Archive of Our Own

The members of Master Goose Squadron already know, even before they touch down, that their unit is on the way out. Normally, it would be apparent why, more than just a passing remark. But the plane at the head of their formation remains unusually quiet on the entire flight back. One of them could ask for their lead's thoughts, if the airwaves weren't so polluted with Sicario's AWACS rubbing their company's earnings into their faces: "We're rich after this mission! Rich!"

Master Goose Squadron has never been rich. That has never been their goal. They keep their creed close to the chest — take the simple contracts, don't extend your reach too far, it's not about the money but about dependability. Establish a good reputation and that's how you get a good revenue stream. That reliability is what they'll know us for. Master Goose One has said this since the beginning, and the strategy has never, ever failed them.

But it's hard not to think of their performance over the Bering Strait as a failure when Sicario's AWACS keeps blabbing away on radio about their massive payout. That same AWACS had once called their outfit's history "plain"... but what does he know? The folly of killing the goose that lays golden eggs is that, by taking a risk, one gambles away their guaranteed income for nothing.

But when that risk pays out, oh, does it ever.

Maybe it's just an unfair advantage of being a large company rather than a small outfit. Sicario's sheer size undoubtedly helps, but what's been helping more is that three-man squadron the CIF has been putting anywhere they need a victory. And the one that shifts the tides the most is their star of the show, the quietest pilot in the air.

Monarch.

Master Goose One likes organization. They like order, and reason. Monarch defies all of this, and somehow, it always works. Flying about without his wingmen, following whatever strikes his fancy, attack formations be damned. More than once, the planes Master Goose had been tailing had been taken down by missiles that weren't theirs, always leaving them baffled until that damned Monarch zoomed past, seeking some new prey with no rhyme nor reason to his flight.

The rest of the squadron can't see it, but at the head of their flight, Master Goose One spares a sidelong glance at the grey plane with the white crown, and curls their lip in disdain.

They say that babies have no object permanence. The object right in front of them is there, and if it's taken away and replaced with a second object, then the first object is as good as gone.

Monarch flies this way, Master Goose One has realized. Like a child. Always chasing the next shiny thing that catches his eye, as if everything else outside his gaze ceases to exist.

Their squadron's total payout report finally comes in. They stare at the number on the screen, unmoving.

It's a respectable amount, all things considered. But they heard the amount that Monarch earned. It was hard not to hear it. Compared to Monarch, theirs is nothing.

Whether Monarch knows it or not, other people exist. And other people have to deal with the outcomes of his actions. Monarch may not have noticed he had repeatedly taken the quarry that Master Goose was chasing. Part of them takes it personally — but no, it's just the natural consequence of being around someone who thinks only of himself, isn't it?

More than just order and reason, Master Goose One likes justice. Even children understand justice. In every fable or fairy tale, there is the "right" way and the "wrong" way, and those that follow the "wrong" way have some karmic justice unleashed upon them. A punishment for tipping the scales too much, for being unfair. And it is unfair, how they and everyone else have to manage with the scraps of whatever Monarch doesn't pick off on his own.

How Master Goose wishes they could be the arbiter of justice, just this once.

Life goes on. The CIF and the rest of the mercs are celebrating the victory. Master Goose One doesn't bother attending with everyone else. They hop into a spare car alone, drive far and away in the quickly-growing darkness. There's a town a little ways over, through the mountain pass and on the imposing hills on the other side, looking over the valley tundra. Not a lot of folks will go that far just for a celebration drink, they figure. Maybe they can get some time away from the exorbitant wealth that Sicario will undoubtedly flaunt in the faces of everyone else at Rowsdower.

Halfway there, on a snowy lookout just before the pass, Master Goose stops and gets out of the car. They brave the brisk wind to observe the airbase from afar, with its grey angles and distant specks of light. Bits of snow and ice thrash around them. They lift their arms to shield themself, but despite this, tiny flakes manage to land in their eyes. They blink away the biting chill, and for a moment the airbase comes into extreme clarity, and the sound of Monarch's earnings echo in their mind, as if hearing the AWACS say them again.

Never before have such large numbers sounded so ugly.

They duck back into the car and keep driving, a frigid emptiness forming somewhere within their chest. Where there was once admiration for Monarch's skill, there is now the sharp, bitter pang of jealousy.

Her lips are dark purple as if frostbitten, something that unnerves them until they realize it's only the appearance of her lipstick against skin as white as snow. It leaves a barely-there purplish stain on the empty glass she sets down.

Master Goose is not necessarily here for company, but drinking alone in a place like this often invites discussion, and there are still too many boisterous mercs around. The woman sitting at the bar is quiet, and no one seems to have bothered her, so they take their chances and pull up a stool. "Can I get you another drink?" they ask her.

She looks up at them. Her eyes are pale and piercing, sizing them up. Once she decides they're no threat, a sliver of a smile creeps onto her face, not quite fake but not quite genuine either, as if placed there carefully by an artist's hand. "Certainly," she answers.

Her accent is strong. Not surprising — Cascadia went far and wide to gather mercenaries. They wonder where she's from, but ask a different question instead. "What are you having?"

She glances at the empty glass. "Andersen Pale Ale."

Master Goose calls for two more pints of it, and they sit for a while in silence, drinking slowly. The ale leaves a strong hoppy taste on their tongue, as expected, but above it floats something else. Something floral and rosy...

"You are a mercenary?" the woman asks suddenly.

Master Goose makes no effort to hide this. "Yeah. You?"

"Yes." She shows the inner lining of her jacket, and the mirror-like gleam of a round table pin strikes their eyes.

"Ah. Here for this Cascadian business?"

The woman smiles. Her teeth shine, white as permafrost. "Indeed I am. As most in here are. I assume you are as well."

"Yeah. Though maybe not for long," they mutter, taking another drink.

"Unhappy despite the great victory today, are we? Why is that?"

Perhaps it's unwise to air grievances like this, but it's a gamble — and they've played it safe for too long, haven't they?

Words are exchanged. They still haven't asked her callsign, but it's evident she knows what happened there. She's even aware of the CIF fending off the Peacekeepers, which they're sure the Federation doesn't want anyone to know. It feels nice to talk about it. Commiserating over the chaos in the skies, the troubled waters below the clouds, and of the foolish pilot who snagged all the glory for himself.

"Foolish indeed," she says, and her agreement is like a breath of fresh air. "There is only so much money to be made. Yet it all funnels to one place."

"Pshh. Yeah. Hell, Sicario wouldn't even be here if I hadn't told them about this. It's not fair."

She traces the rim of her glass, her voice dropping to a hush. "Life is not fair. But I enjoy playing dirty. To get back at what's unfair. You understand?"

Master Goose looks at her peculiarly. "Care to elaborate?"

With a smirk, she puts down the glass. "Let's discuss this in private."

The only place private enough is outside, around the corner of the pub, where snowdrifts muffle footsteps and words alike. Master Goose's eyes widen at her offer. Testing the waters proves fruitful — any amount they want, she can get them, she says. They only need to do one thing, and she can do the rest.

Master Goose says yes.

Before they part ways and begin their new plan, they take her arm. "What's your name?" they ask.

She smiles and leans in close, her breath fogging the space between their faces so they see her as if through a haze.

"You can call me Frost," she whispers, pressing her lips to their cheek.

And though both the wind and her name are cold as ice, Master Goose feels none of it at all.

The instructions are easy. Breaking off from their mission parameters in a moment of chaos, Master Goose Squadron flies to the coordinates given by Frost. Master Goose One themself isn't sure what they'll find. It's possible they were duped. But they're willing to risk it this time. Anything, as long as it's out of the shadow of that damn Monarch.

Sure enough, there is a lone airbase. They land and see her again, now dressed in a black flight suit. In the hangars are top-of-the-line equipment — better planes than they could have ever afforded on their own, silver wings glossy and engines finely tuned, and stronger armaments than the shit the CIF had ever given them. It's all theirs, Frost says, provided they fulfill their end of the bargain.

Master Goose has no plans not to.

She turns to go, but they hold up a hand. "And the money?"

Frost smiles. "Of course. How could I forget?" She works silently on her tablet for a moment, and there is a ping on Master Goose's phone. "There. You know the deal. Half now, half when we find him."

Master Goose takes out their phone and stares at the number on the screen, unmoving.

Finally, something beautiful.

A risk that pays off. They always knew they had it in them.

They fire off a missile, watching with satisfaction as Monarch's plane barely shakes it off. They've learned, for fools like him, that endurance is the name of the game. Neither the plane nor the pilot will be able to take the strain for long. They come around to lock on again, laughing as they soar circles around him. "It's nice seeing you all on the backburner."

Finally, they will get what they're owed. For telling Sicario about Cascadia in the first place, for all the kills Monarch stole from them. They'll get it all back, and more.

They fire another missile, and revel in Monarch's struggle.

They know now that Monarch's flying is intentional. He took what was theirs, just to spite them. It's playing dirty. It's wrong. And now they will swap places, and Monarch will be the one who knows how it feels to—

There is an explosion, and a shout in the radio. A blue arrow disappears from their radar.

Karmic justice must exist. It should be easy, then. They angle themself to put him in their crosshairs again. But he slips out of range once more, doubling back to strike another one of their wingmen.

Why? Why? Isn't it supposed to be easy?

It's not fair. Monarch already won everything. It's supposed to be their turn to win. That was the deal.

Instead, their missile fades into the garish sky as the grey plane with the white crown pulls a hard turn, and before Master Goose can react, bullets tear deep into their chassis and wings and engines, and the bird gives out. They pull up on the control stick, but it's no use. The plane plummets to the ground.

Not like this. They fulfilled their end of the bargain. They're still owed the rest of it. They're owed everything.

As the ruined earth hurtles closer, all they can think about is the money.