “I think duty is calling, Momo.” Momo cups his face with her hands, still unwilling to let go. But she knows duty is important. Only by accomplishing it do they have a chance to wake up tomorrow. “Alright, okay,” she lets her hands fall to her sides, “let's go, then.” With hands tangled together, Momo and Chael walk together towards the other door, their hearts racing at the uncertainty of what duty entails this time.
As they cross the threshold, the room flares to life with holographic displays. Sana has already mapped the surrounding area of the Near Orbit Station. “Sir, Madam,” she greets, glancing at Lily who is standing in the corner. “These red squares indicate Neo Umvukeli presence, whether it be patrols or scouting parties. The darker the color, the heavier the presence―and yes,” Sana places a finger over the G3 square that is shaded light red, “that’s dangerously close to one of Federation patrol routes.”
Chael taps his finger on the line of the patrol route, looking at its fleet. It only consists of some light space cruisers, each armed with only a pair of beam cannons. He lets out a long sigh at the fleet information, rubbing the lines off his forehead. “I don’t know what the Neo Umvukeli has, but these cruisers won’t be able to handle it,” he concludes. A grim realization settling in the room, everyone falls silent, Momo biting her lip as she crosses her arms over her chest. “We will at least need the Warthogs,” Chael continues, looking at Lily over his shoulder. “But I’m not sending them as is―we’ll arm them better.”
Pulling the disk he’s got from the Secretary, Chael plugs it into the central console. The logo of the Federation of Nations of Earth flashes on the screen, as usual, but then, the colors change: the white perimeter circle turns to gold; the text “Federation of Nations of Earth” turns to a deep shade of silver. “Is that the Silver Slip, Chael?” Momo asks, stepping closer to the console, her finger pointed at the new logo. “Looks like it. Feels like it,” he replies, his heart thrumming in his chest. “Only one way to find out.” Chael places his palm on the counter when the disk prompts for authentication, and after a moment, the logo fades, the console now showing an arrangement of folders, each one possibly containing the key to winning the war.
Chael’s finger hovers over a folder labeled FRAME UPGRADES. With a tap, the wireframe models of the Knightfather and Denmother bloom into the room as holograms. Following them, an assortment of blueprints appears to the side: beam swords, beam rifles, jet packs, missiles―if it can be named, there’s likely a blueprint for it. “Repulsors, eh? Sounds like something straight out of Ironman,” he blurts. Not getting the reaction he wants, Chael looks around, the women looking back at him with a confused look. “Ironman? The rich narcissist wearing metal suits? You know what, nevermind―sorry about that.”
Momo chuckles at his failed attempt to lighten the mood, but beneath the laughter, there is genuine admiration for her co-Marshal. No matter how tough things get, Chael seems to always have a way to make it more bearable for others―and today is no exception. Closing the distance, she wraps an arm around his back, placing a soft peck to the side of his neck, her lips brushing his stubble. She doesn’t care that they’re not alone―that Sana and Lily are watching. “I know Ironman, Chael,” she murmurs, her hand tracing circles on his back. “I remember reading an Ironman comic in high school.”
The soft peck turns his cheeks soft pink, the upgrade plans briefly forgotten. Staring at each other, the couple exchange smiles, and if not for the two spectators, they would kiss right now. "Of course you get me," he grins, finally turning back to the console with renewed focus. “Alright, so how do we put this on Knightfather and Denmother, Sana?” Clearing her throat, Sana returns her focus to the blueprint, scrounging the folder for more information. “I have the manuals for both the development and installation here, sir,” she exclaims, her voice high with a mix of pride and excitement. “And I’ll issue a rush order to the engineering team right now.”
-
“Marshals Hirai and Flint,” the President says, hands clasped over his desk. “How are things in the Near Orbit?” Momo taps the console on her desk, sending a map of both Federation and Neo Umvukeli activities in the area. “We have been actively engaging the rebels, Mr. President,” she says, glancing over towards Chael. “Marshal Flint has been using these skirmishes as a way to sharpen our Warthog pilots.” A smile plays on her lips as she adds, “Their units may be mass-produced, Mr. President, but I assure you, their hearts aren’t. And I must thank you for the Silver Slip. We’ve been utilizing it to optimal use, as per our last few reports.”
The President leans forward, his image flickering slightly in the long-range transmission. "And what of the casualties, Marshal Flint? Blades sometimes chip when you try to sharpen them." Chael steps into the frame, his expression unreadable. “Three Warthogs were shot down, three more severely damaged, Mr. President,” he sighs, memories of seeing the casualties happen in real-time flashing in his mind. “But the pilots made it out alive, didn’t they, Marshal?” the President continues. Nodding wordlessly, Chael confirms their status, but the image of a Warthog exploding after taking a missile to the back still circles in his head. “Alright, Marshals. I think it’s time to change topics.”
The President clears his throat, and the tactical map on the screen is replaced by a high-resolution scan of the South Pole. “We are getting significant heat signatures, Marshals. Reports from long-range scouts suggest that the Neo Umvukeli is establishing a base on Earth after many years.” Chael clicks his tongue, his palm clenching under his desk. “Suggest, Mr. President?” he mocks the poor choice of words. “I’m not sending my pilots based on suggestions.” A flicker of huff crosses the President’s face. “Your pilots, Marshal? They belong to the Federation, just like you.” Chael’s palms ball up even tighter, veins popping on the underside of his wrists. “Yes, they are Federation pilots. But the Federation belongs not to you, Mr. President. Also, if I may remind you, you only have one more year in this second term. You might want to use it to cement a legacy, not ruin it by sending the Federation’s finest to die based on suggestions.”
Chael doesn't blink, his gaze locked on the projection of the President. "Look, Mr. President. If I go back to Earth, to the Pole, I’m taking the Knightfather and half the Warthogs. I’m not playing scout." Overriding the President’s map, Chael draws a flight plan on his console. "We’ll perform a high-altitude drop. If the Neo Umvukeli are there, we’ll know within five minutes of touchdown. But if this turns out to be a wild goose chase based on suggestions, I’m coming to HQ for more than just a debriefing. Are we in an agreement, Mr. President?" The President leans back in his seat with a realization: Chael is the sharpest blade in the Federation’s military. But the blade is not just sharp―it has a mind of its own. “Yes, we are,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “I’m glad,” Chael keeps it brief. “See you at the South Pole. Marshals Hirai and Flint, checking out.”
As they walk towards the elevator, Momo grabs Chael’s arm, pulling him into a shadowed corner of the hallway. "That was a dangerous play, Chael. You backed him into a corner. And we know rats are the most dangerous when they’re cornered.” He sighs, understanding the danger of his angle. “I know, my heart,” he murmurs, cupping Momo’s cheek with one hand. “That’s why we’ll document everything that happens at the Pole. If there’s something there, we’ll adapt and overcome it. If not… that’s sabotage of the military on his part. That’s treason.”
They reach the elevator and ascend to their private quarters, where the air is cold without the intensity of the President meeting. “Momo…” he mutters, his hand searching for hers. “May I have you to myself for the next few hours? We haven’t caught up in a while.” Momo’s breath catches in her throat, knowing what kind of request he’s making, the kind of longing carrying it. “Sure, but…” she trails off, his dark irises screaming for her undivided attention. “Of course, love,” she revises, tangling her fingers with his. “Just… just remember that today isn’t a safe day, okay?” Chael tightens his fingers around hers, leaning in to place a peck on her temple. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, my heart.”
The lights in the quarters dim automatically, casting the room into a soft, amber glow. Chael leads her to the window overlooking the curve of the Earth. They stand there for a long time, not as Marshals, but as a man and a woman watching the world they are trying to save. "When this is over," Chael whispers, his chin resting on her shoulder, "I want to go somewhere where the air doesn't smell like recycled oxygen. Somewhere we can just… be. No giant mechs, no re-emerging rebels―just Chael Flint and Momo Hirai." Leaning back into his embrace, Momo lets her eyelids close, securing herself in his arms. “I… I want that too, Chael,” she echoes. “And that’s why you must survive whatever the South Pole hides.”
With a slow backwards step, Chael leads Momo away from the window and towards his side of the Marshal’s quarters, a dim chamber of beige and gray―such a stark contrast to Momo’s colorful and bright chamber. Turning around in his arm, Momo tucks her face into the side of his neck, filling her nose with his subtle scent. “Thank you, my heart,” Chael mutters, placing a peck on the top of her head. “But we haven’t done anything,” she protests, pressing her nose deeper against his skin. “It’s not a thank-you for just today, Momo,” he pulls back slightly, trying to meet her eyes, “we have been Marshals for just over a year now. We’ve been through a lot and put our troops through a lot too. I’m thanking you for staying by my side through it all.”
Momo frees herself from his embrace, jumping straight onto his bed and landing with a soft bounce. “Come here,” she mouths, her extended arm an invitation. Chael joins her on the mattress, draping an arm over her waist. Momo opens her lips only to close it right after, no sound coming out of them. But Chael doesn’t push, doesn’t rush―he stays with her, one arm supporting his head while the other stays on her. “Erm… I, uh…” she manages, and a patient, loving smile begins to bloom on his lips. “I… I don’t even know where to begin, Chael. I mean, things were moving so fast. I know I’ve been a pilot for a few years now, but looking back, it feels only like months, if not weeks.”
His hand finding the back of her nape, Chael pulls her in for a peck. “I understand that feeling,” he echoes, his thumb gently stroking her skin. “A few years ago, after four years of being a fighter jet pilot, I climbed into the first prototype of a Cazador Frame. It was heavy, slow, and closer to a tank with arms and feet compared to what we have today.” His eyes land on a miniature of Knightfather on the bedside table before returning to Momo. “Things often got really difficult, physically and mentally―I’ve lost count how many times I’ve gotten nosebleeds while testing various things. But I kept going, fighting to keep improving, even by one percent. And then, I woke up one day, and I was assigned to be your tutor. Believe me when I said it was life changing.”
Momo laughs softly, the sound subtly echoing off the metal walls of the room. “I must’ve looked so silly to you,” she jests, dragging a hand down her face. “No experience of real combat. No strategic or tactical skill, either. A rookie, driven only by the naïve, idealistic desire to make an impact, no matter how small.” Chael laughs at her description of Corporal Momo Hirai, the young, rough diamond she was back then. “Believe me, my heart. You might have been inexperienced, but you had the makings of a brilliant pilot and leader.” He pauses, letting Momo absorb his observation of her younger self. “And our first mission in the Brazilian airspace was particularly memorable to me,” he continues, his gaze long as he recounts the past. “You see, I had been given a memo, telling me I should let you off the reins a little bit. I’ll admit that I was initially hesitant to let you engage freely. But the moment you baited their countermeasures with missiles and immediately followed it up with a railgun shot, I knew you’d smash them―and smash them, you did.”
Rushing forward, Momo claims his lips in a ferocious, passionate tangle that leaves them both breathless. “Thank you for believing in me, my love,” she declares. There’s no hesitation in her voice, sounding like she’s attaching her success to his faith and trust in her. “And thank you for loving me,” she adds quickly. “I know we had to keep it a secret for a few years, but it’s worth it. You’ve been taking care of me in ways I never knew I needed, including sexually.” Chael chuckles, the mention of their sexual activeness catching him off guard. “That’s a two-way road, my heart,” he cups her chin with thumb and forefinger, “you gave me the profound honor of being your first, and I’ll always cherish that.”
Momo leans back, her hair a mess against the gray pillowcase, looking at him with fierce hunger. “A profound honor, you said? Then why don’t we bask in that honor right now?” Chael's heart begins to race in his chest as the sight unfolds: she’s splayed on his bed, her black Skin suit shining through the gap in the body of her Marshal coat. Her nametag, written as M. Hirai, now sits right over the curve of her bosom. Noticing his stare, she follows his gaze to her nametag. “Just so you know,” she says, her tone playful. “I’ll add your name to the end―Momo Hirai-Flint. I like my last name too much.” He chuckles at her tease, freeing his arms from the confines of his own Marshal coat. “Sure, my heart. Hirai-Flint sounds good.”
As Chael’s coat hits the floor, the heavy arrangement of his medals and rank clatters against the metal floor—a sound of a burden being dropped, even if only temporarily. Moving over her, his hands frame her head against the pillow. For a moment, the hum of the station fades, the sight of the Earth beyond their window forgotten. “Hirai-Flint,” he repeats, testing the taste of the name on his tongue. “I’ll make sure we live to see the name etched on the fence of our home. By then, we’ll have stopped being soldiers; we’ll have become husband and wife.” He kisses the space just above her nametag, his lips lingering on the soft fabric of the coat before moving to the warmth of her skin. “Now let us bask in the honor of lovemaking, shall we?”
Straightening his posture, Chael reaches for the zipper of his Skin suit, the fabric loosening its tight grip on his skin as the zipper’s teeth part. Guiding the pull downwards, he continues, until he’s completely bare before her. Momo bites her bottom lip at the sight of his hardened manhood, her eyes zipping between that and his eyes. With a rush, she reaches for her own zipper, propelled by the almost-primal urge to feel the warmth of his skin, wetness growing between her thighs. “I’m ready,” she pants, her chest heaving with anticipation. “Take me, my love. I’ve missed you so much.”
Momo gasps sharply when his fingertips graze her wet entrance, her back arching off the mattress. “Easy, baby, easy,” he whispers, dipping two fingers into her core. His movement is easy and relaxed, her walls lightly squeezing his wandering fingers. “You’ve missed me, you said?” he teases, getting knuckle-deep in her warmth. Momo forces a nod, whimpering under the influence of his touch. “Y-yes, sir,” she manages. “I… I’ve missed you so―oh, fuck!” Momo grips his wrist as he hooks his fingers upwards, the muscles in her thighs clenching hard. “Yes, yes, I’ve missed you―I’ve missed you so much!”
Chael watches the way her eyes roll back, the amber light of the room catching the sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. He doesn't let her wait any longer, shifting his weight to move between her trembling thighs. "Then let's make sure you don't have to miss me again for a long, long time," he murmurs. He enters her in one smooth, slow motion, his eyes never leaving hers, seeking a connection deeper than any tactical link. Burying himself to the hilt, Chael tightly wraps his arms around her, locking the heat of their bodies to the confines of their embrace. “Momo, my heart,” he groans, his breath searing her ear. “I love you. I love you so, so much.” Momo nods slowly, her breath now quick and ragged. “I-I love you more,” she manages between moans. “M-Move, please.”
Chael pulls his hips backwards slowly, moving them forwards again right after, almost testing if her body remembers his. Resting his forehead on hers, he maintains the relaxed pace, fully basking in the sensation of her snug, squeezing walls. “Yes, Chael,” Momo breathes, locking her ankles behind him. “Just like that, my love. Exactly like that…” He resists the urge to slam his hips into her―with the uncertainty of the South Pole mission, he wants this moment, this heat, to be as special as it can be. That way, should this be the last time they’re allowed to do this, it will be anything but regrettable.
Chael and Momo move together, his manhood gliding in and out of her soaked core. Each deep thrust is rewarded with a soft moan, undeniable proof of the all-consuming heat between their legs. Latching his lips on the soft skin of her neck, he growls against it. “I love you, Momo. I love you.” Momo’s moans only increase at his passionate declarations, both in loudness and frequency. “Yes, Chael, yes!” she screams, the volume testing their room’s soundproofing.
Time loses its meaning in the amber light. Minutes or hours pass as they move as one, a silent vow renewed with every thrust. When the inevitable peak finally comes, it isn't a scream, but a shared, breathless shudder that feels like breaking through the atmosphere. They lie there for a moment, hearts hammering against one another, his release filling her core to the brim. Her warning of today being unsafe is long forgotten, brushed aside at the peak of the encounter.
Chael pulls her impossibly close, his eyes searching the depths of her dark irises. “Whatever happens down there, Momo…” he begins, his voice clear, seemingly unaffected by the breathlessness she’s having. “Remember this moment, my heart. This connection we are so blessed to share. And I promise to return to your side alive.” Momo nods, cupping his cheek in one hand, caressing it softly. “Not just alive, Chael―you must return whole,” she corrects, her voice raspy from the lingering heat of their passion. “Your body, your mind, your soul―they all must be whole.” With a solemn nod, he places a peck on her pulse point, cementing his vow to return fully. “I will return whole, my heart,” he promises, tears pooling in his eyes and threatening to spill. “And when I return, we will leave all of this behind.”
-
Having fully redressed, Chael leads Momo out of their private quarters and towards a meeting room, where Sana and the Green-Horns are waiting for them. He finds her hand right as the elevator doors close, but she doesn’t look at him. “My heart, what is it?” he whispers, his hand finding purchase on the small of her back, just right over her butt. “Something is telling me that…” she pauses, squeezing his palm tightly, “that this mission might cost us too much.”
Chael is no stranger to dangerous missions, but when the Federation’s beacon of hope is shaking in her boots, even the most steadfast soldier begins to tremble. Lost in his own doubtful, fear-infected thoughts, he falls silent as he tries to find even the smallest spark of courage in his chest. “But I believe in you,” Momo interrupts, turning to him with a smile. Forced it may be, but a smile is a smile—and Momo’s smile is truly one of a kind. “You’re the greatest Gen 7 jet pilot of all time.” He chuckles, every muscle in his body relaxing at her remark. “Thanks for the assurance,” he chuckles one more time, shaking his head in pure mirth, “I haven’t been in a Gen 7 jet in years, but yes, I was quite the great pilot, if I do say so myself.” The smile Momo coerced becomes a genuine one. “And now you’re the greatest Cazador Frame pilot we have, love.”
Chael’s posture straightens at her encouragement, warmth spreading in his chest as he fully absorbs each word. “I’m great because you are, my heart,” he pulls her flush against his side, “and now, let’s end it all here, hm?” Momo leans in, placing a fleeting peck on the bridge of his nose. “For a chance at a normal life,” she declares. “Yeah. For a chance at a normal life,” he echoes, returning the peck to her forehead.
Releasing her hand right as the doors open, they walk out to two rows of Warthog pilots. “Attention!” They instantly snap to stiff attention at Lily’s notice. “At ease, pilots,” Chael commands calmly. He looks at them one by one, a mix of pride and caution swirling within him. “You all have heard about the mission, haven’t you?” he asks. “Sir, yes, sir!” they answer in unison, turning the heads of passersby. “I will count to three, and anyone who wants to opt out of the mission can walk away. One, two, three.” Momo and Chael wait, quietly expecting that at least one of them will chicken out―but no one does. “To the briefing room, pilots. We have plenty of work to do.”
Momo and Chael lead the pilots towards a briefing room by Hangar 1. Taking a glance at it, Momo sees only the Knightfather on a Crawler, getting carried towards a Carrier, boxes of ammunition piled high around it. “Where’s my Frame? Why isn’t Denmother getting loaded?” she asks Chael. “Because you’re not going to the South Pole, Marshal,” he answers, never breaking stride. “I know we haven’t talked about it, but my plan is to split the work.” Chael pauses momentarily, waiting for a tow tractor dragging a couple of trailers of Warthog missiles to pass. “As I was saying,” he quickly turns to her, “we can talk about the details later.”
With everyone seated in the briefing room, Chael locks the door with a push of a button, keeping everything confined to this room and this room only. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, not wasting any time. The lights dim as the screen behind him lights up, setting the vibes for a different kind of cinema. “We are gathered here right now to talk about the South Pole mission. You all saw my Frame on top of a Crawler on our way here, so you best believe the mission is real.” Chael pauses, scanning the face of the pilots, each one going to be tested and battle-hardened. “Look, I’ll be honest with you―I have my doubts about this mission, but we’re going to see this through, nonetheless. Anyway, I’ll let Lieutenant Minatozaki take the screen now.”
The large flat screen shows a brief static as Sana joins the briefing remotely, her image quickly taking the space right in the center. “Good evening, pilots,” she begins, her tone easy but sharp, relaxed but serious. “Welcome to Operation Shivering Steel.” Pilots look around at each other, murmuring among themselves at the mentioned operation. But Sana doesn’t let them breathe―she’s determined to lay everything out to the pilots, knowing how quickly the tide of war might turn based on the outcome of this operation.
“This operation involves splitting up the Warthog fleet into two groups, each led by a Marshal,” she continues, her image shrinking to make room for a display of two symbols. “Marshal Chael Flint will lead a squad of Rhinos to the South Pole to engage the enemy forces. In the meantime, Marshal Momo Hirai and the Dragonflies will provide aerial cover. If necessary, Marshal Hirai and her team will cover our ground forces against their orbital space weapon―the same one that damaged the Knightfather and killed General Johann.”
Sana taps a final command, revealing a new schematic. "To make this work, the Rhinos and Dragonflies will share a cross-linked neural-net. You won't just hear your teammates; you’ll feel their position. But there’s a catch." She looks at the pilots, her expression darkening. "The upgraded neural link technology from the Silver Slip is going to push your brains to the limit. If we lose a pilot, the feedback could battle-shock the entire squad. It is highly advisable to stay sharp, keep a clear head, and listen to orders."
Lily quickly rises to her feet, raising one arm to the ceiling. “Specialist Browning, volunteering for the Rhino squad,” she yells, fully propelled by sheer determination. The abruptness of her shouted declaration turns the heads of those present in the room. Unlike a high school, however, no one laughs or mocks her for standing up to volunteer. This is the army, the best of the best that the Federation has to offer, and no one shall laugh at a display of bravery. “Specialist Miyazaki, volunteering for the Dragonfly squad,” Mori exclaims, energized by her fellow fighter’s spirits. Each pilot quickly follows in their footsteps, screaming their name and pleading their allegiance to each squad. And as fate would have it, the Warthogs are split into two perfect halves, ready to follow their respective Marshal to the furthest corner of the world.
Chael slams his fist on the podium before him, a proud smile stretching across his lips. “Shut up!” he yells, but his voice carries no venom. “You’re not allowed to heckle a briefing, soldiers. But I’ll allow it this one time.” Glancing over at Momo, he gets her firm nod, her gaze shifting away towards the eager Green-Horns. “Alright, now let’s listen to Lieutenant Minatozaki again.” Straightening their posture in their seats, the pilots tune in to the rest of the briefing, taking mental notes of every detail, each one possibly the difference of life and death. Chael allows himself to smile occasionally, his heart touched by the bravery of his and Momo’s future successors.
-
Chael’s Warthog squad drops from the Perseus’ bay in pairs, igniting their upgraded thrusters to take them to the designated landing zone, a few kilometers southeast of the suspected Neo Umvukeli base. “Browning,” he calls to her as she’s about to jump. “Yes, Marshal?” she asks, her mobile suit looking down at the sea of clouds beneath. “Make us proud.” With a resolute nod, Lily moves her suit forward, staying aboard just on one foot. “Yes, sir. I’ll make you both proud.” Tapping the side of her helmet, Lily’s visor activates, projecting the trajectory of her flight over the endless clouds. “Specialist Lily Browning, deploying to combat.” With it, Lily drops out of the carrier, splitting the skies with the jets on the back of her mobile suit.
Chael watches the streak of Lily’s thrusters disappear into the clouds from inside of the bay. “Chael,” Momo’s voice passes through the direct channel. “Stay alive. Stay whole.” Closing his eyes, he steps closer tothe edge, his suit forwarding the wind’s rage from the Frame to his skin. “That is the main mission, my heart…” He walks off the platform, feeling every blow of wind as if he himself is freefalling. “And I won’t fail.” Pushing a button, he engages his own thrusters, the streak burning so bright that Momo can see it from the stratosphere. “I will not fail,” he repeats, a promise to his love.
Chael cuts through the cloud layer like a blade through silk, the gray mist exploding into a chaotic whiteout as he enters the Antarctic storm. "Rhinos, form up on my signature," he commands, his voice a steady anchor in the screaming wind. Around him, the heat-flares of Lily and the others begin to coalesce. The ground is rushing up at Mach 2—a jagged landscape of ice and hidden Neo Umvukeli turrets. "Prepare for landing. Three... two... one... Impact!" With a violent rumble that sends a rushing wave of ice and cold air combined, the Rhinos touch down on the surface of the South Pole, their eyes primed on the prize: the rebel’s base.
“Hunley,” he calls. “Send the drone. Find them for me.” Hunley launches the drone at the command, scanning high and low for enemy presence. The drone fights the 100-mph gusts, its rotors screaming as it battles to stay level enough to keep the thermal camera focused. On Hunley’s HUD, a single pulsing red dot pierces the gray static of the map—a ghost in the machine, one kilometer out. “Faint heat signatures detected, sir. one kilometer ahead,” he notifies the squad, putting a marker on the digital map on his cockpit panel. “One kilometer ahead,” Chael echoes. Moving his Frame one step at a time, he moves through the flat white, lowering the input rate of his Skin suit as to not freeze from the forwarded cold. “Move, pilots, but move slowly. And keep your eyes open.”
Hunley’s console beeps, casting information from the heat-seeking drone. “An object is approaching fast,” he quickly notifies the whole Rhino squad. “Northwest and northeast. The speed indicates missiles.” Chael lifts Knightfather’s arms, activating the wrist cannons underneath its forearms. While listening to the beeps of his own radar, Chael sees the shiny glint of the warheads approaching rapidly towards his squad. “Visual confirmed, intercepting missiles.”
Hunley and the rest of the Rhinos hover their thumbs over the countermeasures button, ready to confuse the missiles in the old-fashioned way. They watch on as Chael fires the 60-millimeter caliber Volkov guns, the projectiles exploding in the sky before they can begin to threaten the team. “Missiles down,” Chael announces, deactivating the cannons after the last missile is intercepted. “Find them quickly, Hunley. The quicker, the better.”
"The approach angle was too low for a ship," Chael mutters to himself, eyes tracking the dissipating smoke. "Those came from surface-level hidden tubes―the Dragonflies might have visual." Looking up, he sees the bright dots of Dragonflies’ boosters in the sky amidst the falling snow. “Dragonfly squad, requesting high-altitude visual support. We need help finding where those missiles came from,” he calls, his tone demanding. Tilting her Frame downwards, Momo looks through the scouting lens of the Denmother, looking for anything that looks out of place. “Knightfather, there’s an array of underground missile silos not too far ahead from your position,” Momo confirms, placing points of interest on the shared tactical map. “Copy, Denmother. Tell us when they fire again.”
Knightfather leads the Rhino squad forwards, splitting the group into two, each going towards a different point of interest. Getting close enough, Chael engages the calf rockets, lifting his Frame into the air, thus allowing him to fire his Volkovs directly at the closed silos. They explode into a burst of flame when the bullets shred the covers. As the silos detonate, a surge of thermal feedback heats his skin—a phantom burn that makes his breath hitch even as he stabilizes his hover. And from the east, Chael hears the same explosion in the distance, the inferno blazing high into the sky, almost catching one of the Warthogs in its searing wrath. From the stratosphere, Momo watches the twin blooms of fire piercing the whiteout like two angry orange eyes opening on the ice. “Removing targets from the tactical map,” she announces simply.
Momo’s screen suddenly turns blood-red as a high-priority warning overrides her scouting lens. “Rhino, multiple fighter jets are coming to pinch you. There’s movement dead north, too―keep your eyes open!” The radars on each Warthog beep frantically as the enemies approach quickly, threatening them with flanks from multiple sides. “Copy that, Dragonfly.” Chael activates one of his double-ended beam swords, the air crackling around its length. The frantic, high-pitched chirping of the proximity alarm is drowned out by the low-frequency hum of the beam sword as it ionizes the freezing Antarctic air. “Rhino squad, prepare to engage.”
From the Perseus, Sana watches the enemy's formation with a growing sense of dread. “Mom!” she screams into her microphone, panic starting to take over. “The Neo Umvukeli have mobile suits and battle tanks. The Rhinos need your help―now!” Momo increases the output of Denmother’s thrusters, nose-diving straight into the battlefield. “Denmother, heading in to provide assistance!” The Dragonfly squad is quick to follow their Marshal, activating their long-range weapons as they fly through the layers of atmosphere to reach the ground team. Piercing through the troposphere, the Denmother’s leading edges begin to glow a dull cherry-red as she slams into the denser air of the troposphere, the friction screaming against her cockpit glass. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she curses, the skin of her face burning from the simulated stimulation.
Momo feels a fresh breeze hitting her face around four thousand meters above ground, her body quickly relaxing after such a physically taxing flight. “Denmother, engaging bogeys,” she announces, her voice slightly murmured, switching her Mk-IV Talon Cannon to semi-auto mode. Focusing on the bigger targets, Momo commands her Dragonflies to deal with the fighter jets, one by one popping like firecrackers in the air at the hands of her subordinates. She doesn’t let up, hurling bolts at the enemies, only stopping to let it cool down before pulling the trigger again. If not for the literal freezing temperature of the South Pole, she would have to pause more frequently. It appears that fighting in such an element has its advantages.
Soon, however, the “low ammo” alert beeps―“15 rounds remaining.” That is ten percent of the initial reserve. “Denmother, calling drones for resupply.” With one press of a button, Perseus releases one supply drone, a claw-like mechanism on its belly holding a crate full of 100-milimeter caliber rounds that are suitable for both Denmother and Knightfather. Seeing that a supply drone is coming, Momo spends the rest of her ammunition, blowing a battle tank to the sky with the last one. As the drone finally arrives, it hovers right behind Denmother, and a click of a button on Momo’s panel exposes Denmother’s ammo feed module on the back. Momo requests half of the payload with the intention of saving the rest for Knightfather when he needs it, and after a few seconds of resupply, she’s now ready to start blazing again.
“Perseus to Mom, over,” Sana’s voice cuts through the rhythmic thumps of the cannon’s recoil. “Semi-auto isn’t sustainable, Mom. Full-auto would at least keep the barrel hot―this is thermal shock. It’s like you’re hammering it red for a split second and freezing it solid between shots.” Momo runs a quick diagnostic sweep of her entire weapon systems. The heat signatures don’t spread; they fracture. Semi-auto has been slamming the bore hot and cold too fast, and the steel is answering in whispers—micro-cracks spidering outward, invisible until the cold makes them speak. “What’s your advice, Perseus? Single-round mode? Melee?” she asks, removing her finger from the trigger. Sana takes a pause, the AI in her console hurrying to make a prediction based on the diagnostics. “You can use single-round mode for up to 24 shots,” Sana forwards the AI’s calculation result. “After that, melee combat is highly advised.”
Momo switches the Talon Cannon to single-round mode, the mechanical selector clicking with a heavy, final sound. “24 rounds―what did I resupply for, then?” she mutters to herself, but she knows this isn’t the time for doubt. Focusing her aim at ground targets once more, Momo continues to pick them out, counting the number of shots she has dished out. She’s oblivious to the fact that the enemy is preparing to take a jab at her, now that she’s alone and unguarded. And their first attempt at this isn’t too dissimilar to their attempt to hit the Rhinos―it’s just that they’re doing it with something bigger: a prototype missile launched from a submarine that has been swimming in the freezing waters, and they’re aiming it directly at the matriarch of the Federation army.
A kilometer out from the Rhinos, the ice shelf groans. A jagged lead-blue tip punches through the ice, followed by a roar of steam as the prototype’s boosters ignite in the sub-zero air. Sana’s console screamed a different tone—a wet, rhythmic pulse. "Mom! Cavitation detected! Something just broke the surface from the deep!" In the air, the missile doesn’t follow a standard ballistic arc; it’s twisting, its vectored thrust nozzles adjusting to every oddity in the wind with its predatory self-guidance system. "Momo, break! Flares! Do everything!" Chael’s voice roars through the link, his own combat forgotten as he watches the streak close in on the Denmother.
Momo slams the thrusters to maximum, the HUD screaming as her Frame forwards the g-force of a 9G turn. The missile misses her cockpit by meters, the heat of its exhaust burning her entire body. "It's coming back for a second pass," she gasps, her vision blurring. "It’s a loitering munition!" Punching the countermeasures button, flares launch from the back of Denmother and wrap around, shaping up to become a thermal shield that will confuse the missile’s guidance system―at least that was the plan.
The warhead shatters in the air above Denmother, its dispersal core vomiting a steel rain at point-blank range. Momo screams as the sub-projectiles punch through her Frame from multiple angles, each impact echoed in her nerves as if her own flesh were being flensed. The neural sync is too high—every rupture is hers to feel, her pain broadcast in front of allies and enemies alike.
On the Perseus, Sana is paralyzed by the sound of the matriarch’s scream booming through the comms. Her fingers hover over the "Emergency Cutoff" command, but she knows that at this altitude and speed, cutting the link would send Momo into a fatal coma―and send her crashing into the ice below. "Mom! Disengage! I’m initiating feedback dampening!" She slams a series of overrides, trying to inject digital morphine into the neural link before the battle-shock stops Momo's heart. “Mom! Disengage―right fucking now!” The biometric feeds on the main screen turn into a jagged landscape of red spikes, Momo’s heart rate dropping as the steel rain continues to flense the Denmother. But there’s a way. There's hope. “Dad! Save her!”
Chael doesn’t wait for a repeat, igniting the thrusters on his calves and back. Like a space rocket shooting for outer space, he leaves a trail of smoke behind that blinds everyone in the battlefield below. But he doesn’t care about anything else―his mind is locked on saving the woman who has his heart. The woman he trusts with his life. The woman in that frayed Cazador Frame. “Sana,” he calls, his groans filling the direct channel. “Override the sync. Disengage her from your side.”
Sana’s hands tremble. Disengaging now means Momo loses all automated stabilizers; it would turn the Denmother from a wounded bird into a falling brick of dead weight. “Do it, Lieutenant―that’s a direct fucking order!” The scream cuts through her cloud of doubt like hot knife through butter, and Sana fights with her console to disengage Momo from the neural sync. “Sync overridden, sir!” she screams back, brave enough to glance at the console’s glaring-red warning of Denmother’s rapid loss of altitude. “She’s losing altitude rapidly, sir! Catch her!”
Without her stabilizers, the Denmother begins a violent, sickening tumble, her limbs flailing as the wind shear catches the jagged edges of her punctured armor. Pushing the thrust of his rockets to maximum output, Chael soars almost perfectly vertically, his mind racing to find a way to safely save Momo―and an idea swiftly forms in his head. “Sana, listen to me!” he demands, his doubts of the idea burned away by the heat of his exhaust. “Eject Momo from Denmother. I’ll catch her cockpit!” Sana focuses her efforts to override the cockpit, and with the next push of her Enter key, Momo’s cockpit should split from Denmother. “Ready for manual ejection, sir!”
Reaching out the hand of Knightfather, Chael screams “now” into the direct channel. Momo’s cockpit is sent flying as the soulless Denmother free-falls from the sky. The explosive bolts fire in a sequence of blinding sparks, kicking the Frame’s mangled limbs away to clear a path for the core escape pod. And he’s quick to catch her, securing her in the palm of his Frame. “Marshal Hirai is secured!” he announces, changing direction quickly to avoid damage from the remnants of the falling Denmother. “Requesting personnel extraction at these coordinates,” Chael punches in the coordinates of his planned landing spot, beginning a controlled descent to it.
The Knightfather comes to a halt in the deep snow, its engines cooling with a series of metallic pings. Chael lowers the massive hand to the ground, gently depositing the detached cockpit pod. “Where’s the extraction, Sana?” he asks, looking for friendly IFF beeps on his radar. “It’s coming, sir―an Albatross craft has just launched from the Perseus,” Sana replies, her voice shaking but focused. Chael turns his Frame around towards the enemies, both the Rhino and Dragonfly squads fighting over yonder. The distant thunder of the Rhinos’ Impact Cannons and the shriek of the Dragonflies’ Vector Rifles provide a violent backdrop to the silence of the landing zone. “Sana, if I don’t see an extraction crew in the next 3 minutes, I’m shooting down the Perseus,” he threatens, even as his shoulder-mounted missile batteries are locked at the enemies and not the space carrier.
The scream of the Albatross’s engines finally breaks the silence, the VTOL craft kicking up a blinding vortex of snow as it hovers just meters above the ice. A team of extraction specialists in heavy thermal gear slides down the ropes before the struts even touch the ground. "Marshal, we have the perimeter!" the lead medic shouts over the comms. Chael doesn't move the Knightfather; he remains a statuesque sentinel, his missile batteries still aimed at the ridge line. "Get her out―now," he rasps.
It is only when Momo’s pod is lifted to board the Albatross that Chael moves to re-enter combat. Chael leans forward and the world follows. The Knightfather’s hesitation mirrors his own for a heartbeat, then the link tightens and thought becomes motion. Hydraulic muscles bunch, release, and the mech surges ahead, each stride slamming through his chest as if he’s the one hitting the ground. The battlefield rushes closer—not because he’s charging it, but because it’s time to break things. To smash, smash, and smash. Until the last fighter jet falls from the sky. Until the last mobile suit is torn limb from limb.
Chael reaches the frontline in a matter of seconds, Knightfather’s feet leaving cracks in the blue ice. Once past the Rhinos’ frontline, Chael leaps with a pop of thrust from the jets, reactivating the double-ended beam swords. The first enemy to fall to the violent rage of the Federation’s top pilot is a fresh mobile suit that seems to have only launched minutes ago, its midsection cut in one clean, swift slash of Knightfather’s saber. The violet blade doesn’t just cut; it vaporizes the cheap alloy on contact, leaving the edges of the enemy's torso glowing with molten slag as it slides apart. “Next,” Chael’s voice booms over the white-out, a taunting call to step up to the plate and take a shot at the revered Three-Strikes.
Staying perfectly still as a battle tank directs its main cannon towards him, Chael watches on as a mobile suit charges at him. The enemy mobile suit has an oversized axe as a left arm, the right a normal humanoid hand that holds a prototype energy pistol. They hope to start doing damage by shooting while running, perhaps looking to take a swing of the axe. “Even a Federation rookie knows better than that.” Chael spins the double-ended sword, providing momentary cover, as he looks to find the perfect moment to counter.
When the mobile suit gets close enough to Knightfather, it lifts its arm, the axe about to come down swiftly like an executioner. Moving to the side, Chael dodges the melee strike, and within the same second, stabs the side of the enemy with his sword. “You’re not like that, pal,” he insults. This mobile suit meets an end that’s not too distinctive from the previous one―it’s destroyed from the midsection area, looking anything but salvageable. To add insult to injury, Chael uses the severed torso as cover from the battle tank’s cannon round. “Alright, that’s enough fucking around―it’s time for you to find out.”
"Dad, the submarine is trying to run!" Sana's voice crackles with urgency. Chael ignores the remaining infantry, his eyes locked on the darkening water at the edge of the shelf. He switches off one end of the beam sword and reaches for his heavy-caliber Heinz-Andrews Pistol. "Rhinos, finish the rest. I'm taking a scenic break." He sprints toward the edge, the Knightfather’s feet carving a path of destruction through the snow. As he nears the ledge, Chael slams a command on his auxiliary panel; a heavy thrum vibrates through the Frame as the maritime seals lock into place, preparing the Knightfather for the unforgivingly crushing pressure of the deep.
Chael dives off the shelf, the Knightfather entering the water with the grace of a falling anchor. The silence of the deep is absolute, broken only by the groan of the Frame’s hull as it passes the hundred-meter mark. He spots the submarine’s propeller wash, a churning vortex of bubbles in his sonar. Leveling the pistol, he takes aim, steadying Knightfather’s firing hand―that submarine looks familiar, though. The shape of the propellers, the missile battery placed on top, the four torpedo tubes in the front… That is a Federation submarine.
But there’s no time nor space for doubt, so Chael fires―the allegiance of that ship matters little right now. All he knows is that the submarine launched a missile that took out Momo. The armor-piercing rounds scream through the water with a series of dull thuds as they punch through the sub's ballast tanks, forcing the deep-sea monster back toward the surface. “Knightfather to Perseus,” he says, watching the vessel losing its submersion capabilities. “Find out why a God-damned Federation submarine from the War of Nations era is in the hands of Neo Umvukeli.”
The submarine erupts through the thin ice sheets like a breaching whale, shattering the frozen surface in a spray of white slush and jagged floes. Chael follows it up from underneath. He fixes Knightfather’s hands on the submarine’s keel and heaves, lifting the vessel into the sky as every piston in his Frame’s joints fights the crushing weight. “Come on!” he growls, the strain from the sheer weight of the submarine seeping into his very muscles. The legend of Atlas has him holding up the celestial globe; the legend of Three-Strikes has him holding up a submarine that is supposed to not exist anymore.
With a final, explosive burst from his back thrusters, Chael slams the submarine down onto a thick shelf of blue ice. The impact sends a shockwave through the ground, causing the Rhinos to lose footing a kilometer away. Chael doesn't let go. He keeps one massive hand pinned to the conning tower, the Knightfather's fingers crushing the reinforced steel like a soda can. "Open the main hatch and come out with your hands in the air," Chael’s voice booms through the exterior speakers, distorted by the cold and his own exhaustion. "Before I decide to test how many bullets this submarine can take."
The main hatch on the conning tower finally hisses, a cloud of recycled air and condensation billowing into the sub-zero wind. A train of crew emerges, putting their hands high in the air as demanded, unprotected against cruel temperatures of the South Pole. They shiver not because of the freezing breeze―this oversized robot that’s threatening to shred them into nothing is more concerning than any wind. Then, the last person comes out of the hatch, clad in a long-sleeved coat dyed in red and black―Neo Umvukeli’s signature colors. “Zhao Wei-tsu,” he whispers, the name leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Knightfather’s AI activates the wrist-mounted Volkov guns at Chael’s spiking emotions. “You’ll get the firing squad, Zhao―after Willem van der Merwe.”
-
Having locked Zhao and his crew in the detention bay aboard the Near Orbit Station, Chael is present at every interrogation, sometimes getting his hands dirty by giving them punches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Zhao, cornered with nowhere to go, is the first to crack, each revelation more shocking and damning than the previous―and today is no different. “Flint, Flint,” he manages, his voice growing weak after taking three jabs to the ribs from the Federation’s Marshal-turned-hitman. “I… I swear to God. V-Van der Merwe got the ship from… from P-President Larssen. Please, man, just… stop. I’m begging you.”
Chael lowers his fist, leaning closer towards Zhao. "Say that again," he whispers, the name Larssen echoing in his mind like a proximity alarm. Zhao coughs, spitting copper-tasting phlegm onto the deck. "The Sentinel... it wasn't captured or stolen. It was a trade. Larssen's dossier was traded for the submarine…” Looking up at a security camera sitting in the corner of the room, Chael sees the blinking red dot under the lens. “Sana, are you recording this?” he asks. “Yes, Marshal―it’s just… I’m not watching you beat that guy,” she replies, the urge to vomit rising in her stomach. "Take this guy to the infirmary," Chael says, his voice losing its heat and turning into the flat, metallic tone of a commander filing a report. Grabbing his Marshal coat from the desk, Chael puts it on, taking one final look at Zhao before he leaves.
Taking the elevator to his quarter, Chael finds Momo in his room, looking out at the curve of the Earth. With bandage wrapped around her head, she has a tablet in her hand, scrolling through the leaked dossier Sana intercepted. She doesn't turn around when he enters. "I mean, I get it,” she lets out a long sigh, every muscle still aching at the phantom pain of the steel rain from days ago. “If I had secrets like this, I would trade a retired nuclear submarine for silence, too.”
Chael stops by the door, the scent of antiseptic and cold steel from the detention bay clinging to his coat, a sharp contrast to the familiar, worn scent of his own quarters. Shedding his Marshal coat, he lets it lie forgotten on the floor, approaching Momo from behind with small steps. “Hey, now,” he mutters, his left hand trying to free the tablet from her hold. “We’ll have Larssen answer to his crimes at a High Court. Our job is done for now.” Momo’s fingers slowly unfurl, her eyelids falling to a close, as she leans back into his embrace. “Larssen won’t walk free from this, right?” Momo looks over her shoulder, seeking assurance in his eyes. “No,” Chael promises, his hands coming to rest over her stomach. “He won’t see daylight after this.”
For a long minute, they simply stand there, watching the sun rise over the Pacific far below. The orange light bleeds into the room, catching the silver of Chael’s hair and the white of Momo’s bandages. "Tomorrow, we start the war for justice," Chael says softly, kissing the top of her head. "But tonight, we're just Chael and Momo." He leads her toward the bed, the hitman persona fading away as he focuses on the only person who still makes the world worth fighting for. As he guides her away from the window, the rigid tension in Chael’s shoulders—held tight since the first punch landed on Zhao’s face a few days ago—finally begins to dissolve into a heavy, honest exhaustion.
Settling into bed, Momo turns to face him. She takes his hand, caressing the skin of his knuckles. The surface is rough from 3 days of torturing Zhao. “When did you turn to a monster, Chael?” she mutters, her voice breaking, as tears pool in her eyes―she can only imagine what the other guy looks like. “Since…” Chael pauses, looking deep inwards to find an honest answer. “Since the moment I heard your scream piercing my ears when you got hit by that loitering munition missile.” His hand comes to rest on her cheek, his fingertips grazing the bandage around her hand. “That scream…” he gets shuddering goosebumps just from the memory, “that scream was the worst sound I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Momo pulls his hand closer, kissing the bruised knuckles as if she could draw the violence out of them. "I don't want a monster by my side, Chael," she whispers into the dark. "I want you. The man who taught me how to read the stars when I was a rookie. The man who taught me how to fly a Frame over the Malacca Strait." Chael closes his eyes, the image of Larssen’s face flickering in his mind. That damn smirk he has in the presidential portrait boils his blood, but Momo doesn’t want that. Momo doesn’t need that. "That man is gone, my heart―but I'll bring him back. I promise. Once this is over and Larssen is gone, I'll find him again." He sniffles, dabbing his eyes with the back of his free hand. “That man will come running to you, Momo. He will not look back even for a glance.”
Before they can move, a soft ping comes from the tablet now lying forgotten on the bedside table. With a deep breath, Momo turns to grab it, a notification flashing on the home screen. “The Department of Defense has agreed to summon Larssen before the Supreme Court. Signed, Sana,” the message says. Momo quickly puts the tablet back, her limbs guiding her to Chael once more. She begins sobbing in his chest, her body shaking violently. In a frustrated rage, she slams her fist against his shoulder, but Chael stays still, stays solid. The dull thud of her fist against his shoulder is the only sound in the room, a rhythmic, desperate beat that spoke of all the words she couldn't find. “I won’t ask what that ping was about…” he whispers softly, her reactions an irrefutable proof of the significance and weight of whatever that message was.
As Momo’s strength finally leaves her, she slumps against him, her forehead resting against the hollow of his neck. "It's over, Chael," she whispers, her voice a ghost of itself. "Sana did it. The dossier... it's in the hands of the Justices. Where’s that man now, then, hm? Where’s the man beneath the monster?" Chael looks past her at the tablet, the weight of the Marshal persona finally beginning to crumble. “The monster…” he murmurs, his grip on her wrist tightening. “The monster is in the cage, Momo. This is Chael Flint talking to you.” Momo doesn’t pull away; she leans deeper into the hollow of his neck, her breathing hitching as she recognizes the specific cadence of the man she has loved before the war began. “Chael Flint…” she echoes, pulling herself impossibly close to him. “He’s all I need. He’s all I want.”
They remain like that for a long time, the silence of the room finally feeling like peace instead of a ceasefire. Far below, the Antarctic ice shelf—the place where the monster was born—slips into the night side of the planet. "What happens now?" Momo asks, her voice steadying. Chael looks out at the stars, the ones he once taught her to read. "Now, we let the law do its work. And we find a place where Chael and Momo can be people―not Marshals, not pilots, not monsters. People.” She nods, her cheeks rubbing against his firm chest. “What… what comes after that, though?” she asks again. Planting a peck on her forehead, Chael airs a promise. “I’ll stay by your side, my heart, and you’ll stay by mine. Momo Hirai-Flint, isn’t it?” Momo chuckles, the first sound that is not gut-wrenching. “No, just Flint. Momo Flint sounds better.”
-
“The Supreme Court of the Federation hereby adjudges former President Mick Larssen guilty of treason in the third degree. Pursuant to statute, the court sentences the defendant to death by firing squad, the sentence to be carried out at a time and place determined by the Ministry of Justice.” Three slams of the gavel seal the fate of the disgraced president, brought down to the depths of hell by the unclassified dossier, Zhao’s testimony, as well as Momo and Chael’s attestations. Then, a ripple of motion passes through the gallery―people shifting, not in shock but in acknowledgment. There is no outcry after the sentence is read, either. Only the faint hum of the chamber’s HVAC system fills the silence, uninterrupted and impersonal.
The judges rise in unison, their robes whispering as they disengage from the bench, and somewhere, a clerk begins closing the files. The sound is small, almost apologetic or remorseful, yet it carries through the hall like a final punctuation mark. History, it seems, has already moved on, and so will those present. The fallen president sits still, armed guards covering his flanks in a disciplined stance. Chael only takes a glance at the back of his head before leaving, buttoning the coat over his dress uniform, both going to turn into a thing of the past in a matter of weeks. The harsh, overhead lights of the chamber glint off the gold Marshals' stars on Chael’s shoulders for the very last time, the metal appearing cold and drained of its luster.
Outside the courthouse, the air is thick with the scent of rain and damp earth—a far cry from the recycled oxygen of the Near Orbit Station. Momo is waiting outside by the car, leaning against the door with her long coat pulled tight, her dress uniform hidden from plain view. She doesn't ask about the verdict; she saw the broadcast. She simply reaches out and unpins the gold star from his left shoulder, dropping it into the palm of his hand. "Ready to go?" she asks. Chael looks at the heavy metal in his hand, his entire military career flashing in his mind, then tosses it into a nearby trash bin like the butt of a cigarette. "Ready."
Chael reaches for the door handle, the lock unlatching with a soft click. “Marshals! Sir, madam!” A collective scream stops them from entering the car. Turning their heads around, Chael and Momo see a familiar group of people rushing towards them with service caps tucked in their arms. Smiles stretch on the pair’s lips as the group approaches―the Rhinos and Dragonflies they fought with in the South Pole.
“You can’t be leaving already, sir,” Lily protests, smoothing the hem of her uniform. “You haven’t even said goodbye.” Chael chuckles, his breath blooming white in the cold. But before he can say anything, Momo interjects. “Chael owes me a honeymoon in the Maldives, Lieutenant,” she says. A surge of pride surges within her as she says Lily’s new rank―everyone was promoted to Lieutenant after the South Pole combat, each one now decorated with silver bars. “Oh, come on, Mom. Can’t we have Dad for a bit more?” Laughing, Momo shakes her head out of pure mirth, taking Chael’s hand in hers. “You can’t have Dad without Mom,” she turns towards Chael, a smile playing on her lips, “you’re all invited to our house tonight. But you’ll have to leave at 0500 hours before we leave for the honeymoon.”
-
Inside the house, the atmosphere is a chaotic whirl of packing and celebration. Chael finds himself in the corner of the living room, watching his subordinates argue over who gets to cook the first round of dinner. “Guys, come on, just let Hunley cook, huh?” he says, trying to break the playful scuffle with a tease. A proud smile spreads across Hunley’s features at his Marshal’s endorsement. “Yeah, guys, just let Hunley cook, huh?” he echoes, much to everyone’s annoyance.
As the crowd disperses, Chael heads out to the back garden, Sana and Momo already waiting for him. A mix of Rhino and Dragonfly pilots swim back and forth in the pool, the pace looking like they’re competing to pass a physical examination. Momo turns her head right as he steps outside, her ears tuned to the beat of his steps. “Hey,” she mouths, offering a smile and an open, inviting palm. Approaching his beloved woman, Chael takes her hand, placing a peck to her knuckles. “They’re having fun, aren’t they?” he murmurs, pulling her to his side. “They are,” Momo replies, one hand coming to rest on his chest, stroking it over his shirt. “And they deserve every second of this.”
Soon, Hunley calls from inside the house, his excitement to show off his cooking palpable in his booming voice. Those in the pool begin to come out, cleaning themselves off before entering the dining room. Taking initiative as the man of the house, Chael sits at one end of the table, Momo sitting at the other. Chael sits with his shoulders finally dropped, his back pressing into the soft upholstery of the chair—a luxury his cockpit has never afforded him. They wait until everyone is seated nicely, the long table filled to the max. “I get why you let Brad cook, Dad,” Lily jests, an approving smile forming on her lips. The table groans under platters of seared proteins and vibrant vegetables, the steam rising in lazy curls that catches the golden light of the dining room chandelier. “This spread looks like it comes from a restaurant.”
As the wine is poured and the first bites are taken, Chael taps his glass with a fork, the clear chime silencing the room. He looks from Lily to Brad, from Mori to Sana, then down the long table to Momo. "We’ve spent a lot of time talking about what we’re leaving behind," he says, his voice steady and warm. "But looking at this table, I realized what we’re heading toward. To the crew of the Perseus—the best family a man could ask for. May your next missions be half as exciting and twice as boring." A flicker of sadness crosses Sana’s features before she quickly schools it to calmness—the commander is raising his glass for a toast; this isn’t the time to frown. “To the Marshals! To all of us!” Mori’s exuberant shout seals Sana’s sadness in her chest. But she’s not letting it go just yet.
After the toast, the table quickly quietens, everyone focusing on their full plates. Sana wants to take advantage of the silence, glancing at Momo to look for permission to break the lull. With a small nod, Momo encourages her to speak her mind, knowing that this is as good a chance as any. “Dad,” she finally says, the nickname easily rolling off her tongue. “Are you… are you seriously retiring? What about us?” The pilots look among themselves―finally someone is asking the question everyone hesitant to ask. Smiling softly, Chael puts down his knife and fork with a gentle clink. “What about you, Sana, hm?” he says, the smile not fading from his face. “You’re all good enough to keep yourselves together. You all have experience, in and out of combat.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes finding Momo at the other end of the table, offering a small nod. “Look,” he sighs, his left hand coming to rest on Lily’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m retiring. Not because I’m tired or unfit for service―I’m retiring because I’m healthy.” He sighs deeply, the memory of the first nosebleed caused by a Cazador Frame prototype flashing before his eyes. “I don’t want to leave the military in a coffin, guys. I want to leave the military with full limbs and a sane mind. I want to leave so I can…” Pausing briefly, he taps his glassy eyes with a handkerchief on his lap. “I want to leave so I can be with the woman I love.”
Across the table, Momo’s hand tightens on her glass, her expression a mix of fierce pride and a soft, shimmering relief that the shadow of the Knightfather has finally passed. A stray tear falls on her cheek, and with a vehement, grateful nod, she lets another out. “I… I want to be with the man I love, too,” Momo repeats. The pilots put down their utensils one by one. The way the Federation’s top guns, the revered Marshals, can tap into the humanity aspect that is often sacrificed in the name of service offers them a different way of thinking, a different perspective on life. The Marshals are choosing the warmth of a hand over the cold, electric hum of the neural-link—a trade that every pilot in the room suddenly realizes they want for themselves.
Sana, Chael’s personal aide that has been steadfast and loyal in her service, isn’t fully satisfied with the answer. But she gets it. It’s better for them to leave all of this behind as people, not corpses. To leave all of this behind to chase something more meaningful than medals and accolades. “Yes, sir,” she finally speaks, her voice breaking from the weight of realization. The realization that Marshal Chael Flint will not be at the other end of a direct comms channel to ask for intel. The realization that the Federation’s future is in her and her fellow soldiers’ hands.
Lily looks from Chael to Momo, her own eyes misting. For years, she has chased the legends of Three-Strikes and Peach, thinking that to be great was to be untouchable. But looking at the two of them now, she sees that the ultimate strength isn’t in the Knightfather’s beam swords or the Denmother’s Talon Cannon; it is in the courage to walk away while they still know who they are, while they are still whole in body and soul. "We hear you, Marshal," she says softly, the title sounding more like a blessing than a rank. "We’ll make sure the Federation stays worth coming back to."
-
Fourteen hours later, the roar of jet engines is replaced by the rhythmic, emerald pulse of the Indian Ocean. Chael and Momo wake to the sound of water splashing against the wooden supports of their resort. Taking a deep breath, Momo turns to face him, a small, sleepy smile playing on her lips. “Good morning, my love,” she murmurs, her voice rough from slumber. “Mm, good morning,” he manages, half awake. “Did you sleep well?” Snuggling to the curve of his neck, she nods against his skin. “I did, thanks to you. And now I’m ready for anything you have in store, Marshal.” He pinches her side at the mention of his old rank. “I don’t see any Marshal out here.”
Looking up at him, Momo’s eyes shine brightly with a sense of clarity that has been missing for years. “So, Mr. Flint,” she says, her fingers tracing the outline of his cheekbones. “Now that we don’t have briefings to attend, what do we do first?” Without saying a word, Chael finds the smooth expanse of her thigh, pulling it to rest over his. “Mm, I like the idea,” Momo slides closer to him, wrapping her limbs around his body. “We don’t have to rush like usual, hm?” He leans in for a fleeting peck on the lips. “No, no rushing,” he confirms, his voice dropping to a gentle timbre. “Rushing to make love is such a thing of the past.”
Momo lets out a breath she feels like she’s been holding since the retirement ceremony. “I can get used to this,” she whispers against his lips. “To being present in the moment with you. To not rush to get to the next thing.” Leaning in, Chael claims her lips, pouring every bit of passion into the tangle. They break only for air before crashing into each other again, each pause shorter than the last. “My God, Chael,” she pants, her chest heaving with every short breath. “You’re killing me right now.” A naughty smirk playing on his lips, Chael places a peck on her chest, just right over her cleavage. “In a good way, I hope,” he teases.
Momo pinches his cheek, trying to erase the smirk he’s got. But this very smirk makes the man she fell for years ago. This is the man who she wants to protect her. This is the man who kept a clear head before the Supreme Court, one summons after another. And there was this specific picture that was taken from a balcony of the court building. In it, Chael was portrayed as having his marshal’s coat, deep gray in color, hanging off his shoulders, walking through the main hallway, while the Rhino and Dragonfly pilots were guarding him from reporters threatening to invade the marshal’s personal space. Momo had the picture framed as soon as she saw it, and she often looks at it whenever she needs a mood booster. Though the framed photo is left behind on the bedside table at home, the image is burned into her mind as a reminder of what they have gone through to get here.
Momo looks at the man before her, his shoulders now free of that heavy, decorated, wool-lined gray coat, replaced by the warmth of the sun and the salt of the sea. “In a good way, yes,” she confirms. With the very fingers that pinched him seconds ago, she caresses his face, wiping the tender ache off his skin. “In fact…” Momo guides his hand towards the growing arousal between her thighs. “You’re making me wet, too…” Chael’s breath catches—not from a high-G turn, but from the electric touch of her hand guiding his, the silence of the bungalow amplifying the honesty of their desire. “Take me, Chael…” she whispers, almost like a prayer for pleasure and intimacy.
Chael pulls away from her embrace, flipping Momo onto her stomach, his own arousal growing underneath his shorts. “You don’t mind doing it my way, do you?” he asks, muttering right into her ear. Relaxing into the mattress, she shakes her head. “Not at all. We’re here for a honeymoon.” Grinning, he pecks the back of her head, the scent of her shampoo smooth in his nose. “I like that answer, my love.” Without looking at him, she can hear that smile that he usually has when shown consent, and this morning is no different.
A soft sigh goes out through the gap of her lips when Chael hooks his fingertips into the waistband on her panties, sliding them down her silky thighs, all the way past her ankles. Teasing him, Momo closes her legs, triggering a confused “eh” out of her husband. She bites her lip as she fights the urge to laugh at his puzzled response―she can picture his grin instantly fading, and it’s not helping at all.
“Yeah, about that,” Chael pokes the flesh of her butt, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.” Unable to contain laughter any second longer, Momo bursts out laughing, turning onto her back once more. Clasping her hands on his nape, she pulls him down for a kiss. “I’m sorry, my love,” she says, the last breath of giggle leaving her lips. “Look, let’s do it like this for one round. We can do whatever you want after this.”
The smile blooms once more on Chael’s features, his peck on her lips fleeting but soft. “Sounds good, my heart,” he straightens his posture, removing his shorts and boxers and tossing them over his head. “I always love looking into your eyes as we make love.” Their eyes locked, he slides his stiff manhood into her soaked, eager core. Her walls slowly split open, accepting his intimate presence, the heat of the contact spreading through the both of them. Momo blinks slowly, a faint moan slipping out from between her lips. Finding his eyes once more, she smiles, another moan escaping her. “I bet I look so hot right now,” she breathes. “You do, love,” he groans. “You look incredible right now.”
Chael leans down, latching his lips on hers. His hips never stop or even slow down; they keep the pace, moving together towards a mutual goal. They’re no strangers to this concept―they used to do it on battlefields; now they do it in bed. Momo doesn’t keep her noises down, letting him know what his body is doing to her, what his presence means to her. Drawing strength from her passionate responses, Chael soon picks up the tempo, his manhood sliding in and out of her core, his girth stretching her in the best way possible.
“Come on, my love. Don’t stop―please, please don’t stop,” she begs, her peak approaching at an alarming pace. Chael notices the signs, gritting his teeth as he fights to take her to the finish line. “Yes! Yes! Oh, God, yes!” Her screams are the most enchanting music to his ears, each “yes” keeping the fire of passion stoked. With a final, ear-piercing scream, Momo’s walls clench around his length, her thighs shaking violently. This primal reflex triggers something just as primal in Chael, forcing his release to spill over. The heat scorches her insides in the best way possible, his semen finding its way to her waiting womb.
Rolling them over, Chael pulls her in, tucking her head under his chin. “I love you, Momo,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from the high of the climax. Momo is unable to say anything, still panting heavily. He continues to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, and with each passing second, her heaves gradually slow, her body relaxing into his embrace. She pulls away just enough to look him in the eyes. “I love you too, Chael,” she finally manages. “I’m glad we made it out in one piece. The South Pole. The military.”
He places a peck on the top of her head that was decorated with a snug wrap of bandage just months ago. “I’m also glad, my love,” he replies. “I always thought that my pilot career would’ve ended with me in a coffin with a flag draped over it. But here we are, making love in the Maldives.” Momo smacks the breadth of his chest, the touch soft and harmless. “Don’t,” she says, holding back a smile. “I’m not ready for round two yet.”
-
A soft chime comes from the bedside table, but it isn't a combat alert. It's a delayed, low-priority transmission from the Near Orbit Station. Chael ignores it at first, focusing on the way the sunset catches the amber in Momo’s eyes. But she nudges him with a smile. "See what she wants, Chael." He opens the message to see a group selfie of Sana, Lily, and Brad standing on the bridge, all of them smiling. The caption reads: The sky is clear. Stay as long as you want.
Chael wants to put the tablet back, but Momo stops his hand. “Send a reply,” she prompts. “Tell them you’re never leaving until I’m pregnant.” He swallows a nervous gulp―getting her pregnant will surely mark the point of no return, fully embracing this life as civilians with no chance to go back to the military. “Come on, love.” Typing a response, Chael’s thumb hovers over the “Send” button, and before he sends it, he looks deep into her eyes, seeking confirmation about her intent. “Please, just send it―send it right now, and I’ll let you take my anus.” With a chuckle and a growing arousal at her tempting offer, he sends the reply, rushing to put the tablet back on the table. He crashes into her, pinning her to the mattress beneath him.
“Did you say anus?”
Momo smiles, her tongue sneaking out to wet her lips.
“I did. Now be a man and take me again.”
