The sight of their leader, resembling Aya in every way, sparked questions in their minds. What had happened to him? He appeared incredibly fatigued, as though he had endured a lengthy war. Bell took a seat in the chair Aya had occupied earlier, prompting Lisa to be the first to inquire.

"For heaven's sake, what happened to you?" Lisa asked.

Bell sighed deeply. "If you ask me to do that again, I swear to God I won't. I prefer the conventional route."

Hanna chimed in, curious. "What do you mean? My journey has been rather ordinary—army training overseas, college, postgrad, and so forth. How about you?" Hanna's experience seemed mundane compared to the unexpected overseas training.

Bell launched into his tale. "Where do I begin? Suddenly, I found myself part of a mercenary squadron in the heart of the Oceania desert, operating under a mercenary cabal. I was stationed in a sector known as Area 88. Long story short, we were a motley crew barely scraping by with what you all refer to as 'fighter jets.'"

"Sounds intriguing," Lisa said, a smile playing on her lips. "Please, continue."

"At my first combat training in an F-4 with my instructor, we were relentlessly pursued by MIG-21s from the Confederacy," Bell recounted. "We were fortunate to escape that squadron of MIGs. I'll never forget the experience of dodging so many missiles with chaff and flares. Luck was the only thing keeping me in the air; the MIGs landed numerous shots, but miraculously, my trainer managed to keep us going with just one hydraulic system online."

"Confederacy? The slavers?" Lisa's question cut through the air.

"No, they're more like a global powerhouse, a new world order of sorts," Bell clarified, his voice tinged with gravity. "Extending all the way from the American continent to the Pacific. And there we were, a band of mercenaries stationed smack dab in the middle of Oceania."

"That sounds insane," Lisa remarked, her disbelief evident.

Leaning forward, Bell's gaze held the weight of his tumultuous experiences. "Insane doesn't even begin to describe it," he admitted. "Every day was a fight for survival. Missions weren't just about hitting targets; they were about scraping by, barely making enough to afford fuel, ammo, and sometimes even food. And the people I flew with... each had their own reasons for being there. Some were fleeing their pasts, others were drawn to the adrenaline, the freedom of it all. Even our squadron leader was there just for the thrill, after getting kicked out of the Confederacy's air force."

Intrigued by Bell's narrative, Lisa probed further. "So, how did you make it back here?"

"Pure luck, I suppose? You don't exactly come out on top in a war against that kind of force," Bell acknowledged. "They had an arsenal of fighters, strikers, EWs—hell, even prototypes that would make otherworlders blush. The cabal didn't stand a chance in that twenty-year conflict. They were... wiped out."

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Lisa was stunned by the intensity of the story, finding it a stark departure from the accounts she'd heard from reservists. While she wasn't surprised by the duration, as evidenced by Aya's intentional aging, she couldn't ignore the toll it had taken on Bell. She'd never seen him so worn out, both in appearance and demeanor. He seemed like someone who had seen too much.

Hanna, who had been listening intently, interjected, "It sounds like you've been through the fire, but it seems to have given you valuable insights, especially with looming threats on the horizon."

"Oh, you better believe it. If we ever come face to face with a peer threat like the Confederacy, we'll be wiped off the map, erased from history," Bell affirmed. "Our only hope of standing a chance was the king, but when we needed him most, he was already gone, thanks to the labyrinthine nature of the cabal."

"War criminals, then?" Lisa interjected.

"Absolutely. They were rife with them," Bell confirmed.

"And did you ever target unarmed civilians?" Lisa pressed.

"Hell no. I only hit military targets. And let me remind you, there's no convenient magic in that world," Bell clarified. "Most of the magic there is engineered, including the ability to use the AIM-200 Standard Aether Missile. That prototype is the only reason I'm still breathing."

"Hmm, what's that?" Lisa inquired.

"It's a missile that can be fired indefinitely because it's not actually a missile. It's a device that generates a missile-like projectile. We stole it from the Confederacy, and luckily, I was entrusted with two of them," Bell explained.

"Alright, let's get back to the story," Lisa redirected, eager to hear more.

Over steaming triple-shot Americanos that he'd ordered, Bell recounted his journey, detailing how his rag-tag squadron from Area 88 managed to beat the odds and survive. He shared how, after his training in the F-4, he was rewarded with a new one, impressed by his skill. Soon, he earned a new moniker, Crimson 1, after landing in Area 88 with his wing ablaze.

From there, his squadron leader assigned him to various missions, ranging from mundane supply escorts to hair-raising covert operations that had him skimming the ground in what he could only liken to a brick with wings. While he preferred his old dragon over the antiquated F-4, he admitted that the newer model had its perks, particularly in terms of electronics and speed. Over the next two years, Bell racked up an impressive number of kills, even taking down a Confederacy Su-27.

However, his luck took a turn when he was shot down by a mysterious fighter jet. He spent some time as a ground troop until he and his comrades raided a Confederacy air base, where he managed to steal a MIG-27(UV) and escape. It wasn't an ideal upgrade, and he found himself focusing more on ground strike missions, despite the fighter's propensity to fall apart mid-flight. Nevertheless, armed with its formidable gun, he wreaked havoc on numerous ground targets, often returning with a broken radio or even a shattered canopy.

Two years later, he traded in the death trap for a used F-15A from the West European Concordat, a plane he grew to cherish. He regaled the women with tales of how he used the F-15A to finally muster the courage to take on Confederacy Su-27s, and even the more advanced F-15Cs, while also intercepting bombers approaching Oceania from the north. The trusty plane served him well for over eight years.

Interrupting the tale, Sylva interjected, "Wait, wait, wait. How on earth did the Confederacy get their hands on an F-15C?"

"Can I take a sip of my coffee first?" Bell requested.

"Sure," Sylva replied, allowing him a moment's reprieve.