Admittedly, things hadn’t gone as well as he would’ve liked. That was fine. His strategies never risked it all for a single end goal as a failsafe. Beyond the first few stages, it didn’t matter where the ball landed, and like a pinball machine, he’d be getting something out of it.

Even if that something wasn’t the jackpot he was hoping for.

But he still had a chance to land close. But, whichever ended up as the regime's enemy—Spirits or its own army—was the decider between a flash campaign and an all-out war.

He couldn’t imagine a war of attrition against Spirits, the kind that would tear apart the country, although the alliance would be buried in the process.

Provenance shrugged. His hired contact's eagerness had outgrown his guidance; the former Minister of Defence’s staffer seemed to be doing just fine by himself. As for his Wizard help…the man had a fire, certainly. Provenance had, like many people, simply pointed him in the right direction.

He stirred his coffee, a milky brown instead of pitch black in tribute to a once comrade of sorts. Better off now, he hoped. But knowing her work, and her position, she’d fallen into the right hands one way or another.

If not, then he’d be seeing her soon enough.

Milky white eyes. That’s how he’d remembered her, although he had tried his best to hide it. Talking to her mentor—not the most pleasant of men—he'd heard it had been a forced infusion rather than some agreement with a sentient Spirit. That was all he could say about her.

No matter. There were more where she’d come from—worryingly more showing up at his doorstep and growing year by year, outpacing the growth of his network two to one at least. Word of mouth had long since escaped his control.

Agitated leaders, and weapons manufacturing spurred on by the invention of H.O.A. meant more Wizards and Witches. But such people didn’t come out of an assembly line. Vesmos was just about the only country that held the capacity, and their constitution forbade such practice outright.

More and more stray cats, despondent and undertrained, left to rust in the rain. All they posed was a threat.

“Anything else, sir?” a jaded employee asked from behind a worn and stained clipboard, eyes so hollow Provenance could see the glued-up gears working inside his head.

“No, nothing,” Provenance answered, watching as the fingernail’s height worth of liquid swirl at his leisure, and took it as his cue to leave. Paying his tab, he gave a final smile towards the diner’s staff and made sure they never remembered him.

He stood on the curb. Noon, but there was barely dusk’s worth of sunlight reaching the street. Days went by, and with each one the silence grew louder. By now it was only the working class making their commute during the morning scramble; anyone wealthy enough to afford a move already had.

The swathe of city in the path of the tree’s shadow was changing incrementally, labouring on like a cloud’s flight overhead, only obvious once one neglected it for a time. Mould would run rampant, and sickness would follow. Although, maybe it wouldn’t. Provenance would turn his head, wait a while, and turn back if he felt so inclined, or if there was work to be had.

Until then, it would’ve been like he’d never frequented the local diner.

Progress was slow. Wanting to avoid his line of fire, the target aircraft was doing everything in its power to dodge and weave its way around his guns. He gnashed his teeth, cursing his opponent’s skill and painfully aware of the line he was about to cross.

“Eyes to wings, eyes to wings, you are about to exit operation air space, do you copy?”

“Wings to eyes I am aware,” Elliot said, glancing down at his map for confirmation rather than anything else. He knew the area like the back of his hand. “Permission to enter civilian airspace.”

Moments of radio silence as Elliot watched Southern Two close in from the east. The wings rattled as their million micro adjustments tried but failed to keep his target dead centre.

“TOC to all units, permission to enter civilian airspace granted. Weapons free.”

Elliot moved to take a shot; something to alleviate the stalemate, but Southern Two beat him to the punch. A volley of vapour trails cut across the target’s visage, forcing a break downward.

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Elliot and Southern Two followed, as the target inverted, evened out along the horizon, and began a clockwise turn. Elliot took the challenge, confident enough in a rate fight provided his wings were unlocked. It was a familiar dance, the centrifugal force working against gravity as he maintained even breathing, but even through his tunnelling vision, he could see he wasn’t gaining on his target.

“Southern Four to Southern Two do you have a shot?”

“Almost Southern Four.”

Southern Two had been further east when the target had made their break. The Sidosian fighter would’ve likely crossed Elliot's original trajectory before banking east and would now be looking for a leading shot on the target. But the spy plane was manoeuvrable; not outrating Elliot’s Rapacian but standing toe to toe with it. If Southern Two was expecting an even fight then…

“Break Southern Two!”

Elliot watched as the joust was over in a split second. Southern Two attempted to reverse their turn, realising they no longer had the leading shot they were aiming for, and the target took the moment of confusion to fire.

“Wings to Eyes, confirm Southern Two is going down, over.”

“Copy Wings we see it.”

“Southern Four to Southern Two, eject! Southern Two! Southern Two!”

Elliot watched the plume of black smoke thicken as Southern Two continued to lose altitude.

Elliot held in his voice.

Not now. Not until his feet were on the ground.

Ignoring the slight detour, the spy plane continued its rate fight, circling back around to the west. The other fighters were likely still a way out but closing in. Here’s to hoping, but they wouldn’t be firing any bullets until they caught up; for now, it was still Elliot’s job to clean up the mess before the target crossed the border.

Geverdian territory was chock-full of atmospheric Aether thanks to the Queen's forced weather patterns, particularly at high altitudes. There was no changing that in a hurry, and Vesmosian intelligence knew it. That much information could be found in a school textbook.

Elliot spread his wings wide, raising his nose further into the turn as the g’s grabbed his shoulders and shoved him into the seat; the trade-off for the impossibly fast turn rate he was afforded. He felt the aircraft stall for half a second and watched his sights line up with the enemy’s fuselage. Biting down on his tongue, he squeezed the trigger as his airframe rattled.

The bullets drew a lazy line across the sky, barely scraping the bandit’s wings as they reversed their trajectory, making a beeline for Geverde’s border.

Elliot mended his heading, kicking his engines to full capacity as he straightened his wings. The fields below sprouted fences and sheds. An audience. How lucky of him.

Not now. Not now Elliot. Not until your feet are on the ground.

He squeezed the trigger again, scraping by the bandit’s rudder.

Again. Barely clipping the left ring.

Again. Further and further off target.

“Just eat the dust already for me, please,” he hissed under his breath.

Cloud cover. White wisps and low-lying. Enough to throw him off.

“Eyes! I need eyes!”

“Target breaking to your nine o’clock!”

Elliot pulled on his yoke hard, feeling the earth trying to reclaim him as he tried to keep his breathing steady. Blood pounded in his ears as darkness threatened the edge of his vision.

“Here we go.”

Elliot turned with the bandit as he ascended, watching it disappear under his fuselage before inverting over the top. He craned his head, keeping a close eye as he came around its 3-9 line—

Peeking through the wisps of cloud cover, Elliot saw the bandit’s nose looking right at him. The bandit had reversed his turn on him; that much he wasn’t surprised by. Forcing rolling scissors in response to a barrel roll was basic. But to already be turned towards him.

Elliot broke, bracing for impact, knowing how little time he had until his fuselage was torn in half.

What a leap in tech.

They’d made him want to be back on the ground.

Not up in the sky, doing God knew what for why did he care?

He knew it was the shakes talking, but Elvera was wrong.

“Stuff this and go to hell.”

And his words had power.

A hail of gunfire, muffled through his canopy punctured the bandit’s flank, taking Elliot off his tail as he heard a round ping off the edge of his wing.

A Sidosian pilot tore by, neglecting to afford any courtesies over the radio as he left Elliot to process the afterimage burned into his eyes, one that he’d only ever seen the other end of.

Not now. Not now Elliot. Not until your feet are on the ground.

Same sky. Same hills. Same towns. He could’ve sworn he’d seen it all burning from the sky years ago. They’d all looked the same engulfed in flames. The other pilots he flew with, the ones he’d shared the skies with but none of the resentment; he wanted nothing to do with them.

Not to hold it against them. Their hatred of whatever Spirit orphaned them wasn’t his place to speak on. Despite his brave words, it never had been. He was just sick of it; sick of caring enough to put his finger on the trigger and squeeze.

It’s not about you anymore. Sure it wasn’t. But he never signed up to live for the greater good. The world kept turning, and there were new people to save and new enemies to put in the dirt. There always was, and there always would be. So why didn’t he step off the merry-go-round?

The radio chatter racing across his instrument panel began to sound like the wind outside his cockpit. The green below looked the same as the green across the border. He was sure the colour of grass didn’t stray too far in Vesmos either. He knew he was killing them because they were trying to kill him first.

He knew logic had to be thrown out the window with any sort of good he pretended to upkeep when his feet were planted on the ground. But he was sick of it. He knew Evalyn was never built for it either; pretending they didn’t care.

His wife had given him something to be besides the hands behind a turbine. His daughter had made him question how necessary those hands were in the first place.

Not now Elliot. For now, you radio in that you’re alive, begrudgingly thank whoever saved you, and pretend you don’t care. Pretend you’re still hot stuff; no need to have a photograph of your family stuck between your dials. Not need, ‘cus you’ll always come home.

“Isn’t that right hotshot?”