Chương 31: Interlude 3

Why is it that today of all days, the sky has the nerve to not be overcast and weep like the rest of them? To Count, it's all the more irritating with the sunrays bearing down and making his parade uniform unbearably stuffy. He fidgets, nursing a horrible heat in his stomach that wants to burst free as a scream, as a roar, or maybe even an ugly sob. Yet, nothing comes forth. The rest of him is too numb to do much more than stand in place.

In the distance, the cadence of marching boots and the low, slow notes of the band are gut punches, each note and stomp hammering in how real it all is. How did things come to this? With military service such a cultural cornerstone to Osea, Trigger's absence from the airshow was noticed instantly, despite officials rapidly claiming it was intended and furiously plugging any leaks suggesting otherwise.

Whispers and speculation went wild, both online and in person, until the question on every set of lips was"Where is Three Strikes?" Did the Stratos Deployment thing work? Was he actually not there? What are they not telling us? Desperation to maintain not only the status quo, but to quell fresh fears sparked by the Aurelia-Leasath war, lead the Osean Air Force to make a fatal mistake: Trying to fake Trigger. In theory, it should have been easy.

Strider 1 was never a man for the spotlight, both because he himself hated it and how awkward he could be at times. Despite that, though, the obligations of a hero to his people don't just go away, so Trigger still showed his face every now and again. Sometimes it was interviews or on talk shows, or appearances at airshows and military museums. Other times it was someone filming with their phone, being awestruck at bumping into the legendary Three Strikes at a corner store. That one went viral.

Millions of people were utterly astounded that a figure like Trigger could (or would) do something as mundane as buying gum and energy drinks. But when these sparse appearances stopped with no explanation, everyone with even a single finger dipped into the military scene knew something foul was afoot, and the panic among the top brass began to mount. Well, Three Strikes is known for flying, so let's schedule some airshows with "him" as the star. They just need some stand-in pilot who can match Trigger.

In a blunder that will be remembered forever, the Air Force tried to have the retired Blaze of The Razgriz Squadron fill the role, with the stipulation that he would be paid quite handsomely to fly and keep quiet. The military went to the most anti-war pilot alive, told him everything, and asked him to help them lie to the entire world.

Considering how the Circum-Pacific War files were finally released just earlier this year following a leak, files that detailed how Osea screwed over Blaze like they did Trigger, downplayed his achievements, and hit him with a gag order, Blaze has been a hot topic in the sphere of social media. Like any larger-than-life figure under so many eyes, people naturally followed him on whatever social sites he frequented.

So when Blaze, motivated by a desire for justice, or perhaps simply spite, trumpeted about everything he was told, hundreds of millions saw and a firestorm followed. Trigger is dead. The young Hero of the Lighthouse War has been dead for months. The fallout from Blaze's post was immediate and catastrophic. Within hours, the Osean Air Force released a statement calling it an unfortunate misunderstanding and promising a full review of procedures.

Within a day, the statement was retracted and replaced with a second one that acknowledged a lapse in transparency while citing national security concerns. The second was retracted inside of forty-eight hours and replaced with a third statement offering condolences to the nation. Three full statements in three days, each one a faster, more complete cave than the last. The parliamentary hearings that followed were not pretty. Count watched all of them from his apartment, unable to look away despite trying.

Officials who had never once seen Trigger in person sat before a committee and spoke about the man with the kind of practiced, funerary warmth that takes years of spewing bullshit to perfect. Count sat through only twenty minutes of the live travesty before he put his fist through his kitchen wall. Blaze, for his part, said nothing further after the initial post. Not that he needed to.

The verdict of the court of public opinion had been delivered in real-time with every share and every like and every screaming reply, and no amount of careful damage control was going to walk it back. … But in the words of the techie they worked with to bring down Torres and the Alicorn: They've no need for living heroes, just dead ones. So in a way, Osea still gets the last laugh. He can see the empty casket at the front of the coming procession, now, which creeps ever closer.

'Tabloid, were you on to something after all? Are nations and borders just a bunch of bull?' he can't help but wonder.

'They have to be if this is the reward for service to them.' The official story is that the experimental Stratos Deployment burned clean, a pristine, instantaneous failure with no debris and no body to show for it. The brass had latched onto that detail with an almost pitiable desperation. It's hard to prove negligence when there's nothing to find, afterall. It's hard to press charges when the evidence scatters across dimensions or burns up in re-entry or however the hell it's being argued about now.

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'God above, that fucking flag…' Count looks away from the casket, covered mockingly in an Osean flag, to the pit dug into the cold ground, then up to the headstone. Trigger's full name stares back, itching in his brain like a tune remembered off-key. Even now, it's so odd, so wrong to have it on display for all these strangers. Before, just hearing Trigger introduce himself was a privilege few could boast receiving.

The pilot sucks in a breath, screwing his eyes shut and trying not to let the armed grimace loaded within his skull fire. All around, the whispers from the sea of black suits and dresses overtake the ending notes of the band.

"How awful! I can't imagine how things are for his loved ones, but if I was in their place, I'd-!"

"-miss Trigger so much! He was so cool and-!"

"-dead. I'm proud to be his countryman. He'll be missed." He could scream. None of them. Not a single one of them actually knows him. They don't know the stone-faced man, who took life's punches on the chin and asked for another, the man who fended off monsters like Torres and Mister X, the man who kept Strider and Cyclops squadrons alive when the satellites fell. If not for Trigger, where would they be? Where would the people of Oured, or hell, Osea itself be? Count can tell you.

It's not the land of the living, that's for sure. None of them fucking know. They don't even fucking care. It's only theatrical social bullshit that demands they come here and cry crocodile tears, not real love for the man who moved heaven and earth for them. To these people, this is no different to watching a statue shatter on the ground, then gawking at the big, dramatic clean up. Thin, cool fingers find his, and the coming explosion has its fuse pinched out.

He turns his head just enough to see who the fuck dares to-! Conservative mourning dress is the first thing he notices, black from collar to hem, a veil draped over her features. Behind her, maintaining a discreet distance that nonetheless makes their purpose unmistakable, stand two men in dark suits. Each of them leans just a little to hide the way the weapons hidden on them pull at their clothes. Count looks past the veil, and finds blue eyes behind a fall of blonde hair. Ah…

With her hand in his, some of the coiled tension in his shoulders releases on its own, bleeding out through the point of contact.

"You were almost late," he murmurs. The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly behind the veil.

"Security at the airport was quite something." She leans into his shoulder, her voice dropping.

"How are you holding up?" Count doesn't answer, but a squeeze of his hand gets the words moving.

"At least I'm able to function. You can't say the same for others." The delicate, pink lips just under the hem of the veil wobble, and the blue eyes grow misty.

"Oh, Avril…" The procession arrives, and Count floats through what follows on autopilot. He stands when others stand, sits when others sit, bows his head at the appropriate moments. Words wash over him. An official from the Defense Ministry speaks, then a senator, followed by a general who Count is certain has never flown a combat sortie in his life. That one speaks at considerable length about sacrifice and national pride.

Not a single one whispers a peep about the 444th penal unit, or any apology for the months Trigger had to endure with real crooks. Through all of it, the hand in his stays warm, and that is the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. When his name is called, he almost doesn't register it. A nudge from his shoulder brings him back, and he finds the podium in front of him with no memory of crossing the grass to reach it.

The sea of black stretches back further than he can track, faces blurring together, all of them waiting for the words of the right hand man of Three Strikes. Count sets both hands on the edge of the podium and looks down at them for a moment. It hadn't hit him yet. Through all the hearings and the statements and the sleepless nights, through standing at parade rest in his stuffy uniform under this rotten, inconsiderate sun, it hadn't actually hit home.

With his grip on the podium the only thing keeping him from swaying, the visage of the casket below is free to hit him full-blast with reality. The lump in his throat is only barely swallowed.

"Trigger was a man who didn't do idle chit-chat," he begins, each word a chore.

"So to honor his memory, I'll keep this short." A quiet ripple passes through the crowd, and a few faint, wet smiles rise to the faces of those few who knew.

"The official account says the transport system malfunctioned. That he and his plane were..." He stops.

"Atomized. That there was nothing left to find because there's… just nothing left." His grip on the podium tightens, his nails digging into the wood.

"I've been trying to accept that for days now. Every man dies eventually, even the greatest of them," he swallows, mind going back to the raid of Farbanti in the closing days of the war.

"Count, back in the saddle as Cyclops 2!" Wiseman's words roll out of the radio, circling to clasp Count over the shoulder.

"It's good to have you back!"

"... Even great men die." Count's eyes drop briefly to the casket, to the folded flag and the name carved in stone.

"But Trigger… Trigger was - is different." He looks up, and the words he meant to say dissolve.

"I know him. And I know, in a place I can't argue with and can't explain, that he isn't dead. He's still out there." The eyes, the people… For a moment, they're far away.

"Somewhere," Count says quietly. He lets go of the podium and steps back, eyes up towards the unbothered blue above.

"Among skies unknown..." TO: [email protected] BCC: [email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Incident Report 0441-C-D O. N. A. R. A. INCIDENT REPORT 0441-C-D RE: PRIORITY: N/A ROUTING GROUP: N/A At approximately 0340 hours on the date of filing, custodial staff performing routine overnight maintenance at Site 06 discovered Contractor Schroeder unresponsive at his desk in Research Wing D, Office 14. Emergency response was dispatched and Contractor Schroeder was pronounced deceased on scene.

Investigation confirmed the cause of death to be a fatal gunshot wound to the cranium. The incident has been ruled a suicide. Replacement protocol has been observed, and pending board approval, Contractor S. Cohen has agreed to assume the post of Contractor Schroeder to keep critical projects moving. No further action required at this time. Osea National Advanced Research Agency - Internal Affairs, Investigative Division - Report Filed: [DATE REDACTED]