Work Text:
Presidia, Presidia Region, United Cascadian Republic (UCR)
2100 Local Time, 23 August AC 432
Nothing.
No words were able to describe this atrocity; this act of madness, this instant, orange glow of death.
Done in the name of vengeance, spite, and lost pride.
A glow of cordium orange and an already battered nation's pride - its capital - is gone. A volcanic wasteland, like all the rest. Survivors, if any, would be very, very few.
Evidently, there were survivors. A few hundred at best, and at worst, a dozen lucky few - if "lucky" can be a thing when they would be traumatized and plagued with guilt and nightmares for life.
For some, one object in particular stood a sorrowful sight: The charred and ravaged Dust Mother statue at Kennedy Hall. Once left alive during the initial Fall of Presidia, now she burns alight with piles upon piles upon piles of innocent men, women, and children stacked below her, all of who died for nothing but one man's lust for revenge.
In the burning skies outside the ruined city were a swarm of helicopters; media, rescue, military, anything one could think of. All of them recording and reporting the horror that lay before them, this ultimate act of destruction by an already much-reviled superpower.
Sicario's last few soldiers - those who were shot down right before the event - huddled with the civilian, rebel, even Federation survivors (those who weren't executed earlier, anyway), struggling to comfort themselves and - for a certain ace couple - not tearing up as they watched what was left of their home burn before them.
In a crumbling building, Kaiser hit the wall with all of his hatred and fury, having realized that his most loyal men - the best he could find - were nothing but dust at this point, having pushed too deep into the city with the militia. Virtually everyone else - Gunsel, Cariburn, Circus, his Assassin wingmen - dead or missing, and he has only the Federation to blame. And what of his...his Signature? He could only ruminate as he held the dogtags of one "CPT KELLEHER", which he made a copy of as a memento to their loyalty in the event they passed on.
Elsewhere, one Peter Kennedy was sobbing, Months ago, he didn't care much for his family, who essentially disowned him long ago. Even as the Cascadian Conflict worsened, he didn't care much for their safety. But now...everything is on fire, and he couldn't bring his family up when the Burning of Prospero happened.
The rebels have won...but for what? A volcanic wasteland? A country, stripped of its glory and beauty? Of its homes?
It didn't matter. '"Victory" didn't matter. Independence, less so.
It was all gone.
Presidia - and all that was left of Cascadia - was no more. Ten million lives...lost forever to the Dust Mother's eternal embrace and realm.
That was the true cost of independence - the price of victory.
Arena County Prison, Quentin, outskirts of Presidia, Presidia Region, UCR
2200 Local Time, 23 August AC 432
The screens through the prison were filled with portrait after portrait of the now-dead capital. The few surviving buildings in the center weren't even standing; they were struggling to hold on. Volcano hotspots were abundant. The reports state that a duel had happened shortly thereafter in the skies, which resulted in both pilots shooting each other down and ejecting somewhere.
Already, the West African Concordat, the first of many countries utterly stunned by the Federation's last laugh - had immediately pledged to send relief and shelter, even relocation, to what few Cascadian citizens were left standing. Not that it mattered.
Appall and disgust painted every foreign face in the building's TV screens. A number of world leaders couldn't believe it. No way the Federation would violate a ceasefire, a hand of peace; they just couldn't, not after the destruction left from the Burning of Prospero and the subsequent Second Calamity. Yet, it was true.
The Pacific Federation had unleashed a second cordium strike on the capital of their enemy, the United Cascadian Republic, during a ceasefire they themselves had agreed to.
Pure, unadulterated political outrage spread like a plague around the world in response to this unforgivable crime. But the leader of Independence Force high command had more pressing matters in her mind, as she barked out order after order to military units to seal off the interrogation room, where she is personally interrogating the culprit of the disaster.
Because at that point, nobody - except maybe her - cared if their best pilot and mercenary was heading there to murder the prisoner.
Within the room was a smug-looking Crimson 1 sitting with his hands in cuffs like it mattered. The woman in front of him had a Deagel ZI in her hands, knowing in pain that Crimson had effectively made himself the real winner of the war by ensuring virtually nobody had won the war, not even his precious Federation. His insanity drove him to think so. Yet, behind his smug looks, she could detect deep regret for the war not turning out his way - that it couldn't have been like this if he knew the threat of his archnemesis.
"Tell me, you murdering bastard!" She said, as she slammed her pistol to the interrogation desk in much anger.
"Yeah? What was-"
"Why did you nuke Presidia?! We were going to resolve things as peaceful as possible with the Federation! Why did you have to ruin it all?!" She wanted, more than anything, to execute Crimson for what he just did, but she knew Monarch would have his revenge taken away from him. Part of his life, she knew, was Cascadia; his responsibility, his people, and his home, and Crimson had just taken it all from him.
She couldn't fathom, though, why and what drove this now-disgraced Peacekeeper Squadron leader to commit such a devastating atrocity.
She fired a warning shot next to Crimson, alarming the guards outside who she reassured, and then pressed the question to the ace pilot again, even as her face was struck with heartbreak for all her country lost, hatred for the man, and pain for her fellow Cascadian, even if he was a mercenary:
"Why?"
The difficulties, the pain of watching his country burn as part of what was necessary, they were all piling up on him. The loss of his whole squadron and the impending defeat of the Federation. And to fuel the fire in him further, he lost. Lost to not just any ace pilot, but a damned mercenary...of all conceivable people. A final death blow to his sanity and reputation.
He barely made it from the hell that was once Prospero, and then contemplated as he limped his way to one of the last few Federation bases left in-country. He remembered Project Wingman, ironically flown by a mercenary (or bounty hunter) herself who bit the dust two months ago. He recollected the immense power it promised, and then smiled. This was the Federation's final trump card, one he could utilize for himself. He also acquired intel from the late bounty hunter that the unit that defeated him - Hitman - was famous for being the only Cascadians in their outfit, just like him and his own wingmen.
Yet again, he smirked. This was a thing he could take advantage of. If the Federation cannot win, then they will at least go out with a bang and take Cascadia with it. He then planned his method, time, and place to exact revenge. Crimson - and Cascadia - was his life as much as Sicario and Hitman were to this "Monarch".
That self-proclaimed "King" took his people away from him and pushed the Federation beyond the line...and now, Crimson 1 was going to do the same to him too.
No more Cascadia? No more Crimson? Doesn't matter. He would take whatever's left down with his Federation, now hated anyway for what it did the past two months.
And then, in his attempt to secure victory from the jaws of defeat and end that blasted Crown for good, five words were uttered. Words that shook him to his core:
"A ceasefire has been declared."
And with it, the nails holding him together came off, and he no longer cared if friendlies were caught in the crossfire. Rebel, civilian, ally, mercenary, proxy, it no longer mattered to him. He radioed his compatriots on the ground and set off the cordium warheads planted around the capital - the last bastion of Cascadian civilization for what it was worth. Missile after missile flew from his Project Wingman, along with one railgun projectile after another.
Crimson's mind came back to present reality as he heard the woman's voice.
"Why? Really, madam, must there be a reason, always?"
He then coughed cordium dust. It was the transformation, the Cascadian term for what was cordium poisoning. His now-destroyed fighter had massive traces of it, owing to its experimental weapons and engines. Landing almost certainly put a real dent in him, and he might as well be on the brink of death now.
A door knock or two then sounded, and Crimson chuckled as it revealed exactly who he was expecting.
There stood Monarch, the King of a now-dead country - and to his knowledge, Sicario. He usually exhibited the stoic, strong, and silent type, but it all disappeared for this one moment as he brandished a knife he borrowed from a guard. The woman then wondered as she was shaken; did he finally snap?
"Get..away...from..him." Said by him with an aura of ice never felt before. With a feral scream, the Crown grabbed Crimson's flight suit, still bearing that arrogant smirk. The woman shook, startled by this ruthless behavior she'd never expect from an insanely efficient, albeit mostly silent, aviator.
Monarch then threw the Peacekeeper into the solid wall, muttering, "Cascadia...Prez...Sicario...the capital...all those innocent people..."
He couldn't find the right description. The grotesque image of the heart of his country set aflame - as well as Prez's unconscious body, his fault basically - and the possibility that all of Sicario was wiped out in the blink of an eye was still burned in his mind. And how much of Sicario-
"Oh, Crown, come on. It was going to happen anyway, even if I wasn't there. All I did was make it happen. I mean,-"
The retort was enough; Monarch then slammed his fist into his nose so hard, it started bleeding. Crimson can only cough and breath as blood fell from his air ducts.
He just chuckled as his next reply. "Seriously, Monarch, take off that proverbial flight helmet and admit it. What, you think I was gonna land back to some runway and let you get away with securing the rebel scum's independence over a wounded Cascadia, my country no less? Do you think I liked doing that? Absolutely not."
Sitting down, he gave a scowl to the grief and hatred-filled eyes of the mercenary. "You took my squadron from me, I take yours. It's all business. A fact I hope you of all people understand. And the truth, merc trash, is that no matter how hard you fought, you have failed, Monarch. All of you lot. I win. So do what you must; kill me right here and now, send me off to jail or trial, whatever. You got a fireblasted country independent, anyway. I mean, what kind of victory is that?"
Hearing enough, Monarch plunged the knife into his left hand with a tearful roar, and the Federation's disgraced squadron leader screamed in pain.
"Admit it. One more time," Crimson, as pained as he was and on the brink of death, began laughing. "You lost. The Crown - the king of all mercenaries and corpse-ridden battlefields - lost! You're a King without a kingdom, a wannabe hero who couldn't save anyone or anything, only create death, destruction, and despair all around him! You failed your country, your allies, your friends, and even your girl, if I heard it right!" He coughed cordium dust again as he finished his malicious laughter.
"Oh, and did I forget to mention the bounty on your head, "King" Monarch? Can't go around the world messing things up for that precious handout anymore, huh? Whatever, get it over with..."
He...was right. Monarch thought. He basically had nothing left to live for. His future...was ruined. He let millions of people die, and even worse, for nothing. Not to end a war, not to make a point; all those people died as meat for the war machine grinder of the Federation, and in the end, it proved to be for naught. His country is a volcanic ruin. Everything and everyone he fought for was truly gone, taken from him by this mass-murdering madman, this...monster. His career, his deal, his aspirations, it was all meaningless by this point. The people he protected and fought for, gone. Diplomat, Comic, Galaxy, Kaiser, Gunsel, Ronin, all the rest... His mind cycled through the faces and names who could either be dead or missing. It was too much for even someone like him to bear and there was only one way this confrontation could end.
Vengeance.
He screamed as he thrust the knife to Crimson's torso, and repeated it, again and again, as he made sure as much blood as possible left his body. He gave zero care even as the ghost departed his corpse.
"Woah, Monarch, that's enough-Hey!" The woman, watching in awe and horror at the unhinged execution, said this after thirty-seven seconds of it.
When the guards outside entered the interrogation room, what they found was their leader, staring at the bloodied, mutilated corpse of the once greatest pilot in the world. The other was a crying mess of a once tall-and-proud ace, muttering the names of everyone he knew.
[REDACTED SAFE HOUSE], UCR
0700 Local Time, 25 August AC 432
Peter was staring at the TV screen in their warehouse, taking every news report they could find. He was hurting, perhaps more than the rest and maybe even as much as Monarch, but he could at least keep up a façade. It was struggling to hold on, however, especially with every other news channel saying the same thing.
"Still live from the remains of Presidia-"
"Unconfirmed reports that a rogue Federation Peacekeeper was responsible-"
"Nations doing all they can, but still no sign or word from the Cascadian government's response to the perpetrators-"
"CIF General Herman has no comment on rumors of the murder of the Peacekeeper known only as "Crimson 1"-"
Prime Minister of Albion, Harling, vows to "bring the Federation to justice for every drop of land and blood they poisoned"-"
He couldn't take it anymore and turned away, Eve approaching him. Though their new home is currently being staffed with "nu-Ronin" security, mainly with what little remains of Sicario being dissolved and reorganized into what Kaiser's calling the "Foreign Legion" as a historical nod, they felt no better.
"How's Monarch doing?"
Peter sighed. "Imagine his losing Prez - who's still recovering in hospital - but magnified a million times. He's a husk, Eve, if it even does him justice. He's imprisoned himself in his own room. He's only taking minimum food and water, and just generally sitting there. It's almost like...he wants to put a bullet in his head, but couldn't."
The former soldiers of Sicario looked sadly at Monarch's room. Since his murder of Crimson - which they felt was deserved - he hadn't come out, mostly because he had refused all words of comfort given to him. He even had thoughts of blaming himself for everything that had transpired the past six months, even if it wasn't him who pulled the trigger on Cascadia. He believed he had killed his country in every other way, and that he deserved to die for sacrificing too much for nothing.
Meanwhile, inside, Monarch remained on his chair with his sidearm and helmet next to him, like a fallen King of a fallen nation. His tears were mostly dried up as the devastation, horror, and guilt of living while so many didn't remained within him. Apologies were whispered to Prez and to the country that was once his home.
He may not have been responsible directly, but he might as well has had. To him, he had killed Prez - at least her spirit of flying - and he had killed Cascadia. Crimson was right; all he is is a "mercenary trash".
Had he just stayed away instead of leading his friends to their deaths, things might've been better. Hell, the Federation, for its harsh methods, may have actually been well-meaning in the conflict. But the reality is that now, he no longer had a future but an idle, fence-sitting one.
The Federation fought for peace in this war and you denied them that!
If you had never showed up...
The Calamity erased mankind once! This is how you've dealt with it?!
What will you return to?! Where will you go?!
You think I take joy fighting in my homeland?! Killing my own countrymen?!
What do you have to show for yourself? Blood? Gold? A broken throne?
Even after Calamity, you fight against the only order than can guarantee safety to your people.
You drove me to this...this death and destruction over the Federation. Millions of lives lost...
Do you even understand what you're doing?! You're getting in the way of world peace!
If I had killed you over Yellowstone, this war would've been over by now.
The words from his dead nemesis echoed through his mind.
He had failed.
He had failed them all.
His loved ones..his allies...his country...his people...he had failed them. The ultimate failure. After all, what kind of an "ace" couldn't even protect his family, much less his own country?
For the first time in his life, Monarch wanted to die. But he also knew if he decided his own life selfishly, he would be condemned or worse.
If only he had been better...if only he had the world in mind...if only he had walked away from the contract...the none of this would've happened and the world would actually be better off.
"Anyone ever try talking to him?"
"Everybody, Eve. But he won't listen, almost like he's pretending we're all dead without giving a damn to the truth."
Both of the Crown's wingmen left their leader's room door, leaving him to his own devices.