Chapter Text
The sky was a bright, clean blue. The dark orange of dawn had given way to the rising of the winter sun, and now it was clear all the way across the sweeping plains to the mountain-speckled horizon. Sitting in the cockpit of her scarlet biplane, Minerva grinned wryly. Clear days made her nervous.
She took one hand off the yoke and adjusted her emerald scarf. She buried her nose in it, exhaling and letting the warmth of her breath spread through her face. It fogged up her goggles, but on a wintry morning it was worth the warmth. She reached a gloved hand between her legs and adjusted a lever. The engine grumbled and groaned, lurching as she urged it forward, faster across the sky. She turned and checked her six.
Behind her, spread out in an upside-down triangle, were three more planes – each painted a bright white. Well, they had been white once upon a time. Now, however, they were more of a murky eggshell, speckled with mud and oil and stained with rain. The plane in the very back suddenly glittered, a white light above the cockpit flashing in quick succession.
Minerva nodded. Six flashes. Target approaches.
Keeping on hand on the yoke, she brushed her wildly flapping red bangs out of her eyes and leaned forward, setting a hand on her gun.
It was a massive black thing, all unyielding steel and polished wood. Its 28-inch barrel almost protruded out to the plane’s propeller, with a synchronization gear installed to sync up shots between propeller beats. It had an air-cooled barrel and was fed by a continuous belt of .30-06 ammunition. She had gotten it custom-made and fitted to her plane before rigging up her own mechanism for loading ammunition into it, since the gun normally required a two-man crew to load and fire. All in all, a wholly impressive gun.
She smiled, running her hand along the barrel to the trigger, which she wrapped her finger tightly around. A word was carved into the stock, a single block-letter label. Hauteclere.
She turned and made visual contact with the three planes behind her. She checked the altimeter, tapping the glass. It always made her nervous, this brief time of preparation before a fight. No matter how many runs she made, no matter how many flights she took, she could never quite shake that feeling of nausea in her stomach.
She looked at the ground, miles and miles below. Carved into the plains, a zig-zag stretching for miles, were the trenches. At least, the front line of the trenches. Not their target, fortunately, since they were guarded by bastions of anti-aircraft artillery stationed at regular intervals along the trench. She tugged the yoke, urging her plane higher. Her team followed suit.
From their high vantage point, the carnage below seemed almost a lifetime away. Smoke rose from clusters of trees and occasional flashes of fire lit up the battlefield. At this height they could hear the gunfire, but it was muffled and distant.
She scanned the ground as they passed over the first line of trenches. The front line was always like this – a continuous stream of carnage, a meat grinder into which came men and from whence came coffins. It was a stalemate, currently. Gra was heavily fortified and better-supplied, but with convoys arriving from the south Aurelis could theoretically keep the war waging indefinitely.
Not that Minerva fought for Gra. She fought for Macedon, of course. But Macedon was allied with Dolhr, and Dolhr was allied with Gra, and Aurelis was allied with Archanea, and it was all a giant tangle of alliances and battlefiels and Minerva was secretly relieved that she had no hand in any of it. She was her brother’s gun. He points, she shoots.
The stalemate would hopefully come to an end soon, if Minerva had anything to do with it. She watched the ground, her gaze following a narrow dirt road that wound its way past the trenches, past the artillery bunkers and the barracks, into the deep woods, and eventually to the heart of Aurelis.
They followed the road to their target – a convoy of trucks that were scarcely more than covered wagons powered by diesel. Supplies. Minerva frowned.
The trucks were moving away from the battlefield. She unlocked the safety on her gun. She took a deep breath and yanked the yoke.
The plane dove, screaming through the air towards the ground with alarming speed, bolstered by the pull of gravity. Minerva’s stomach churned, dropping just as her plane did. She aligned the sights and pulled the trigger.
With a pulsing roar, Hauteclere spewed a stream of molten lead. 500 rounds a minute, 7.8 millimeter rounds flying out at two and a half thousand feet per second. The gun cut into the line of trucks like a scalpel through diseased flesh. The truck coverings split open, torn to shreds by the full force of four machine guns strafing down road. Minerva reached the end of the convoy and pulled up, releasing the trigger. Her finger felt stiff, trembling, her hand still curved in the shape of the gun’s grip. She put both hands on the yoke, pulling up and circling around for another run. Behind her, her team stayed in perfect position.
By the time they arrived for the second run, the convoy had scrambled to organize. They had set up a machine gun and were starting to return fire. That was unexpected.
Minerva ducked and swerved, trying to move in a serpentine pattern. The first strafing pass had done considerable damage, but they weren’t done yet.
A splash of bullets tore through her wing and she swore. She could hear the wind singing as it sifted through the holes in the wing. She gritted her teeth and dove again, this time coming in perpendicular to the line of trucks. She reached up and flashed her own light. Break formation. Fire at will.
The four planes darted and wove in the air above the convoy, the pulsing of gunfire echoing through the empty winter air. Even with their returning fire, the convoy didn’t stand a chance. It lay in a line of burnt-out husks, smoking ruin splayed across the roadside. Minerva leaned out of her cockpit and watched the road for any signs of movement.
Satisfied, she flickered her light. Regroup and head back. The four planes swept back into their diamond formation and flew away from the convoy, heading back towards the front line and back towards home. Minerva eyed the bullet holes in her wing with disdain.
-
“Yes, Maria?”
“Fourteen, ma’am.” The young girl lowered her hand back to her desk, confident in her answer.
The teacher nodded. “That’s right. And if we subtract the additional six, then we get…?”
“Nine!” came a voice from the back.
“Gordin, please remember to raise your hand if you have the answer. Anyone else?” the teacher surveyed the room. Twenty-three young pupils stared back at her, each dressed in the starchy white shirts and grey slacks and skirts of the school’s uniform. A young girl at the front, her red hair kept neat and tidy by a gold headband, raised her hand again.
“Let’s give someone else a chance, shall we?” the teacher scanned the room of blank faces. “No one?”
Maria lowered her hand slowly. She picked up her pencil and fidgeted. It always made her nervous when the teacher wanted an answer but no one was speaking. It wasn’t a hard problem! Why didn’t anyone else speak?
“Okay,” the teacher sighed. “Maria?”
“Eight, ma’am,” Maria said softly.
“Very good,” the teacher said, writing the answer on the blackboard.
Maria zoned out, staring out the windows into the school grounds. The windows were clear, now, since the trees that bordered the classrooms were dead for the winter. The view was usually blocked by trees, but now Maria could see the sky and the commons, and she watched as older students passed by on the criss-crossing sidewalks.
She doodled in the margins of her worksheet, vaguely aware of the teacher explaining the principles of long division and the order of operations. She sighed.
In her drawings she sketched out a scene, a valiant soldier bedecked in an ironed uniform, circling biplanes. She chewed her lip.
The bell rang, knocking her from her stupor. She gathered up her books and tucked them into her bag. A student bustled past her, an older boy, and her book was knocked to the floor.
“Whoops, sorry,” said the boy, shuffling quickly past her and heading for the door. As Maria bent to pick up the book another boy walked past, letting his bag smack Maria on the back of the head.
“Ouch!” she protested, but before she could sit up a third boy did the same thing. She winced, bracing herself for another impact that didn’t come. She opened her eyes just as the fourth and final boy walked past, muttering “nerd” as he let his bag hit her.
She sighed and picked up her book, sliding it into her bag with all the other books. She took a moment to compose herself. She wasn’t going to cry. Not this time. She had already gotten hell for crying in class, and she sure wasn’t going to let it happen again.
“Maria, could I speak with you a moment?” the teacher asked from the front of the room.
“Y-yes, ma’am?” Maria asked timidly, fidgeting with her fingers as she stood in front of the teacher. “Am I in trouble?”
The teacher laughed. “Just the opposite, my dear. I wanted to talk to you about a special program.” The teacher withdrew a pamphlet from her desk and slid it across the desk to Maria.
“What’s this?” Maria poked at it nervously.
“It’s an…uh…ahem…” the teacher spoke carefully. “It’s a program for students with family members in the military. I know that-“
“I don’t need it,” Maria said, sliding the pamphlet back. “Ma’am,” she hastily added.
“I know you think that, Maria, but it can be very hard. You’re one of my very best students – you’re incredibly intelligent and gifted, but I think your sister’s absence has been very difficult for you to deal with. I’ve noticed it, you know. The way the other students treat you. Your grades are slipping, your attendance is down, and I see you dozing off in class more and more. I think you could greatly benefit from a program like this.”
“Ma’am, I-“
“Now, I don’t want you to make a decision this instant. Or even tell me, if you don’t want to. But I want you to consider it,” the teacher took the pamphlet and pushed it into her hands. “Please, just…consider it. I would hate to lose my brightest pupil.”
Maria nodded. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said softly, walking out the door.
She trudged down the hallway and stuck her hands in her skirt pocket. She passed other students talking and laughing, whispering and playing. She took the pamphlet out of her bag and crumpled it up, tossing it into a trashcan as she walked by. She didn’t need anything like that. It wasn’t like Minerva was dead, after all. She was going to be back soon, and some day she would come back for good. The war will end, and she’ll come home, and they’ll be a family again.
She emerged from the white-painted double doors of the brick schoolhouse and walked down the stairs to the commons. The air was cold and she shivered, wishing she had brought a coat.
“Hey, Maria!” called out a voice. Behind her a sprightly boy skipped down the stairs, his green hair bobbing as he went.
“Oh. Hi, Gordin,” Maria smiled. Gordin didn’t have any friends, either, so they often walked home from school together.
“Did you get the homework for science class? I forgot to write down the page numbers again,” Gordin griped, shuffling through his bag.
“Yeah, it’s pages thirty-six through forty-two, and the three questions on page forty-four,” Maria said without looking up.
“Gee, thanks! Hey, how come you’re so good at rememberin’ stuff?” Gordin asked as he scribbled the assignment down. Maria shrugged and said nothing.
“Hey, losers,” called an older boy. Maria closed her eyes. This was not the day for this.
Maria was…an unpopular figure, to say the least. It was well known who she was, and as a result she was often teased relentlessly when not outright hated. It was her brother, after all, that got Macedon embroiled in the war. It would have happened regardless, sure, but Michalis dove in headfirst, heedless of the loss of life it cost. Many students had lost family – mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Teachers, too, had lost children, and were quick to turn a blind eye to the sort of bullying Maria endured. It had started off simply, with teasing and name-calling, but as the war worsened so did people’s attitudes.
They blamed Michalis for the food rationing, for the gas shortage. For the deaths of family, too. Name-calling gave way to vicious insults, to mockery and violence. Maria had been slammed into more lockers than she cared to remember, and walked home with a limp on more than one occasion. Recently this older boy, Aran, had taken to following her home after school, hurling jeers and insults on the days he didn’t just outright hit her.
Today wasn’t a good day.
Maria groaned, picking herself up out of the dirt and brushing the mud off her skirt. Her face stung and she knew she would have a black eye soon enough. Her leg, too, had a bruise filling in the red outline of the boy’s shoeprint. She hauled herself to her feet, sniffling.
Gordin had run away, which didn’t bother her. He didn’t deserve the bullying. He wasn’t the sister of the king, after all.
She dragged herself home slowly, wallowing in self-pity and trying to not let her dripping tears turn into all-out bawling.
She arrived, as always, to a darkened house. Michalis lived at the castle and Minerva was always off somewhere or another, so Maria lived in town with a housekeeper, a nice foreign woman named Athena. She spoke with a thick accent but didn’t seem invested in the war one way or another. She helped Maria clean up and cooked dinner as Maria worked on her homework.
Maria went to sleep early, exhausted from her ordeal. Despite her fatigue it took her a long time to fall asleep. She stared at the ceiling, mind churning. Her face stung and she couldn’t wipe her eyes without sending another jolt down her cheek. She sighed.
-
Minerva stormed through the thick double-doors, shouldering past armed guards and bespectacled politicians.
“Where’s Michalis?” she growled, grabbing a guard by his shirt collar.
“T-that way!” the guard said, pointing. Minerva shoved him back against the wall and stalked off, her heavy leather boots tracking mud across the ornate carpeted floor.
She was stopped at the door to the king’s office by two men holding rifles. As she stepped forward they gripped their rifles tightly.
“The king isn’t seeing anyone right now,” one said.
“He’ll see me,” Minerva said, grabbing the man’s shoulder and shoving him aside. She pushed through the door and slammed it behind her, storming up to Michalis’ desk.
The man himself sat on an ornate wooden chair, poring over paperwork. His red hair was long, almost tucking into the collar of his black cloak. “Yes?” he said, looking up from his work.
“They were civilians.”
“Oh?” Michalis raised an eyebrow.
“God dammit, you knew that!” Minerva roared, slamming her fist on his desk. “They were civilians and you knew it! It wasn’t a supply convoy!”
Michalis nodded slowly, carefully considering his words. “That is correct, dear sister. Altean refugees, fleeing the invasion. Men, women, likely children, too.”
Minerva clenched her teeth, trembling with rage. “How could you do that?”
“Me?” Michalis pointed to himself, the portrait of innocence. “I didn’t do anything. If I recall, you were the one doing all the work.”
“You…you…you-“ Minerva stopped and started again several times, pointing an accusing finger at Michalis.
“My dearest sister,” Michalis said quietly, smiling. “Are you questioning your king?”
Minerva dropped her hands to her side, hanging her head. “No, sir.”
“It sounds a lot like you were questioning your orders.”
“Of course not, sir,” Minerva said softly.
“Good. Now, I don’t think I need to explain how important it is that we win this war, do I?” Michalis stood up to his full height, looking down at Minerva. He was a handsome man, tall and well-built, dressed in the finest raiment of the Macedonian military. His black uniform was spotless. He reached across the desk and grabbed Minerva’s chin, squeezing. He brought her face close to his.
She trembled, trying not to let her fear show. She refused to make eye contact with him, even knowing his face was mere millimeters from her own. She could feel his breath when he talked. “Do I?” he hissed.
Minerva shook her head, trying her best to still her shaking arms.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that,” He said, almost pressing his face against hers.
“Of course not, sir,” Minerva said almost inaudibly.
Michalis let go of her, roughly tossing her back. “Good,” he said, smiling. “Now, you have an investment in winning this war, too. If we lose, you’ll be tried as a war criminal. Provided you ah…survive to the end of the war anyway. You’ll likely be hanged.”
“Why did you do this?” Minerva steeled herself, trying to ignore the pulsing headache in her mind. “Why did you make me do this?”
Michalis sat down and grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. You see, you’re committed to the cause wholly. If we lose, you will die regardless. So you have no reason to not do what I tell you. Anything I tell you.” He pronounced the word slowly, his tone sardonic.
“What do you want?”
Michalis leaned back and put his feet up on the desk, crossing his legs. “Your unit’s unquestionable loyalty. I have some rather…unsavory tasks I need performed. Below the board, of course. Not the sort of thing ordinary soldiers can be caught doing.”
“More war crimes?” Minerva spat.
Michalis laughed. “Please. After murdering refugees anything else should be a stroll in the park.”
Minerva clenched her fist, digging her nails into her palm.
“I’m starting to suspect, though, that your loyalty might not be as ironclad as I once thought,” Michalis said. He sighed. “Alas, I’ll have to find some way to ensure your cooperation before I can assign you these tasks.” He rubbed his chin. “Too bad there really isn’t anything you care about, is there?” He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile.
Minerva gulped.
“Would be a pity if…perhaps, something were to happen to-“
“Don’t you touch her!” Minerva slammed her hand on the desk, scattering papers. “Don’t you dare!”
“Oh, she won’t come to harm. I guarantee it. If you behave, and do as your told…no harm will come to our dearest sister.” Michalis shuffled his papers and began picking up the scattered ones. “Your next mission is tomorrow morning. Report for briefing at three, departure is at four. Am I clear?”
Minerva nodded slowly. “I…I understand, sir.”
Before she left Michalis called to her. She stood at the door, not turning.
“Oh, and Minerva? Your…ah, what do you call them? Your Whitewings are not to hear a word of this. Do you understand?”
-
Minerva burst into the room, flicking the light switch and illuminating the bare bulb. A figure lay on a plain cot, roused to awareness by the light.
“Mmm? Huh? Wassat?” the girl lifted her hands to her face, trying to blot out the light. Her bright blue hair was splayed out on the pillow and she sat up slowly, blinking.
Minerva stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. “Team meeting. My room. Now. Get your sisters.” She slammed the door behind her.
Catria woke slowly, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she entered the hallway. She yawned, stretching. What time was it?
She knocked on the next door down. A muffled groan came from within.
“Come on, Est. The commander needs to talk to us.”
Another groan.
“Alright, atta girl.” Catria smirked and moved onto the third and final room. Before she could even knock the door opened and her older sister emerged. She was wearing her hair up, the deep green hair tied into a loose ponytail.
“The commander needs us?”
Catria nodded. “Yeah…uh…Palla, were you even asleep?”
Palla shook her head. “I heard a door slam then heard you getting Est up.”
Est poked her head out the door, her pink hair mussed and sticking out at odd angles. “Hey, guys, what’s going on?”
Catria shrugged. “The commander called a meeting in her room. I have no idea.”
“Mmkay. Hold on,” Est shut her door and emerged a minute later, her pajamas replaced with a white tank top and green jacket overtop her plain grey pants.
They walked down the hall, each uncertain about what the commander could possibly want at this hour. Their commander was certainly known for…rather eccentric behavior, as Palla politely put it, but something seemed off. Palla took the lead, knocking on Minerva’s door.
“Commander?” she said softly. Minerva opened the door and let it swing wide as she returned to her desk. She had likely been drinking, as evidenced by the overturned bottle and the smell of gasoline in the air. Minerva sat down at the desk heavily, resting her elbows on her knees and hanging her head.
“What’s the deal, commander?” asked Catria, suddenly very concerned.
“Please…sit,” Minerva said softly, gesturing at the bed.
The three sisters sat on her bed and gave each other uncertain looks. Minerva sat still for some time before finally raising her head.
“The…the supply convoy we struck earlier wasn’t what we were told.”
“What?” Est was the first to react.
“It was a refugee caravan, some of the last remnants of the Altean population trying to flee Gra’s invasion.”
Est and Catria both lifted hands to their mouths, shocked. Palla said nothing, staring unmoving at Minerva.
“I will take responsibility for the attack. None of you are guilty.” Minerva said, her eyes dark and defiant. “I led the attack, and I will bear the consequences for it.”
“What consequences?” Palla asked.
“None, yet,” Minerva shook her head. “The king has requested that we be…a task force, if you will. For all the unsavory operations he can’t get anyone else to do.” She picked up the empty bottle and held it to her lips, disappointed when nothing came out. She screwed the lid back on and dropped it at her feet. “He made it very clear what would happen if we disobeyed.”
“Maria,” Palla said. She was the only thing Minerva cared about in the entire world. She cared for the Whitewings, of course, but that paled in comparison to her love for her sister. Nothing else would provoke a reaction like this.
Palla said nothing, but she knew. She and Minerva had been close long enough to her to know that it wasn’t the violence or baseless slaughter that had shaken Minerva so much. It was the idea of her sister coming to harm, an urgent anxiety that Minerva sought to drown in alcohol.
Minerva nodded. “We have another operation to fly tomorrow morning. At four, which means…” she looked at a clock on the wall. “Two hours from now.”
The three sisters all groaned.
“I know, I know. It’s just…” Minerva dug her fingers into her knees. “I…I can’t do this.” She looked at her unit, stared across the three sets of eyes intently awaiting her instructions.
“I’m leaving. I’m going to save Maria and we’re going to get out.” She swallowed.
The three sisters said nothing, waiting for her to continue.”
“I…I realize desertion means death. I will be hanged at the very least, though knowing my brother it will not be before being tortured. He tortures the families of his own men – I can scarcely imagine what he would do to deserters.” Minerva nodded, feeling the courageous tone of her words strangely at odds with the bleak content. “I am going to die, that much is certain. But I would rather die than be my brother’s hitman for a day longer.” She stood up.
“You three are free to go. The Whitewings are formally disbanded. You cannot come with me. I cannot ask you to do this with me.”
Palla smiled, looking across her sisters’ faces. They nodded.
“Well, that’s the great thing about it, commander. You know you don’t have to.”