“You ever really think about how weird Little Bird is?” Macaroni said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “It’s like the whole country is stuck seventy years in the past. The buildings, the cars, the fashion—hell, even the advertisements look like they were pulled straight out of the 1950s. But at the same time…” She tapped a finger against her mug. “We’ve got technology more advanced than anything in the modern world.”
Sonata raised an eyebrow, still groggy but intrigued. Macaroni wasn’t wrong. Little Bird wasn’t just a relic of the past—it was retrofuturism made real. The country had built a future as people in the mid-20th century had once imagined it would be.
Computers here weren’t sleek, ultra-thin devices like those in other nations. Instead, they had steel casings, glowing vacuum tubes, and mechanical keyboards that clacked with every keystroke. Yet, despite their vintage appearance, they were just as powerful—if not more—than the latest systems from abroad. The same went for vehicles. Outwardly, they looked like classic post-war automobiles, all chrome, fins, and polished curves. But beneath the hood? State-of-the-art engines that outperformed modern supercars.
Even the military reflected this fusion of old and new. Soldiers marched in uniforms reminiscent of mid-century designs, yet wielded energy-based weapons, wore cybernetic enhancements, and relied on AI-assisted targeting systems. It was a country where nostalgia wasn’t a limitation—it was a foundation for progress.
“It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?” Macaroni chuckled, swirling her coffee. “Most people wonder what the future will look like. Here? It’s not about what the future will be—it’s about the future that could have been.”
Mitchell, who had been quietly listening, nodded in agreement. “During the war, my sister, Twilight, and her friend, Starlight, were both on the front lines. Starlight, especially—she was a submachine gunner armed with the LB-45 Thunderbird. It’s basically a laser submachine gun modeled after the M1928 Thompson, but with modern tech. Same classic Thompson silhouette, just… upgraded. It even has a rail-top carry handle like the H&K G36C to make it easier to carry in a fight.”
He took a sip of water before continuing. “That’s just one example. A lot of the militia forces across Little Bird still use older models—our own versions of the M1921, M1928, and M1A1 Thompsons, known as the Trench 1937, Trench 1939, and Trench 1942. They might not have the bells and whistles of modern gear, but they’re reliable. That’s what matters.”
Cadenza chimed in. “That’s because the Militia is made up of people considered unfit for active military service—many of them have disabilities that would have gotten them a 4F designation anywhere else. But here? They still have a role. While the main military handles large-scale operations, the Militia defends Little Bird’s cities and towns, keeping the homefront secure.”
She tapped her fingers against the table. “They operate like a national guard or home defense force. They don’t get the newest tech first. When the Army upgrades, the Militia gets the older models. It’s a cycle—what’s obsolete for the Army today becomes standard for the Militia tomorrow.”
Sonata finally spoke up, shifting in her seat. “That same approach applies to vehicles, too. Take our Infantry Fighting Vehicle—the one we’ve been using since ‘94. Back when it first rolled out, it had a simple 30mm chain gun and a 7.62mm coaxial machine gun. Now?” She smirked. “It’s got a rocket pod, a gyro-stabilizer, composite armor, nano-composite armor, a remote weapons system, electro-optical countermeasures, an AA railgun, and an anti-air missile system. Basically, it can handle anything thrown at it.”
Macaroni whistled. “That’s a lot of upgrades.”
“And a lot of money,” Sonata added, listing the costs. “The AA Railgun alone? $100,000. The rocket pod? $900,000. The gyro-stabilizer? $1.5 million. Composite armor is $100,000, and the nano-composite armor? $300,000. Remote weapons system? Another $900,000. Electro-optical countermeasures? $1.2 million. And then there’s the hydrogen cells for better battlefield efficiency—another $300,000.” She exhaled. “It’s expensive, yeah, but every one of those upgrades ensures our IFVs don’t just survive on the battlefield—they dominate it.”
She leaned forward. “The production history tells you everything you need to know. The original 1993 model? Only 4,744 units. But by the time the 2002 model rolled out? Over 14,000 units were built—because war demanded it. More than 80% of those were made during active conflict, just to replace battlefield losses.”
Sonata ran a hand through her hair. “It’s like the Sherman tank in World War II. It wasn’t the best, but it was reliable, easy to manufacture, and adaptable. That’s exactly what our IFVs are—built to be upgraded, repaired, and mass-produced.”
Sam, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up. “That’s why they’re designed for minimal maintenance. When you’re operating in foreign territory, you can’t always get replacement parts right away. If a vehicle breaks down and you have to wait for a new component? That’s time lost. Time that could cost lives.”
He crossed his arms. “These IFVs were built to stay in combat, not in the shop. If your vehicle spends more time getting repaired than fighting, it’s a liability. The longer it can stay operational, the more effective the unit is. That’s why reliability is priority number one.”
Macaroni grinned and leaned forward. “And you know who we can thank for a lot of those weapons and armor designs? My cousin by marriage—Visala. She’s the mind behind the AA railguns, the railgun-mounted ships, Project Phoenix armor, nanocomposite bodysuits, and energy weapons.” She took a sip of her coffee, then set the cup down with a satisfied sigh. “Visala’s not just some corporate scientist—she loves what she does. Every day, she gets to work on the cutting edge of weapons development, pouring her passion into every blueprint and prototype.”
She stretched her arms above her head before shaking her head. “Then there are the other kinds of people. The ones who take whatever job they can get, slog through it for forty years, and hate every damn second of it. Like my girlfriend’s parents. Her mom bounced between temp jobs in bars, dealing with the worst kinds of customers. Her dad? Had to drop out of college in 1980 and settle for a low-paying janitorial job just to keep food on the table.”
She paused for a moment, then smiled softly. “But even with all that, they taught her something important: ‘Don’t be concerned with what was and what will be. Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift.’”
Sonata sat back, letting the words settle. Little Bird was a paradox—a nation that seemed frozen in time, yet constantly evolved. A place where the past and future weren’t separate but intertwined. In a world obsessed with chasing the next big thing, maybe there was something to be said for a country that never forgot what could have been.
Mitchell, arms crossed, glanced at Macaroni. “According to your girlfriend Claire, growing up poor is actually better than growing up rich.”
Macaroni nodded. “Yeah. Claire believes that when you have limited means, you learn to appreciate what you have instead of taking it all for granted. People who never struggled tend to throw money at every problem. Something breaks? They don’t fix it—they just buy a new one.”
She scoffed. “Like Claire’s ex, Zofia. Her family wasn’t even that rich—just comfortable. But the mindset? Wasteful as hell. Zofia’s mother wouldn’t even bother with something as simple as an oil change. Instead of taking the car to a mechanic or doing it herself, she’d just sell the damn thing and buy a new one.”
Mitchell frowned. “That’s insane. Vehicles aren’t cheap. An oil change takes, what, five minutes? Pop the hood, unscrew the oil cap, pour in some oil, and you’re done. But nah, let’s just replace the whole car.”
Sonata chuckled, shaking her head. “I can just imagine Zofia’s great-grandparents rolling over in their graves. Back in their time, people actually knew how to maintain their things instead of tossing them the second they had an issue.”
Curious, Sonata asked, “So what does Claire’s ex actually do for a living?”
Macaroni leaned in. “She used to be a policewoman. Then she became a detective. But let’s just say… she wasn’t great at it.”
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “How bad are we talking?”
“Bad enough that she botched multiple cases because she couldn’t follow basic forensic procedures. You know, little things like not leaving her own fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
Mitchell groaned. “Jesus. That’s day-one stuff.”
Macaroni nodded. “The district attorney’s office has a zero-tolerance policy for contaminated evidence. If an investigator leaves their own prints on a weapon, a piece of clothing, anything—it risks getting thrown out. And guess who kept screwing that up?”
Sonata smirked. “Let me guess—Zofia?”
“Bingo.” Macaroni sighed. “Four killers walked free because of her incompetence. A serial arsonist got off without so much as a slap on the wrist. And then there’s my personal favorite—the fraudster who convinced his friend to kill a pig, stage the scene to look like he’d been mauled, and use it as an excuse to fake his own death. That idiot got away clean thanks to Zofia’s mistakes.”
Mitchell rubbed his temples. “That’s not even detective work—that’s just common sense. If you mishandle evidence, you hand the defense a golden opportunity to rip the case apart.”
Macaroni scoffed. “She should’ve been fired ages ago. But I suspect her mommy pulled some strings to keep her on the force.”
Sonata frowned. “So she’s got protection from higher-ups?”
“Most likely. But Captain Asyling of the 9th Precinct doesn’t play that game.” Macaroni smirked. “She doesn’t give a damn about connections. She even fired the deputy police commissioner’s son. And when the guy tried to pull the ‘Do you know who my father is?’ card, she shut him up with a 23-inch wooden baton.”
Sonata let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
Macaroni nodded. “Asyling believes in the badge. To her, officers should be held to a higher standard than civilians. No special treatment. That’s why I respect her. You screw up, you take responsibility—no exceptions.”
Sonata chuckled. “Honestly? If Zofia had joined the military, she would’ve hated it. Most specialist roles are still male-dominated. She’d spend more time complaining than actually doing her job.”
Mitchell smirked. “She wouldn’t last a day.”
Sonata leaned back. “People like her take everything for granted. Back in the 1930s, people had it rough—Great Depression, war looming, jobs scarce. Nowadays? If the internet goes down for five minutes, people act like it’s the end of the world.”
Macaroni crossed her arms. “Drop any of them in the ‘30s, and they’d lose their minds.”
Sonata’s smirk faded. “Yeah… I know that firsthand. I was born and raised in a religious cult that did everything it could to kill dreams. No ambitions, no thinking for yourself. Just follow the rules, get married, have about two dozen kids, and give half your income to the cult.”
Macaroni’s expression darkened. “That’s awful.”
Sonata shrugged. “They tried to break me. I broke free instead. Instead of marrying the moment I graduated high school, I joined the Army.”
Macaroni nodded. “Good for you. You took control of your own life.”
Sonata smirked, arms crossed as she leaned back. “Damn right. And funny enough, that cult learned the hard way that rebellion against a modern military is a bad idea. In ‘95, they tried to rise up. Turns out, lever-action rifles from the 1800s and muskets from the 1700s don’t do much against body armor.”
Mitchell snorted. “That’s gotta be the dumbest rebellion I’ve ever heard of.”
Macaroni shook her head. “And yet, I bet they thought they had a chance.”
Sonata’s grin widened, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, they did. Right up until the tanks rolled in.”
The memories came rushing back—the sheer futility of it all. She’d been there, trying to talk sense into them, standing among people who had once been her family. The town was surrounded. Rangers—8,000 strong—had locked it down, backed by a force that could’ve flattened a small country. Infantry fighting vehicles and APCs prowled the outskirts, Tanks took up positions, their barrels aimed and ready. Artillery had their coordinates. Attack helicopters and jets circled overhead, waiting for the order.
And yet, the cultists refused to surrender.
“I told them,” Sonata said, voice edged with exasperation. “I told them they were outgunned, outnumbered, and out of their damn minds. That their rusted muskets and old lever-actions wouldn’t do a damn thing against modern armor, let alone tanks and air support.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “But no, they wouldn’t listen. They really thought 1,200 people with outdated weapons and zero tactical training could take on a modern military.”
Macaroni scoffed. “Let me guess—God was on their side?”
“Bingo,” Sonata said, rolling her eyes. “They kept saying faith would carry them to victory. That divine intervention would turn the tide. That no matter how bad the odds looked, God would make a way.” Her jaw clenched. “I told them faith doesn’t stop bullets. But they wouldn’t hear it.”
Mitchell exhaled sharply. “That’s the kind of blind fanaticism that gets people killed.”
Sonata shook her head. “It did get them killed.”
She didn’t have to say it—the moment they fired the first shots, the battle was over before it even began. The Rangers had given them a chance, sent negotiators, even pleaded with them to surrender. But the cult leader? He was too far gone. Declared that anyone who laid down their arms was a traitor and ordered them to fight to the last breath.
Mitchell frowned. “And you? Where were you?”
Sonata leaned forward, her expression dark. “In a Ranger safe zone. I was one of the lucky ones who got out beforehand. And when I did, I told them everything. Where the cult stored their weapons, where they’d make their stand—I laid it all out because I knew what would happen if they didn’t crush that rebellion fast.”
Macaroni studied her. “And do you regret it?”
Sonata didn’t hesitate. “Not for a second.”
They had a choice. And they chose wrong.
She sighed, rubbing her temple as another memory surfaced—the letters. The endless stream of desperate, pleading letters from the one cultist who had survived.
Her mother.
“For the past six years, she’s been trying to reestablish contact,” Sonata said, voice flat. “Every few months, another letter shows up, begging to see my daughters. Talking about how she’s changed. How she only wants to be part of their lives.” Sonata flicked her wrist, miming a lighter igniting. “Every time, I burn them.”
Mitchell didn’t look surprised. “You don’t trust her.”
“Damn right, I don’t.” Sonata’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a true believer. Always has been, always will be. And I’ll be damned before I let her anywhere near my girls. I know how she works—she’ll start off all sweet, acting like she just wants to spoil her grandkids. Then, next thing I know, she’s whispering in their ears about how the ‘modern world is sinful’ and all that cultist garbage.” She shook her head. “Not happening. My daughters are growing up normal.”
Macaroni let out a whistle. “So that’s a hard no on family reunions.”
Sonata scoffed. “Hardest no of my life.”
Mitchell leaned forward. “And what happened to her?”
Sonata smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Life in prison. No parole. She’ll rot in a cell for the rest of her days.”
No remorse. No second-guessing. Just the simple truth.
And she wasn’t sorry.
Mitchell exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on Sonata. “And what happened to her after she got captured?”
Sonata smirked, but there was no humor behind it. “Oh, she tried the insanity defense. Thought she could weasel her way out by claiming she wasn’t in her right mind.” She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t work. The court saw right through it. They had too much evidence—letters, recordings, testimonies from survivors. She wasn’t some poor, confused victim. She was a believer, through and through. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
Macaroni tilted her head. “So what’d she get?”
“Life in prison. No chance of parole.” Sonata’s voice was blunt, cold. “She’ll rot in a cell for the rest of her days.”
Mitchell studied her carefully. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
Sonata met his gaze, “No,” she said simply. “She made her choice. Now she gets to live with it.”
She then admitted, with a mix of frustration and reluctant acceptance, that it was her father who had let it slip to her mother that she had daughters. Not out of malice, but simply because he still kept in touch with both of them. Unlike his wife, however, he had never been fully consumed by the cult’s ideology. In fact, after years of tolerating her fanaticism, he was the one who finally had enough. He handed over key intelligence to the military, leading to the operation that wiped out the cult.
“Guess he finally decided he was done with her crap,” Sonata remarked dryly. “Can’t say I blame him. Took him long enough.”
Despite their history, Sonata still allowed her father to be part of her daughters’ lives. He, along with her brother Paul and her sister Nicole Jr., were the only ones in the family she trusted around Sonata Jr. and Mackenzie. “They ain’t religious nutcases,” she explained. “They never bought into Mom’s crazy bullshit. They saw it for what it was—nonsense.”
That was why Nicole Jr. had been the one to take her in when their mother kicked her out.
Sonata still remembered that night vividly. How she had come out as bisexual, expecting at least some level of understanding, only for her mother to react as if she had confessed to a crime. The screaming, the accusations, the way she had been dragged to the front door and thrown out like garbage.
“My own mother looked me in the eye,” Sonata recalled bitterly, “and told me I was an abomination. That I wasn’t her daughter anymore.”
She had been just a teenager, lost and abandoned. But before she could even figure out what to do next, Nicole Jr. had already opened her home to her. No hesitation. No judgment. Just a place to stay and someone to lean on.
“She’s the only reason I had somewhere to go,” Sonata admitted. “If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
But while Nicole Jr. had given her a safe place, the rest of the cult hadn’t been so quick to let her go.
“I swear, every guy in that damn cult around my age—or even a little older—suddenly decided I was prime wife material,” Sonata said, rolling her eyes. “Like the second they heard I was living outside the compound, they started showing up. Some of them would knock on Nicole Jr.'s door, trying to ‘talk some sense’ into me, like I was some lost lamb who just needed a strong husband to guide me back to the ‘right path.’ Others tried to be all sweet and convincing, like they actually gave a damn about me.”
Mitchell frowned. “And what did they really want?”
Sonata snorted. “They wanted a girlfriend who’d turn into a wife who’d turn into a glorified servant. Someone to ‘obey’ them, cook for them, raise their kids, and never question a damn thing. That’s all any of them wanted. And every single time one of them showed up with that nonsense, I slammed the damn door in their face.”
Macaroni grinned. “Bet they got the message real quick.”
Sonata chuckled, “Oh, you’d think. But no. They didn’t get the memo. Some of them thought they just needed to ‘try harder.’ New tactics. Different approaches. Like if they just kept pestering me, I’d suddenly change my mind.” She leaned back, cracking her knuckles. “Didn’t end well for them, though. A few got a broken nose for their trouble. A couple ended up with dislocated joints. And more than one left in an ambulance.”
Mitchell shook his head, half in amusement, half in exasperation. “And they still didn’t stop?”
Sonata shrugged. “What can I say? Cult boys are stubborn. But so am I.”
Macaroni, ever the curious one, suddenly asked, "Who do you respect the most?"
Sonata didn’t even hesitate. "105mm white phosphorus artillery shells," she said with a straight face.
Macaroni blinked. "Wait—what?"
"Yeah. Nothing quite like them," Sonata continued, a hint of dark amusement in her voice. "They get the job done, they don’t complain, and they don’t hesitate. You send ‘em where they need to go, and boom—problem solved. No second-guessing, no arguing, just pure, beautiful efficiency."
Macaroni stared for a moment before bursting into laughter. "Okay, okay, but I meant a person, not a damn artillery shell."
Sonata smirked but relented. "If we’re talking about actual people, then yeah, there are a few. Mitchell, Jack, Sam, Cadenza. My brother Paul and my sister Nicole Jr. And, of course, my girlfriend, Julia."
She paused, a rare moment of sincerity in her otherwise sharp demeanor. "All of ‘em have had my back when it mattered. They don’t expect me to be someone I’m not. They let me be me. And in a world full of idiots, that’s something I respect."
Macaroni nodded, satisfied with the answer. But before she could say anything else, Sonata scoffed and added, "And for the record, those cult guys? They were more annoying than flies. At least flies give up and leave after a while. Those morons just kept coming back, thinking they could ‘fix’ me." She rolled her eyes. "Too bad for them, I don’t break that easy."
She didn’t hold back when describing just how brainwashed some of those cultists were. "They were the type to jump out of a damn aircraft at 1,000 feet without a parachute, thinking their faith alone would save them. Yeah, sure—the ground will gladly welcome them back with open arms. Real warm embrace. Probably about fifty feet deep."
She shook her head. "And let me tell you, even with a parachute, the ground still hits like a bastard."
Mitchell chuckled. "Yeah, as a paratrooper, I’ve heard guys screw up a landing and immediately go, ‘Oh, fuck me! Augh… I just cracked a nut!’"
Sonata winced, then smirked. "That’s why they drill it into you during training—never, ever position your weapon over anything you’re not willing to break. Jaw, crotch, ribs—doesn’t matter. If you mess up a landing, you don’t want your own rifle making it worse."
Mitchell nodded. "Basic rule of airborne—if your rifle’s stock is gonna hit something when you land, make sure it’s not your damn bones."
And on that, they both agreed.
Mitchell leaned back with a smirk, crossing his arms as he spoke. “That’s the thing with airborne jumps—even in the modern day, guys still get banged up. Pulled muscles, bad landings, or if they’re really unlucky, a tree branch straight to the groin. And don’t even get me started on the poor bastards who misjudge a rooftop and end up slamming down on something they weren’t expecting.” He shook his head. “Hell, it happens.”
Sonata chuckled, shaking her head. “Still better than what our predecessors had to deal with. Back in the late ‘30s and ‘40s, being a paratrooper meant you were rolling the dice with your life every time you jumped. It was a brand-new concept—something military brass barely understood.” She glanced at Mitchell. “Think about it—some officer had to stand in front of a bunch of guys and tell them, ‘Hey, we’re gonna have you jump out of a perfectly good airplane, land behind enemy lines, and fight on your own.’ Back then, that sounded batshit insane.”
Mitchell nodded. “Oh, a lot of the higher-ups thought airborne operations were going to be a failed experiment. But the real kicker? Once you jumped, you were on your own. No reinforcements, no backup, just you, your unit, and whatever weapons you could carry. And unlike regular pilots who bailed out of a crashing plane, paratroopers weren’t protected under the laws of war. A pilot who ejected? He was supposed to be taken as a prisoner of war. But a paratrooper? Nah. The second you left that plane, you were a legitimate target.”
Sonata smirked darkly. “And that’s if your chute didn’t fail, or you didn’t land in the middle of an enemy formation, or get tangled up in power lines. So yeah, modern jumps still have their risks, but at least we’re not pioneering a brand-new way to die like those guys did back then.”
She paused before adding with a mocking grin, “Not that it would’ve mattered to those cult idiots. They would’ve jumped with nothing but ‘faith.’ Hope their god enjoys the splatter pattern.”
Mitchell exhaled sharply, then decided to give a bit of a history lesson. “You know, one of the biggest problems those early airborne guys faced was their rifles. Back then, only NCOs and officers got submachine guns. The average paratrooper had to jump into combat carrying a full-length rifle. And guess what happened when they landed?”
Macaroni raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—pain?”
Mitchell smirked. “Oh yeah. And lots of it. That stock would come slamming right into their jaw, ribs, or even their teeth. You wouldn’t believe how many guys got their teeth knocked out before even firing a shot.”
Sonata winced. “Shit. That’s one hell of a way to start a fight.”
Mitchell nodded. “Exactly. By 1943, they realized just how bad the problem was and started introducing rifles with folding stocks. Before that, though? A lot of guys had a real unpleasant trip to the field medic before they even saw the battlefield.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Fast forward to Vietnam, and the Little Bird Army Airborne had learned from all those busted jaws and broken teeth. By then, paratroopers had two options—either a carbine with a collapsible stock or a rifle with a collapsible stock. That way, they could keep the stock collapsed during the plane ride and jump, then extend it after they landed. Simple fix, but it made a world of difference.”
Sonata nodded. “That’s why I never run my rifle at full length. When I jump, I keep the stock partially extended—not fully collapsed, but not stretched all the way out either. It’s a good balance. Short enough to stay out of the way when I land, but long enough that I don’t feel like I’m holding a damn toy when I need to start firing.” She smirked. “Some people like it fully collapsed for the jump and extend it after they land. Me? I’d rather not waste a second adjusting when I could be putting rounds downrange.”
Mitchell chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, that reminds me of something my old CO, Luna, told me. Back in the late ‘90s, she was a submachine gunner in the Army Airborne. She saw all kinds of bad landings, but there was this one guy—poor bastard—who decided to jump with his carbine’s stock fully extended. And for some reason, he had it positioned right against his crotch.”
Macaroni’s eyes widened. “No.”
Mitchell grinned. “Oh yes. One bad landing later, and that stock came up hard, right into his family jewels. That man didn’t just hit the ground—he stayed there, curled up like a baby, questioning every life choice that led him to that moment.”
Sonata winced. “Shit… That’s gotta be one of the worst ways to learn about proper weapon positioning.”
Macaroni snickered. “Well, at least he did the next generation a favor—took himself right out of the gene pool.”
Sonata blinked, then snorted. “Oh—Oh! You mean he’s probably not having kids after that?” She let out a short laugh. “Damn, that’s rough.”
Still chuckling, Sonata added, “That’s why they drill it into you during training—never, ever position your weapon over anything you’re not willing to break. Jaw, crotch, ribs—it doesn’t matter. If you mess up a landing, you don’t want your own rifle making it worse.”
Mitchell nodded. “Yep. Basic rule of airborne—if your rifle’s stock is gonna hit something when you land, make sure it’s not your damn bones.”
Sonata smirked. “Or your balls.”
Mitchell chuckled. “That too.”
She then added, “Some guys have dislocated their shoulder by having a shorter weapon underneath their armpit. Others knew to keep their arm up the moment they landed so they wouldn’t wreck their shoulder. It’s all about knowing your body and how to fall right. ‘Cause trust me—if you don’t learn that fast, the ground’s gonna teach you the hard way.”
Mitchell nodded in agreement. “Doesn’t matter how much you train—the sky’s always got a way of humbling people real fast.”
Macaroni groaned, rubbing her temples as she muttered, “Whoever decided to put the alphabet in math deserves a kick right in their family jewels.” She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Seriously, Algebra was a gigantic pain in the ass back in middle and high school. Letters, numbers, weird-ass symbols—it was like trying to read an alien language.”
She expected some nods of agreement, maybe even a laugh, but instead, Sonata, Mitchell, Sam, Jack, and Cadenza all just stared at her. She blinked. “What?”
That’s when it hit her—she was American. Of course, she struggled with algebra in middle and high school. Math education in the U.S. changed after the Soviets launched Sputnik in 1957, with schools pushing for more advanced math and science to compete in the Space Race. But in the country of Little Bird? Things were different.
Sonata raised an eyebrow. “Wait… You were doing algebra in middle school?”
Macaroni frowned. “Uh, yeah? That’s kinda normal where I’m from.”
Mitchell snorted. “Not here, it isn’t.”
Unlike in the U.S., Little Bird’s education system structured math differently. Elementary and middle school focused almost entirely on basic arithmetic—addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Even fractions and decimals were kept at a practical level. Algebra? Geometry? Calculus? None of that was part of the standard curriculum.
It wasn’t until high school that things changed. Instead of forcing every student through the same advanced math courses, Little Bird had a system where students had to sign up for specialized classes. Those interested in higher-level mathematics could choose from a variety of disciplines, including:
- Number Theory
- Geometry
- Topology
- Algebra
- Calculus and Analysis
- Differential Equations
- Discrete Mathematics
- Logic and Set Theory
- Probability
- Statistics and Decision Theory
But if a student had no interest in advanced math? They simply didn’t take it. As long as they passed their required arithmetic courses, they were free to focus on other subjects.
Jack leaned forward, grinning. “So let me get this straight—where you’re from, they force everyone to take algebra?”
Macaroni shrugged. “Well, yeah. Algebra, geometry, trigonometry—everyone has to do it at some point, even if they suck at math.”
Cadenza chuckled. “Damn. No wonder you’re mad about it.”
Sonata smirked. “See, in Little Bird, if you don’t want to do algebra, you just don’t sign up for it. No one forces you.”
Macaroni threw up her hands. “That’s not fair! I had to suffer through years of that crap, and you’re telling me you guys just got to skip it?”
Mitchell laughed. “Pretty much.”
Macaroni groaned, dramatically resting her head on the table. “I hate this country.”
Jack patted her shoulder. “Nah, you just hate the way your country does math.”
She sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Sam leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he said, “Look, not everyone’s gonna go off and join a civil space program or become some big-shot aeronautics researcher. Most people aren’t spending their lives working in space research or designing aircraft.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “Yeah, exactly. I mean, algebra and geometry have their place, sure, but let’s be real—most people aren’t gonna use that stuff in their daily lives. When’s the last time you needed to solve for x while grocery shopping?”
Macaroni snorted. “Never.”
Jack smirked. “Exactly. What people actually use every day is basic math—addition, subtraction, maybe a little multiplication if you’re trying to figure out a sale price. That’s the stuff that actually matters when you’re checking out at a store or splitting a bill at a restaurant.”
Sonata chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t need to know the Pythagorean theorem to figure out if I have enough money for beer and groceries.”
Cadenza laughed. “Right? People act like algebra is some life-or-death skill, but unless you’re going into a STEM field, it’s just not something you need all the time.”
Sam gestured toward Macaroni. “And that’s why people get frustrated with math education. They shove all this advanced stuff at students whether they’ll ever need it or not, but they don’t focus enough on real-world math. Balancing a budget, calculating interest rates, understanding taxes—that’s the kind of math most people actually use.”
Jack nodded. “Exactly. If you ask me, they should spend more time teaching financial literacy instead of forcing everyone to memorize formulas they’ll forget the second they graduate.”
Macaroni sighed. “Man… If they’d spent more time teaching me how to do my taxes and less time making me factor polynomials, I’d probably be a lot better off right now.”
Sonata smirked. “Yeah, but then you wouldn’t have gotten to complain about algebra.”
Macaroni groaned. “I’d take that trade.”
Macaroni groaned as she remembered her school days. "Man, my middle school and high school math teachers were the worst about that. Even if you got the right answer, if you didn’t show the work exactly the way they wanted, you’d either lose points or get half credit at best. It was like they cared more about whether you followed their steps than whether you actually understood the problem." She rolled her eyes. "My dad even asked me once why in the hell they changed math. He was born three years before the first men landed on the moon, and even he didn’t understand what the hell they were teaching us."
Mitchell shook his head. "That’s one thing we do differently in Little Bird. Our schools focus more on life skills than forcing kids to memorize abstract formulas they’ll never use. Sure, we learn reading, writing, and basic math, but we also learn cursive, cooking, how to do tax forms, how to write a check, and even the basics of home repairs and craftsmanship. Useful stuff—things that could actually turn into careers instead of just stressing kids out with equations they’ll forget in about five minutes."
He leaned back, smirking. "I mean, think about it—woodworking, leathercrafting, stuff like that? That’s way more useful than solving ‘X = 55, solve for Y.’ When’s the last time you had to solve for Y to fix a broken cabinet or make something with your hands?"
Macaroni snickered. "Never. But I have had to fix a door hinge before."
Cadenza grinned. "Exactly. Knowing how to build or repair something is a skill that’ll always be in demand. But knowing how to graph a quadratic equation? Yeah, not so much unless you’re in a very specific career field."
Jack nodded. "Makes sense. You can make a living out of carpentry, metalworking, or even just knowing how to fix things around the house. But no one’s paying you to sit around solving algebra problems unless you go into engineering or finance."
Macaroni sighed. "Man, I really wish they had just taught me how to do my taxes instead of making me suffer through algebra."
Sonata smirked. "Would’ve saved a lot of headaches, huh?"
Macaroni groaned. "Oh, so many."
Mitchell leaned back with a smirk. "Just the other day, I went to a crafting store, picked up some leather, and made myself a new wallet. Cost me three bucks for the material, and I put it together in my free time. Way better than spending ten or twenty dollars on some mass-produced one that’ll fall apart in a year."
Sonata nodded, crossing her arms. "Last week, I went to the hardware store, grabbed some wood, and rebuilt my kitchen cabinets. The old ones were falling apart, so I just tore them out and made new ones myself. Saved a ton of money, and I know they’ll actually last because I built them right."
Sam grinned. "That’s exactly what we’re talking about—leathercrafting, woodworking, all that stuff. Those are real, useful skills. You didn’t need some fancy equation to get it done, just the knowledge of how to work with your hands. That’s the kind of thing people actually use in their daily lives."
Jack nodded in agreement. "And the best part? You’re not just saving money—you’re also getting something custom-made to your own needs. A store-bought wallet or cabinet is fine, but when you make it yourself, it’s yours in every sense. Built exactly how you want it, not how some factory decided it should be."
Cadenza smirked. "And let’s be real—how satisfying is it to finish something and know you made it?"
Mitchell chuckled. "Oh, it’s damn satisfying. Every time I pull out that wallet, I know I didn’t just buy some overpriced brand-name junk—I built it. And every time Sonata grabs a plate from her new cabinets, she knows she put in the work to make something better than what she had before."
Macaroni grinned. "See, that’s the kind of math I like—three bucks for leather versus ten bucks for a cheap wallet. That kind of math makes sense."
Sonata smirked. "Yeah, no need to solve for X when you can just measure, cut, and build something useful."
Sam nodded. "Exactly. That’s why hands-on skills will always be more valuable than some formula on a chalkboard."
Macaroni crossed her arms, shaking her head. "As a firefighter, I can tell you right now—Algebra doesn’t help me stretch a hose line, throw up a ladder, or force open a door with a Halligan bar and an axe. When a building’s burning down, I’m not sitting there solving for X. I’m getting people out and putting the fire down as fast as possible."
Sonata nodded. "Yeah, in the military, it’s the same thing. We use basic math every day, especially when it comes to ammo management. You don’t need calculus to figure out how much firepower you have left—you just need to know how to count." She patted the magazine pouch on her vest. "For example, my rifle holds 20 rounds per mag. I carry five magazines—one in the rifle, four in my pouches. That means I’ve got 100 rounds total. Simple math."
She held up a hand. "Now, let’s say I’ve fired 45 rounds. How much do I have left? Easy—100 minus 45. But let me break it down for you the way I do it in my head: I start with 100, subtract 20—that’s 80. Subtract another 20—that’s 60. Then take away the last 15, and boom, I’m left with 55 rounds." She tapped her temple. "No need for a damn equation—just common sense and quick subtraction."
Jack smirked. "And that’s the kind of math you actually use in real life. You don’t need to know the square root of pi to know when you’re running low on bullets."
Sam chuckled. "Or when you’re running low on fuel, food, or water. Basic math keeps you alive. That’s the kind of stuff that matters."
Macaroni grinned. "Exactly! When I’m on a call, I’m not worrying about algebra—I’m worried about how much air is left in my tank, how much water we have left on the engine, and if we have enough personnel to handle the job. That’s math you use. The rest? Just extra noise."
Sonata nodded. "At the end of the day, basic math is a survival tool. Everything else? Nice to know, but not necessary for getting through life."
Sonata leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, and gave Macaroni a skeptical look. "Alright, be honest with me. Outside of a math class, have you ever used algebra or geometry in the real world?"
Macaroni didn’t even hesitate. "Nope. Not once." She shook her head. "I’ve never had to solve for X, never had to find the slope of a line, never had to calculate the angle of a triangle in my actual day-to-day life."
Sonata smirked. "Exactly. So what was the point of spending years being forced to learn that stuff if most people never use it?"
Macaroni threw her hands up. "That’s what I’ve been saying for years! Look, I get that some people need it—engineers, architects, rocket scientists, sure. But me? A firefighter? I don’t need algebra to stretch a hose line or force open a burning door. I need muscle, training, and common sense. Not formulas."
Jack chuckled. "Same here. I don’t need to know the Pythagorean theorem to figure out my budget or check my receipt at the store."
Sam nodded. "That’s the problem, though. Schools push this advanced math like everyone’s gonna be an astronaut or an engineer, but most people won’t. Meanwhile, useful stuff like taxes, budgeting, or even basic home repair gets ignored."
Sonata rolled her eyes. "Yep. Instead of drilling equations we’ll never use, they should’ve been teaching you how to manage a mortgage, do home repairs, or balance a damn checkbook. That’s real-world math."
Macaroni pointed at her. "Exactly! The only math I use is basic addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Everything else? Waste of time for the average person."
Mitchell, who had been listening quietly, finally chimed in. "That’s why in Little Bird, they teach practical skills first. Basic math, reading, writing—then life skills. Cooking, woodworking, home maintenance, even how to do taxes. You wanna learn advanced math? You choose to take those classes in high school."
Macaroni sighed. "Wish we had that. Instead, we were forced to learn algebra, and if you didn’t show your work, you got half credit—even if the answer was right!" She scoffed. "My dad was born three years before the first moon landing, and even he doesn’t understand why they changed math the way they did."
Sonata chuckled. "Probably when Sputnik went up. Education systems freaked out and started shoving more advanced math into schools, thinking we needed to keep up. But not everyone’s trying to build rockets, man. Some of us just need to know how to fix a broken cabinet or calculate our ammo count."
Macaroni nodded. "Exactly. And last time I checked, no one’s ever asked me to factor a quadratic equation while running into a burning building."
To lighten the mood, Mitchell decided to share a funny story about his wife’s aunt—a woman who, thankfully, wasn’t on the mission with them. He leaned back with a wry smile.
“Thank God my wife’s aunt isn’t here,” Mitchell muttered, shaking his head. “She also happens to be my Commanding Officer.”
Sonata blinked in disbelief. “Wait, hold up—your aunt-in-law is your CO?”
“Yep,” Mitchell confirmed, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “And let me tell you, it’s as much of a headache as you’d imagine. She’s got this cynical streak a mile wide, especially when it comes to reinforcements.”
Sonata snickered. “Oh, now I’m really curious. What’s her take on reinforcements?”
Mitchell leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “So, every time we’d get new troops, the first thing she’d say wasn’t, ‘Oh good, we need the numbers,’ or ‘Great, more firepower.’ Nah. Her first words were always, ‘Yeah? For how much longer?’”
Jack burst out laughing. “Damn, that’s cold.”
Mitchell’s smirk deepened. “Right? But she had her reasons. In her experience, most of the reinforcements were so green, you could lose ‘em in a field of grass. Fresh out of training, no real combat experience, and half of ‘em couldn’t even point their rifles in the right direction. She wasn’t being mean—she was just being real.”
Sam nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I’ve been there. Some reinforcements aren’t even worth the rations. You spend more time babysitting ‘em than fighting.”
“Exactly,” Mitchell agreed. “When you’re in the shit, you don’t need more bodies, you need more fighters. If they can’t hold their own, they’re just liabilities.”
Cadenza shot him a teasing grin. “I bet that made family dinners interesting.”
Mitchell chuckled. “You have no idea. Picture this—family dinner, mashed potatoes being passed around, and my CO reminding me that she doesn’t trust reinforcements.”
Macaroni grinned. “So, what, she’d rather have no reinforcements than deal with useless ones?”
“Pretty much,” Mitchell said. “And honestly? I don’t blame her.”
The conversation shifted, and Mitchell dove deeper into his role as the platoon’s Radio Telephone Operator (RTO). “And to make it better? I’m the damn RTO. Which means I’m glued to her side constantly. I’m never more than a few steps away, whether we’re in the field or having a briefing. I’m always there.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “So, she can’t even get a break from you?”
Mitchell sighed dramatically. “Nope. Not unless she wants to be completely out of the loop. If she’s in the field, I’m there. If she’s in a meeting, I’m there. If she wants some space, tough luck—I’m still there.”
Sonata smirked. “So basically, if she wants a few minutes to herself, you’re her shadow.”
“Pretty much,” Mitchell agreed with a wry smile. “And trust me, she doesn’t exactly treat me any better than the other guys. Family or not, I’m still just another soldier to her.”
Cadenza raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So when do you actually get a break?”
“Peacetime,” Mitchell said with a resigned laugh. “That’s the only time I get some distance. Otherwise? I’m stuck with her, twenty-four-seven.”
Sonata leaned back, her voice thoughtful. “You know, sometimes people are harder on you not because they don’t like you, but because they care about you. It’s like tough love. They want to make sure you’re strong enough for whatever’s coming.”
Macaroni agreed. “I know someone like that. My cousin Linda’s dad hated the idea of her joining the fire department. Not because he didn’t believe in her, but because he was scared. Fire’s unpredictable, and he didn’t want to lose her.”
Jack smirked. “Sounds like he was overprotective.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Macaroni replied. “But here’s the twist—he didn’t seem that scared when his sons signed up. It was just Linda he had an issue with. Total hypocrite.”
Mitchell chuckled. “So, I’m guessing Linda proved him wrong?”
“Oh, big time,” Macaroni said with a grin. “She aced the academy and now? She’s one of the best firefighters in the department. Funny how that works, huh?”
Sonata nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. “Yeah, sometimes the people who doubt you the most are the ones who believe in you the hardest. They’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.”
Macaroni continued, a touch of amusement in her voice. “And get this—on Linda’s first day, she was assigned to the firehouse where her dad worked. Now, she accused him of pulling strings, but it turned out her brothers bribed the guy who did the assignments. Still, it was pretty wild. Her first day was insane—the whole station was tangled up in some drama with Battalion 19. Long story short, her dad’s crew ended up on a call in a district that was more suited to industrial fires than house fires, and things went sideways real fast. One of the guys fell through a roof, and it ended badly.”
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “Yikes. Talk about a messed-up first day.”
“Tell me about it,” Macaroni agreed. “And according to Linda, her dad had 38 years on the job and had never seen anything like that. And to make things worse? Firehouse 18—where Linda’s assigned—is more used to factory fires than residential ones.”
Sonata raised an eyebrow. “I bet her dad was a real mess after that.”
“Yeah,” Macaroni said. “But you know what? It taught him something—sometimes, even the most experienced people can’t see everything coming. And sometimes, the ones they think they need to protect are the ones who end up proving they can handle it just fine.”
Macaroni leaned back, a bemused smile crossing her face as she recounted the aftermath of the 19th Battalion Chief’s disastrous order. “So, the Battalion Chief who made the call to send them up onto the roof? Yeah, he got demoted all the way back down to Firefighter. And honestly, can you blame them? He was the one who made that call. You send people up on a roof of a vacant house—well, that’s what I’d call nuclear FUBAR. It’s obvious why, right? Vacant homes aren’t exactly in tip-top shape. The roof’s weak from neglect, the structure’s worn out from lack of maintenance. It was a disaster waiting to happen.”
She shook her head, clearly still amazed by the situation. “And what’s even funnier is that this guy’s mistake didn’t even end up being the worst thing to happen in Linda’s career. After three years of fighting fires and two years doing search and rescue with a truck company, Linda transferred over to a Rescue company. It was 2001 when she made Captain, and you know what happened the first time she was really in charge?”
Sonata raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What?”
Macaroni grinned, clearly enjoying the build-up. “She was told by the chauffeur that their firehouse was on fire.”
“Wait,” Jack interjected, “the firehouse was on fire?”
“Yep,” Macaroni nodded. “So, Linda picks up the radio in the Rescue Squad and radios it in, saying that the firehouse was on fire. But you know what her father says? ‘You realize that, being a firehouse, the last thing you seven want to do is set this place on fire, right? I mean, it should be obvious, but I felt like I should tell you because you’re their officer.’” Macaroni burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Can you imagine? The guy’s been on the job for decades, and he’s gotta remind his daughter of something like that?”
Sonata couldn’t help but smirk. “That’s both hilarious and a little ridiculous.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Macaroni continued, wiping a tear from her eye. “Her dad had to call the commissioner to explain what happened. That’s right—he had to be the one to make the call, not the commissioner calling him. Can you imagine the irony? A firefighter having to call the commissioner to explain why their own damn firehouse was burning down?”
“That’s gotta sting,” Jack said, shaking his head.
“I’ll tell you what,” Macaroni added with a shrug, “it was all over the papers, and according to Dave, it was the most ironic thing you could imagine. The way Linda’s father tried to handle it—like she needed a reminder of how not to burn down a firehouse—it was a headline waiting to happen.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Sonata laughed. “I guess her dad learned that lesson the hard way—don’t take your own firehouse for granted, huh?”
Macaroni grinned and nodded. “Oh yeah. And it’s a story that’ll stick with Linda for the rest of her career. But hey, at least she didn’t end up having to explain it to her dad in front of the whole department, right?”
Sonata, leaning forward, couldn’t help but ask, “So, what exactly caused the fire?”
Macaroni let out a half-laugh, shaking her head. “According to Linda, someone left a pot roast in the oven and just… forgot to turn it off.” She paused, making sure everyone understood the absurdity of it. “Now, I know it sounds like something that could happen to anyone, but when you’re talking about a firehouse with the kind of layout they had—well, it’s a bit more complicated. See, it’s one of those old, narrow houses meant to hold just one company, right? The kitchen is on the other side of a concrete wall, so there’s no easy way to keep an eye on things. And there’s no sprinkler system or anything because the space was just too narrow for that. Only stairs to get up and down, which makes it even more of a nightmare if something goes wrong.”
Sonata’s brow furrowed slightly. “But the stove? It’s not like it’s hard to turn it off, right?”
Macaroni nodded. “Exactly. It only takes about 20 seconds to press ‘stop’ on the stove. It’s not like it’s some complicated thing, but somehow… someone got distracted. And in a place where everyone’s got their own little zone to cover, it just slipped through the cracks.”
Mitchell, clearly interested in the details, piped up, “What call did they go on that day?”
Macaroni’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Ah, you’re gonna love this one. According to the runsheet, they got a call about someone locking themselves out of their apartment. Now, the thing is, a lot of people reported the same issue, and in a city like Empire, the fire department’s dispatch doesn’t exactly take chances when they get a flood of calls like that.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “So what happened?”
“Well, in the city, if dispatch gets enough calls about something that sounds like it could be a bigger problem, they’ll send a Squad or Rescue company to check it out,” Macaroni explained, leaning back in her chair. “But by the time the first due company arrives to investigate, it usually turns out to be something minor—like someone locking themselves out. So by the time they get there, it’s small enough to just send the Squad or Rescue company back to quarters.”
Sonata snorted, not able to help herself. “So, basically, someone overreacted, and you all had to come back for nothing?”
“Exactly,” Macaroni agreed, smiling a little. “People do that a lot in the city—overreact for the sake of safety. It’s understandable, but it does make for some funny situations. And in this case, they told the team to head back to quarters. No real harm done, but it’s always a bit of a letdown when you get all geared up for a job and then it’s just… nothing.”
Mitchell shook his head, laughing. “Sounds like an average day in the life of a firefighter.”
“Pretty much,” Macaroni said with a chuckle. “You never know what you’re gonna get, but more often than not, it’s not the big stuff you expect. It’s usually just… a lot of minor stuff.” She shrugged. “Keeps us on our toes, I guess.”
Macaroni let out a sigh, her expression turning more serious as she continued. “You know, people have this idea of what we do based on movies and TV shows, but it’s not even close to the truth. They make it look like we’re some kind of miracle workers—like we can just charge into a burning building, pull out a half-dead civilian, and make it out just in time before everything goes up in flames. But that’s all Hollywood fantasy. The truth is, we’re a highly trained group of professionals who are always running on fumes. We're understaffed, overworked, and constantly exposed to some of the most dangerous situations out there. It’s a grueling job, and it doesn’t get enough credit for what it really is.”
She paused for a moment, letting the weight of her words sink in. “I’ve seen some of my colleagues burn out faster than you can imagine. People just don’t realize how much it takes to do what we do day in and day out. But the movies? They make it all look easy. You know, like we’ve got some kind of superpower to just handle every situation perfectly. In reality, we're just human—doing our best with the little we have.”
Mitchell, who had been quietly listening, couldn’t help but speak up. “You know what pisses me off more than anything? It’s the way society treats civil servants. They’ll blame us for not solving problems—problems that the rest of society is perfectly happy to ignore—without giving us the resources we need to actually fix them. Cops, firefighters, paramedics… we’re the ones who get called in when everything falls apart, but no one wants to put the real effort into preventing those problems in the first place. It’s like we’re expected to be these superheroes who fix everything in one fell swoop, but they never give us the tools to do the job right. And when we don’t have the magic solution, we’re the ones who get blamed.”
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing with frustration. “We’re out there, doing everything we can, working long hours, dealing with more than we can handle—and then people sit back and wonder why things don’t get fixed overnight. It’s not because we don’t care or don’t try hard enough. It’s because we're constantly working against the clock, with budgets that don’t match the demand, and expectations that are way out of touch with reality.”
Sonata, who had been quiet for a while, nodded thoughtfully. “It’s messed up, isn’t it? The people who are supposed to make things better often get the blame, even when the system itself is broken. They just want quick fixes, but don’t see the bigger picture.”
“Exactly,” Mitchell agreed. “And what’s worse? People take it out on the very people who are there to help. Cops and firefighters get slammed in the media, with no one ever stopping to ask why things went wrong in the first place. Instead, they just want to point fingers. They don’t want to look at the fact that maybe, just maybe, the real issue is bigger than us, and maybe the system needs to change.”
Macaroni let out a soft grunt of agreement. “It’s the same with us. We’re expected to pull off miracles, but no one asks why things are so bad in the first place. It’s a thankless job, but at the end of the day, we just keep going because that’s what we do. Someone has to do it, right?”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling in. It was a truth none of them wanted to face, but it was one they knew all too well. The job wasn’t glamorous—it wasn’t about heroics or shiny medals. It was about dealing with the worst of situations, with the bare minimum, and still somehow trying to make a difference. Even when the odds were stacked against them.
Jack leaned forward, his tone shifting as he spoke with conviction. “Well, that’s where the ‘Good Samaritan’ law comes in, right? It’s there to protect people who step in to help, even if they’re not trained professionals. You know, the kind of folks who, when they see someone in trouble, don’t wait around for a paramedic or a firefighter—they just jump in. It’s meant to shield them from legal repercussions if they screw up or don’t do things exactly by the book. The idea is, if you're trying to help, you shouldn’t have to worry about getting sued or facing jail time because you weren’t a certified expert.”
He paused, glancing around as if to gauge their reactions before continuing. “Because at the end of the day, you’re trying to save someone’s life. And that should count for something. The law’s there to make sure that good intentions don’t get punished, even if the result isn’t perfect.”
Sam, who had been listening intently, let out a frustrated sigh before chiming in. “I heard on the radio last week that a few politicians are actually trying to get rid of that law. It’s insane. They’re talking about how it should only be the responsibility of professionals to intervene, like if you’re not trained, you shouldn’t be allowed to help at all. And, I mean, it’s pure ignorance. They’ve got this idea that you have to be a certified expert to save a life, and they want to remove the protections for people who just do what they can.”
He shook his head, clearly exasperated. “It's like they don't get it. The whole point of the law is that we can't always wait for the professionals to show up—sometimes, we’re the first ones there. What if someone’s choking or bleeding out, and there’s no paramedic in sight? You can't just stand there doing nothing, waiting for someone in uniform to show up. That's not how it works in real life. If you see a person in need, you have to act. But now these politicians want to make it harder for people to do the right thing, and that’s just—well, it's mind-boggling.”
Mitchell, looking both frustrated and concerned, nodded in agreement. “Exactly. The problem is, those same politicians probably don’t understand the pressure we’re under, or how quickly things can spiral out of control. You’ve got a few minutes, maybe less, to make a difference. People’s lives are on the line, and you can’t always wait for someone with a badge to show up. That law was put in place for a reason—to give people the confidence to act, knowing they won’t be punished for trying. But now they want to take that away? It’s messed up.”
Jack glanced over at Mitchell, his expression hardening. “And that’s exactly why those who try to help shouldn’t be left vulnerable to legal attacks. People should be encouraged to do the right thing, not afraid of getting caught up in a legal nightmare just because they didn’t have the right credentials. But, of course, those pushing for the change probably don’t have a clue about the reality on the ground.”
Sam folded his arms, clearly frustrated. “I mean, there’s always been this disconnect between those making the decisions and the people who are actually out there doing the work. Those politicians live in their safe, controlled little worlds, far removed from the actual chaos of everyday life. They can’t even begin to understand what it’s like to be in a situation where someone’s life is in your hands. It’s like they think we can just sit back and wait for everything to be ‘perfect’ before we can help. But life doesn’t work that way.”
Sonata, who had been quietly absorbing the conversation, chimed in thoughtfully. “And isn’t that the problem? They don’t understand the urgency. They’re more focused on liability than on the actual act of saving lives. They don’t see that sometimes, just jumping in and doing something—anything—is better than doing nothing. And yet, they’re trying to make it harder for people to act when they need to.”
Sonata, feeling a growing sense of frustration at the idea, leaned forward and asked, “But why would they even consider getting rid of it? What’s their reasoning for that? It just doesn’t make sense.”
Sam shook his head, a mix of disbelief and irritation crossing his face. “Honestly, I can’t even begin to guess. It doesn’t seem like they have any solid reasoning behind it.”
Mitchell, who had been quietly mulling over the question, let out a short, bitter laugh. “Perception,” he said, his voice tinged with cynicism. “That’s all it really boils down to. People only see what politicians want them to see. They’ve been pushing this narrative that the people who step in to help aren’t really saving anyone—they’re just creating problems, making things worse. The truth is, they focus so much on the small mistakes or mishaps, the things that go wrong, that they lose sight of the bigger picture. The fact that, more often than not, these people are stepping up in critical situations, doing what they can with whatever they’ve got.”
He paused, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “Instead of appreciating the good, they start nitpicking. They see a volunteer who’s not an expert, and suddenly, they’re ‘dangerous’ or ‘unqualified.’ But they ignore all the lives that were saved because someone was willing to act. It’s easier to highlight the mistakes than acknowledge the countless instances where people have stepped in and made a difference. And because of that, they’re starting to erode the protections that were put in place to encourage people to help.”
Sonata looked at Mitchell, her brow furrowed. “So, it’s like they’re so focused on the one thing that went wrong that they forget everything that went right. All the people saved, all the lives changed.”
Mitchell nodded. “Exactly. And it's frustrating because it just feeds into a cycle where the good guys get punished for doing the right thing. It’s like society’s always looking for someone to blame, but they don’t want to recognize the value of people stepping up in the first place. They want things to be clean, controlled, and perfect—and real life doesn’t work that way. People are messy, mistakes happen, but that doesn’t mean you throw out the whole system.”
Macaroni, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, rolled her eyes and scoffed. “You know, when it comes to decision-making, I have more trust in a monkey throwing darts than I do in Congress.”
Her comment hung in the air for a moment before she continued, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re just out of touch. They make decisions based on public opinion and political gain, not based on what actually works in the real world. And if it’s inconvenient, if it doesn’t fit their agenda or their narrative, they’ll just sweep it under the rug. It's all about appearances—making it look like they’re solving a problem, even if they’re only making things worse in the process.”
Sonata chuckled dryly at Macaroni’s bluntness, but the frustration remained palpable in her voice. “It’s like they don’t care about the people on the ground, the ones who are actually making a difference. It’s all about what looks good in the headlines or on a campaign ad.”
Sam leaned back in his chair, looking resigned. “Yeah, and the public buys into it. They see a few bad apples, a few minor screw-ups, and suddenly everyone who tries to help is painted with the same brush. The politicians are more concerned with protecting their image than doing what’s right, and that’s the real problem here.”
Mitchell gave a low sigh, clearly disheartened. “It’s the same story with everything, right? We’re out here, trying to do our best with the little we’ve got, and they’re more concerned about optics than the truth. It’s like they’ve forgotten that we’re talking about people’s lives—real, messy, complicated lives—not some abstract problem to be solved from a boardroom.”
Macaroni, always one to speak her mind, shot a look at the others. “You know what? I’d rather trust a monkey throwing darts with my life than any of these politicians who don’t even know what it’s like to be out here, making real decisions under pressure. At least the monkey’s got a chance of getting something right now and then.”
Cadenza didn’t even hesitate before answering,. “Simple. Politicians don’t understand people who do good just because it’s the right thing to do. It makes them nervous.” She leaned back slightly, folding her arms. “They’re used to people acting in self-interest. Everything they do, everything they legislate, is built on the idea that people are motivated by power, money, or some kind of personal gain. But when you have a whole group of people—firefighters, paramedics, cops, even just regular civilians—who step in to help with no expectation of reward, no ulterior motive, it throws them off. It doesn’t fit into their worldview.”
She glanced around at the others before continuing. “And that’s the thing. There are a lot of people out there who do good simply because it’s right. No paycheck involved, no fame, no political angle—just a gut instinct to help, to protect, to do what needs to be done. Politicians don’t get that. They see it as unpredictable, uncontrollable. They don’t trust what they can’t control.”
She shook her head, her expression a mix of frustration and certainty. “So instead of encouraging it, instead of protecting those people, they start questioning them. They start twisting the narrative, making them seem reckless or naive. Because if people start believing that you don’t need laws or incentives to do the right thing—if people start realizing that basic human decency is stronger than politics—then where does that leave the ones in power?”
Sonata leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. “There are people who do the right thing because they believe in it, and then there are those who are trained to do it for a living. Sometimes those two overlap, but not always.”
Macaroni scoffed, shaking her head. “You should try saying that to the people in Eastside,” she said, referring to the struggling district of the city of Empire. “Over there, they despise the Police Department. And honestly? I can’t blame them. The people in Eastside have learned the hard way that if they want justice, they have to take it into their own hands. The police won’t do it for them.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “It’s not about law and order over there—it’s about wealth.”
She glanced at Mitchell before continuing. “You know how it is. If you live in one of the richer or middle-class parts of the city? The cops will crack down hard on crime. You break into a car in those areas, and the EPD will be on your ass in seconds. But in Eastside?” She let out a bitter chuckle. “You can be getting mugged at knifepoint, call the cops, and they might show up an year or two later—if they bother coming at all.”
Sonata frowned. “So what happens instead?”
Macaroni’s lips curled into a smirk, though there was no humor in it. “Vigilantes. That’s what happens. People in Eastside don’t wait for the cops anymore. They handle things themselves. Someone breaks into a house? The neighbors will track them down before the cops even get the report. Someone assaults a kid? That guy disappears before the police even know his name. They do what the EPD won’t do—because they have to.”
Her expression darkened. “It’s not about being heroes. It’s survival. They know that if they wait for the system to help them, they’ll be waiting forever.”
Macaroni leaned forward, her voice carrying a weight that made the others pause. “You know what people in Eastside would say to that whole ‘family’ talk? They’d tell you, ‘You people speak of family like you know what that word means. But you were born into yours. You never had to go looking for some place to belong.’” She let that sink in for a moment before continuing.
“That’s just how it is over there. A lot of them don’t have the kind of family most people take for granted. Their real family isn’t the one they were born into—it’s the one they built themselves. Their friends, their spouses, the people who stood by them when their own blood turned their backs.” Macaroni exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “You think their parents, their aunts and uncles, their siblings ever accepted them? Hell no. Not when they decided to do something different with their lives.”
She tapped the table for emphasis. “You’ve got kids growing up in city being told, ‘Go be a lawyer, be a doctor, be a therapist, be a corporate drone—get a cushy job with benefits, sit in an office, make good money.’ But what if that’s not what they want? What if they’d rather be out in the real world, doing real work?”
She gestured as if painting a picture. “You ever met a lineman? Not a football lineman, I mean the kind that climbs utility poles, replacing power lines in the dead of night, in the aftermath of a storm? Those guys make more in three days—forty-eight hours of work—than some suit does in a full week of pushing paper. And yet, their families look down on them for it. Like they’re wasting their lives just because they aren’t sitting behind a desk.”
Macaroni’s expression hardened. “That’s why people in Eastside don’t care about blood ties. You’re either with them, or you’re just another person who abandoned them.”
Sonata leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her expression serious. “Linemen are some of the most important workers in society,” she said firmly. “Without them, power wouldn’t get to homes, phone lines wouldn’t work, and entire cities would grind to a halt. Think about it—every time there’s a storm, a natural disaster, or even just routine maintenance, they’re the ones out there, climbing poles, working with high-voltage electricity, fixing what’s broken so the rest of us can live comfortably. But how often do people stop to appreciate that?”
She glanced around the room before continuing. “And it’s not just linemen. There are a lot of people doing jobs that keep society afloat—sanitation workers, truck drivers, plumbers, electricians, EMTs, firefighters, farmers. Hell, even the person stocking shelves at a grocery store is making sure you can get what you need when you walk in. But people take it all for granted. They don’t think about it, because when things are working, nobody notices. It’s only when something stops working that people start asking questions.”
Sonata exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “And the worst part? The people who do notice—the ones in positions of power, the ones who could actually make things better for these workers—half the time, they don’t help. They create more red tape, more regulations that make the job harder, more hoops to jump through. They care more about appearances and politics than actually fixing problems.”
She let out a dry chuckle. “There’s an old saying—‘Red tape punishes altruism.’ And it’s true. Systems that are supposed to protect us, to help us, often end up suffocating the very people trying to do the right thing. A firefighter rushes into a burning building to save someone, but later gets sued because they \broke a window to get in. A doctor performs a life-saving procedure, but gets tied up in legal battles because it wasn’t ‘by the book.’ A lineman works overtime to restore power to a neighborhood, but bureaucracy holds up his paycheck for weeks because of some paperwork error.”
Sonata sighed. “People like to think the system is designed to support those who help. But more often than not, it just makes their lives harder.”
Mitchell scoffed, shaking his head. "That’s how so many businesses operate—doing whatever they can to make their employees’ lives a living hell. Some will dock pay over the smallest infractions, others find ways to nickel and dime their workers at every turn. I’ve heard of companies that charge employees per megawatt for the electricity they use at work—imagine having part of your paycheck deducted just for turning on your computer. And that’s not even the worst of it. Some places charge employees for office supplies, making them pay out of pocket for things as basic as pens and paper. Then there are the companies that charge for parking per hour at their own damn offices, as if workers should be grateful just to have a spot to leave their car while they slave away for eight hours." He let out a bitter laugh. "It’s all about squeezing every last cent out of the people actually doing the work."
Sonata nodded in agreement but shifted the conversation slightly. "That kind of mentality isn’t just in business—it’s everywhere. People have this warped idea of what others owe them. My eldest sister, Nicole Jr., taught me two valuable lessons that have stuck with me my whole life."
She held up one finger. "First, while it’s great to have heroes who inspire you, you should never lose sight of the fact that your hero is just a real person doing a job. Admiring someone is fine, but they don’t owe you anything in return. They don’t owe you perfection, and they sure as hell don’t owe you a place in their personal life. Too many people put their idols on pedestals, only to turn on them the second they realize they’re human."
Then, she raised a second finger. "Second, know your limitations. Know when not to get involved in a situation. It’s natural to want to help in a crisis, but sometimes, if you jump in without understanding what’s going on, you’ll only make things worse. If someone else already has control of the situation, your interference could be more harmful than helpful."
Sonata leaned back slightly. "I’ve seen it happen before—someone rushes in thinking they’re being a hero, only to complicate things or put themselves in danger for no reason. Helping others is important, but there’s a fine line between being helpful and being reckless. The trick is knowing where that line is."
Sonata admitted that during her time in Army Special Forces, she often had to make difficult moral choices—decisions that didn’t always have a clear right or wrong answer, just the best possible option in a bad situation. One particular moment stood out to her, something that had stayed with her ever since.
It happened in Eastern Europe, in a high-rise building, while she and her unit were escorting a high-value VIP. The mission was already tense, the air thick with the kind of anticipation that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. They had intelligence that suggested an enemy sniper might be in the area, watching them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Then came the critical choice.
The VIP—an asset vital to the mission’s success—spotted a sniper rifle hidden beneath a table in the room they were in. Sonata had to decide, and fast. She had two options:
Option A: Let the VIP grab the sniper rifle and potentially fight back if the enemy took a shot.
Option B: Keep the VIP hidden and out of sight, hoping to wait out the threat until her unit could eliminate it.
Some soldiers would have chosen to keep the VIP in cover, playing it safe, following standard protocol. But Sonata wasn’t just any soldier—she was practical, efficient, and willing to bend the rules when necessary. To her, the most valuable thing in that moment wasn’t a rifle, but the person they were there to protect.
She chose Option A.
With barely a moment’s hesitation, she allowed the VIP to retrieve the weapon. To Sonata, the logic was simple: a sniper rifle meant nothing without the right person using it, and a VIP skilled enough to handle the weapon could be an asset rather than a liability. If things went south, the VIP would have the means to defend themselves rather than cowering in a corner, waiting to die.
It was a gamble, but it paid off. Minutes later, the enemy sniper took their shot—but instead of being helpless, the VIP returned fire, neutralizing the threat before anyone on their side could take a hit.
Even now, years later, Sonata wasn’t sure if it had been the right choice in a moral sense. But she was sure that it had been the right choice for the moment, and sometimes, that was all that mattered.
Mitchell pointed out that most people in Sonata’s position would have chosen Option B, keeping the VIP hidden and out of sight rather than letting them arm themselves. He wasn’t saying Sonata had made the wrong choice—just that it wasn’t the conventional one.
Cadenza nodded in agreement, adding that she probably would have gone with Option B as well, though it would depend on the situation. As a member of Fireteam Saber, she had been in plenty of high-stakes combat scenarios, and she knew that sometimes, sticking to protocol saved lives. Most of the time, when her team operated, either she or one of the other three super soldiers carried the Sniper Rifle System 1950 Anti-Material Rifle—a weapon designed to take out high-value targets, penetrate armor, and serve as both a sniper and counter-sniper tool. Their role was clear: eliminate threats before they became a problem.
But even with all that training, even with all the technology and strategy at their disposal, there were no guarantees in combat.
"Sometimes," Cadenza admitted, "making the right choice isn’t easy. And honestly, you don’t always know it’s the right choice until after you’ve made the call. Not every decision we make is going to be the right one. Sometimes, the right call isn’t the popular one, and sometimes, you won’t know if you screwed up until it’s too late."
She spoke from experience. Every soldier had regrets—decisions that haunted them long after the battle was over. She’d made calls that had saved lives, but she’d also made calls that got people killed. That was the reality of combat.
Mitchell gave a short nod, understanding the weight behind her words. It was easy for people on the outside to judge a decision made in the heat of battle, to pick apart what should have been done with the benefit of hindsight. But when you were the one making the call—when lives were on the line and seconds mattered—there was no room for second-guessing. You had to trust your instincts, hope you were right, and live with the consequences.
Macaroni turned to Cadenza, her expression somber. "You sound a lot like me and Mitchell’s grandfather," she said. "He was a Squad Leader in World War II. From North Africa to VE Day, he carried the weight of every decision he ever made. And trust me, they still haunt him."
She leaned back, exhaling slowly, as if recalling memories that weren’t even hers but had been passed down like scars through the family.
"He was just a guy from a small town, but the war didn’t care about that. They made him a leader, and suddenly, he was responsible for a bunch of kids—17 to 20-year-olds, some of whom had lied about their age just to enlist. They wanted to fight. They wanted to prove themselves. And he had to send them to their deaths."
Macaroni shook her head. "He hated it, but what choice did he have? They’d land in some godforsaken place—North Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, then all the way into Germany—and every step of the way, he was making calls that meant life or death."
She rubbed her temple. "He told me once that the worst part wasn’t just the fighting—it was the waiting. You send two guys ahead to scout, and all you can do is wait. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten. And then… nothing. Maybe you hear a rifle crack in the distance. Maybe there’s an explosion. Or maybe it’s just silence. But deep down, you already know."
She swallowed hard, then continued, her voice quieter. "Sometimes, the Afrika Korps got them. Sometimes, it was the Italian Blackshirts. Or maybe the Germans in Sicily and Italy. It didn’t matter who. The result was always the same. He’d have to keep moving forward, leaving those boys behind because there was no time to stop. And if he hesitated, more of his men would die."
Mitchell, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. "I remember him telling me once... 'Command isn’t about making the right choice. It’s about making the best choice you can with the time you have. And then you live with it.'"
Cadenza nodded solemnly. "That’s exactly it. There are no perfect choices in war, just less bad ones."
Macaroni sighed. "Yeah, well, try telling that to the people who sit behind desks and act like they could’ve done it better." She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. "He told me that when VE Day finally came, when the war was over, he felt nothing. No relief. No celebration. Just... exhaustion. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the ones who didn’t make it."
Mitchell stared at the floor. "And he carried those ghosts for the rest of his life."
Cadenza took a deep breath, "That’s war," she said. "Squad leaders, officers… anyone in a position of command—they don’t get the luxury of easy choices. It’s either make a decision that gets a few people killed or hesitate and get a lot more killed. And sometimes, you won’t know which one it is until it’s too late."
She paused for a moment, as if debating whether to continue. Then, with a glance at the others, she pushed forward. "I’ve been there. I’ve seen what happens when the wrong call is made… or when the right call still leads to something horrible."
She exhaled sharply, her eyes dark with memory. "There was a battle I fought in. I won’t name it, but the place still haunts me. We had intel—we were told there weren’t supposed to be any civilians there. That the place had already been evacuated. We planned accordingly. We moved in, expecting resistance but no non-combatants."
Her hands curled into fists. "That intel was wrong."
She shook her head. "I still remember the smell. The air was thick with ash and scorched flesh. The entire battlefield was littered with the charred remains of thousands—soldiers and civilians alike. Flash-fried where they stood. I saw entire families frozen in time, their bodies burned into the last moments of their lives. Some were running, trying to escape. Others were crying, reaching for each other, huddling together in their final moments. Parents shielding their children, lovers holding onto one another, people covering their faces in a futile attempt to escape the fire."
She looked away, jaw tightening. "It was too late when we found out. The damage was already done. The ‘evacuated zone’ was anything but. We only learned the truth afterward, when more intel came in—when it didn’t matter anymore. And the worst part?" Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "It wasn’t even the enemy that did it."
There was a long, heavy silence.
Mitchell clenched his jaw, his expression grim. "That’s the thing about war. The worst mistakes? They don’t always come from malice. Sometimes, they come from just one bad piece of information. One wrong assumption. And people pay for it in blood."
Cadenza nodded. "Exactly. And those decisions? They don’t leave you. You carry them forever."
Macaroni exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Even in the 21st century, with all our technology, all our satellites, all our drones… intel can still be faulty. It can still be wrong. People think that because we live in the digital age, we should have perfect information. That we should be able to see everything, know everything, predict everything." She let out a humorless chuckle. "But that’s bullshit. There’s only so much you can see from above."
She gestured vaguely, as if picturing a battlefield. "You can have the best recon, the most advanced surveillance, but there are still blind spots. People move. Things change. And in war? That gap between what we think we know and what’s actually happening on the ground? That’s where the worst mistakes happen."
Her expression darkened. "And let’s be real—not everyone who stays behind in a warzone is an innocent civilian. Some stay behind because they have nowhere else to go. Others stay because they’re too old, too sick, or too stubborn to leave. But some? Some stay behind because they choose to. Because they’re partisans, insurgents, or militia fighters. You can call them freedom fighters or terrorists, depending on what side you’re on, but they’re there. Armed or not, they’re a part of the war."
She glanced at Cadenza. "So those people you saw? The ones who were caught in the firestorm? They could’ve been innocents caught in the crossfire. Or they could’ve been unarmed fighters, retreating when they realized they were outmatched. There’s no way to know for sure. But when incendiary munitions start raining down, when everything’s burning? It doesn’t matter. It’s already too late."
Macaroni sighed, rubbing her temples. "And the worst part? People back home—the ones who’ve never been in a warzone, who’ve never had to make a decision under fire—they’ll judge you for it. With the benefit of hindsight, sitting in their comfortable homes, they’ll talk about what should’ve been done differently. About how it was a mistake, how it was immoral, how it was preventable. But they weren’t there. They don’t know how fast things happen. How sometimes, you have seconds to decide. And how, no matter what choice you make, it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life."
A firm, authoritative female voice rang out, cutting through the heavy conversation.
"That’s the problem, right then and there. Decisions are made, and those decisions aren’t made lightly."
Immediately, Sonata, Mitchell, Macaroni, Cadenza, Jack, Sam, and Mackenzie Rose snapped to attention, their bodies going rigid with discipline.
Stepping into the dimly lit space was Lieutenant Colonel Midnight Waterson, the commanding officer of the 1st Ranger Battalion—and, more personally, Mitchell and Macaroni’s cousin. Midnight carried herself with the presence of a seasoned leader, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she walked in with the quiet authority that came from years of combat experience.
"At ease," she ordered, and the group relaxed, though they remained attentive. Midnight wasn’t someone you disregarded, even off duty.
"I and my battalion are here to help," she continued, her voice firm. "Doing what the War Department won’t do."
Sonata exhaled, feeling a sense of relief and frustration all at once. She had expected no help—not from the Little Bird War Department, the very institution that had abandoned Julia and her team to die. That betrayal had forced Sonata's hand, pushing her to illegally cross into enemy territory to do what her own government had refused. She had gathered her own team, risking everything because she knew no one else would.
But now, here stood Midnight and the 1st Ranger Battalion, a unit that wouldn’t sit back and let good soldiers be left behind. Sonata wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or enraged at the circumstances that forced their intervention. What mattered now was getting Julia and her people out alive.
She met Midnight’s gaze and nodded. "Then let’s get to work."
Mitchell turned to Sonata, his voice quieter than usual. "You know, when Midnight lost her parents in that car accident... she only really lost her dad. She never cared about losing her mom."
Sonata frowned. "That’s messed up."
Mitchell exhaled. "Yeah, but you gotta understand—Midnight was close with her father. Her mother? Not so much. Her mom was the kind of woman who expected straight A-pluses. An A felt like a B, a B felt like an F, and getting a C? Might as well have been the end of the world."
Sonata winced. "So, no matter what she did, it was never good enough."
Mitchell nodded. "Exactly. And when her parents were on the way to see one of her volleyball games, a truck hydroplaned and smashed into their car. Midnight was waiting for them to show up, thinking maybe—just maybe—this time, her mom would actually be proud of her. But they never made it."
Sonata didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
"After that, she spiraled," Mitchell continued. "She went through a phase of anorexia—more or less, she was starving herself to death. Slowly killing herself, one skipped meal at a time. Losing her dad wrecked her."
"And no one stepped in?" Sonata asked.
Mitchell shook his head. "The extended family did what they could. When her parents died, she was sent to live with a cousin, his wife, and their kids. They weren’t bad people, but imagine this—one day, you have your parents, your life, your school, your team. The next day, you're packing up and being shipped off to some farm in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly, you're walking five miles to school and five miles back. It was a hell of an adjustment."
Sonata crossed her arms. "And yet, she still made it."
Mitchell smirked faintly. "Yeah. Midnight always makes it. She got held back a year—too many fights, too much anger—but the family she lived with didn’t treat her like another version of her mother. They gave her space. Let her work through it. They didn't punish her when she lashed out, they just... tried to be there."
"And then she enlisted," Sonata said, putting the pieces together.
"Right out of high school. 1988." Mitchell confirmed. "Army gave her structure. Gave her purpose. And, most importantly, no one gave a damn about her GPA."
Mitchell leaned back, exhaling. "You gotta put yourself in Midnight’s shoes for a second. One day, you're living in a town where everything is within walking distance—school’s just two blocks away, you pass your neighbors heading to work, you meet up with friends on the way. It's familiar, it's routine."
He paused, then shook his head. "Then, all of a sudden, you're yanked out of that life and dropped somewhere completely different. Now, instead of sidewalks and storefronts, all you see for miles are rows and rows of corn and wheat. Your new reality? Walking five miles just to get to school, and another five miles back. No more familiar faces. No more childhood friends. Just endless fields and a house full of relatives who are practically strangers."
Sonata exhaled through her nose, arms crossed. "That kind of shift would mess anyone up."
Mitchell nodded. "Yeah. And Midnight was already dealing with losing her dad—the only parent she really cared about. That kind of grief doesn’t just sit quietly in the back of your head. It claws at you. Eats at you. So she acted out. Fought anyone who pushed her the wrong way. Almost flunked out of school entirely. The anger she carried could’ve destroyed her."
"But it didn’t," Sonata pointed out.
Mitchell gave a small smirk. "No. Because she found an outlet. The Army gave her something she never had before—a place to put all that rage. Instead of letting it burn her up inside, she channeled it. Discipline. Training. A structured way to fight. And for the first time in her life, no one was breathing down her neck about grades or telling her she wasn't good enough. In the Army, what mattered was what you could do. And Midnight? She could fight."
Midnight gave a small chuckle, shaking her head. "Actually, it was the Marines—not the Army—but same deal." She leaned against the table, her expression distant, as if recalling something long buried. "Boot camp was... interesting. A lot of the guys I trained with had this outdated mindset, like they were still living in a time where women had no place in combat. Let’s just say that after a few training exercises, they learned real quick not to underestimate me."
She smirked slightly, then continued. "The Marines have a lot of traditions, and traditions can be good, but sometimes they hold people back. When I enlisted, it had already been fifty-two years since the 1937 Women’s Integration Act rewrote the old 1710 Integration Act. That original law allowed women to serve in the military, but only in militia squads—basically, they were trained to defend their homes if an invasion ever came. But the '37 revision changed everything. It let women formally train and fight alongside male counterparts, opening the door for real combat roles."
Midnight crossed her arms. "Even so, change doesn’t come easy. By the time I was in boot camp, a lot of the older officers—the ones who had been in the Marines since the late 1930s and '40s—still carried resentment over that change. When the act was revised, there was major pushback from the Marine Corps. While other branches adapted a little quicker, the Little Bird Marines refused to budge until 1940."
She let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, they finally caved, but not without a fight. I’m just glad that by the time I came in, things had gotten better. Was there still resistance? Sure. But those who thought women couldn't hold their own learned fast that we could."
Sonata nodded knowingly. "Yeah, take Sapphire, for example—one of the eight Marine Commando units. When it was first established and trained in 1941, it was an all-female unit. Kind of like how the 21st Airborne Division was back when it was created in ‘38. That division had 16,666 female paratroopers, with only 3,334 men. That’s why it was nicknamed the ‘All-Female Division.’" She tilted her head. "So, how did you even become a Ranger in the first place?"
Midnight smirked slightly. "It was ‘93, and I was approached by an Army officer—"
Sonata immediately cut in with a teasing grin. "Let me guess, he told you to meet him at a café or coffee shop because it's neutral ground? Like every other story?"
Midnight rolled her eyes. "Not quite, smartass. Like I said, it was ‘93. I was an NCO at the time, leading my own fireteam. This Army officer comes up to me and says, ‘Important thing is that we stopped them. This is their high-water mark. Now it’s time to roll them back. Are you ready to help, Master Sergeant?’"
She smirked. "And my response? ‘Hell yes, sir.’"
Midnight leaned back against the table, arms crossed. "Next thing I know, he's offering me a spot in the Rangers. Said I’d be promoted to Captain because of the way I led my squad. Apparently, my leadership style caught some attention—taking risks most officers wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Thing is, the Little Bird Armed Forces actually values officers who are unpredictable. They have this saying: ‘A predictable officer is a defeated officer.’ And it’s true. Hesitation gets people killed."
She shrugged. "So, next thing I know, I’m going through advanced training to become an Army Ranger. And before I knew it, I was both a Captain and officially part of the Rangers."
Sonata replied, "Damn. That’s one hell of a way to get recruited."
Midnight leaned back slightly, crossing her arms. "The Little Bird Army Rangers? All volunteer. Not a single draftee among us." She smirked. "At least that means our officers have a high school diploma and aren’t dumber than a sack of bricks."
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You have no idea how refreshing that was after dealing with my old CO in the Marines. That man was the worst kind of officer—the type who took credit for everyone else’s success and threw people under the bus whenever he screwed up. And when I left the Corps for the Rangers? He was forty-five, had been married and divorced more times than the number of seasons in a 1950s sitcom, and was driving some overpriced car he couldn’t afford because he didn’t understand that vehicles are a depreciating asset."
Midnight scoffed. "And to top it off, he thought he was God’s gift to both women and the Marine Corps."
Sonata chuckled. "Sounds like a real winner."
Midnight rolled her eyes. "Oh, absolutely. But the Rangers? They’re a mixed bag. You’ve got men and women from all sorts of backgrounds—some were regular infantry, some were paratroopers, others, like me, came from the Marines. Hell, we’ve even got a few from the Air Force and Navy. Everyone brings their own unique skill set, and we expand on them in different ways."
She tapped the table. "Rangers and paratroopers, though? They’re pretty similar. Both are trained to drop behind enemy lines, conduct commando-style raids, and are masters of camouflage. The difference is that Rangers are elite commandos, trained to clear out key objectives before the main army even arrives."
Sonata nodded. "Makes sense. More of a surgical strike force than a frontline unit."
Midnight smirked. "But that’s a far cry from what the Rangers used to be. Back in the colonial era—1702 to 1800—they were just scouts and raiders, trained for reconnaissance and small skirmishes. That all changed in World War I. Since then, Rangers have been trained as commandos, specializing in special operations, trench raiding, air assault, guerrilla warfare, long-range penetration, deep surveillance, recondo tactics, combined arms, AirLand battle strategies, shock and awe, psychological operations—you name it."
She leaned back again, a glint of pride in her eyes. "We evolved. We adapted. And we became one of the most lethal forces in the world."
Midnight leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. "Ranger School isn’t just one program—it’s two. The first is the basic acceptance school, which weeds out the ones who don’t have what it takes. I like to compare it to P.E. class back in school, except instead of running laps three days a week, you’re doing 16-hour days for 72 days straight. It’s just nonstop physical and mental punishment."
She smirked. "Out of the 1,400 recruits that start, about 76% drop out. Some can’t handle the physical demands, others break mentally, and a few realize real quick that the Rangers aren’t for them. That leaves maybe 336 moving on to the next phase—the one that really makes or breaks you."
Midnight chuckled, shaking her head. "If you thought grabbing lunch during a severe thunderstorm or taking a shower at 1700 hours got you out of training, you were dead wrong. The instructors didn’t care if it was raining, snowing, or if a tornado was about to rip through camp—you trained. Because out there, in real combat, war doesn’t get postponed like a damn baseball game."
She glanced at Macaroni. "Speaking of meals, I remember once during the second phase of training, we were eating lunch—spaghetti, if you could even call it that."
Macaroni cut in with a smirk. "Don’t you mean 'Army noodles with ketchup'?"
Silence. No one else reacted.
Macaroni huffed, muttering, "No one gets the reference… Uncultured."
Midnight chuckled before continuing. "Anyway, we’re eating in the middle of a severe thunderstorm. Lightning, wind, rain pouring down so hard it felt like someone had a hose aimed at our heads. And just as we’re shoveling this 'Army noodles with ketchup' into our mouths, the instructors come storming in and bark at us to move."
She smirked. "No hesitation. We drop the trays, grab our gear, and we’re running through mud up to our knees, soaking wet, half of us probably still chewing. But that’s the lesson—you don’t get breaks in war. It doesn’t wait for you to be comfortable, so you train under the worst conditions possible to make sure you’re ready."
Sonata nodded. "No rain delays in a firefight."
Midnight pointed at her. "That’s the difference between the ones who make it and the ones who don’t. You adapt, or you break."
Midnight leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as she explained. "Rangers and Special Forces are similar in some ways, but we have some key differences. One of the biggest differences is fire support. If you’re running Special Forces missions like Sonata, calling for artillery or airstrikes is pretty much off the table. You’re operating behind enemy lines, sometimes in places where your government isn’t officially supposed to be. The second you drop a mortar or an artillery shell, plausible deniability is out the window."
She gestured toward Sonata. "Little Bird’s military uses a variety of munitions—60mm, 61mm, 81mm, and 120mm mortars, and artillery ranging from 105mm, 155mm, all the way up to 210mm. But different countries use different calibers. Some rely on 152mm, 160mm, or even 280mm mortars. Others favor artillery rounds like 76mm, 85mm, 107mm, and 203mm. If you’re sneaking around in a country that doesn’t use Little Bird munitions, and you start shelling targets with 155mm artillery, it’s a dead giveaway that your government is involved. That’s why in Special Forces, you either handle threats quietly or you don’t handle them at all."
She tapped her fingers on the table. "Now, Rangers? We’re usually ahead of an advancing army. We have access to fire support, but we’re trained not to rely on it. If we get too comfortable calling in mortar or artillery barrages, we risk two major problems. First, the enemy can return fire with counter-battery strikes. Second, if we’re too far ahead of the main force, we might be outside of the firing range. You don’t want to be in a situation where you expect artillery backup, only to find out you’re too deep in enemy territory for it to reach you."
Midnight looked around at the group, her expression serious. "That’s why Rangers train extensively in direct-action combat, close-quarters battle, and ambush tactics. We clear objectives before the main army arrives. We hit hard, move fast, and disappear before the enemy knows what hit them. Fire support is a tool—not a crutch."
Sonata nodded. "Makes sense. Relying too much on firepower just makes you predictable."
Midnight smirked. "And a predictable soldier is a dead soldier."
Midnight leaned forward, her expression serious. “Another reason we don’t rely too much on fire support? It makes our movements predictable.”
She traced an imaginary battle plan on the table with her finger. “Say we’re ordered to take a hill, and we assault it in waves. If we call for artillery every time before we advance, the enemy can start timing their counterattacks based on the pattern of our barrages. They’ll know there’s a gap between the end of the shelling and the next wave of troops moving in. If they’re smart, they’ll use that window to reposition, reinforce, or even launch a counteroffensive. Suddenly, our artillery isn’t just ineffective—it’s actively helping the enemy prepare for our next move.”
She leaned back, arms crossed. “And then there’s the cost factor. Fire support isn’t cheap. Dropping mortars or calling in an airstrike in the middle of nowhere just to soften up a target that might not even be there? That’s a waste of taxpayer money. The only thing the military gets dirt cheap is bullets. Hell, the military can buy 100,000 match-grade rounds for about $70. You try to buy that same ammo as a civilian, and it’ll run you close to $50,000.”
Midnight shook her head, then continued. “But the really expensive stuff? UAV drones. It costs almost $300 just to start one up, and another $1,000 to keep it in the air for half an hour. That’s just for basic reconnaissance models. If we’re talking about specialized UAVs—the ones armed with guided missiles for taking out high-value targets—then we’re looking at costs in the thousands. Every drone, every missile, every artillery shell has a price tag. And when you’re in the field, you have to decide whether calling for fire support is actually worth it.”
She gave a wry smile. “That’s why Rangers are trained to be self-sufficient. We don’t wait for artillery to do the job for us—we get in, handle the mission, and get out.”
Sonata nodded in agreement, her voice carrying the weight of experience. “In my training, they drilled into us that calling in fire support isn’t just about pushing a button and making things go boom. You have to think about time on target—how long it takes for those rounds to actually hit after you call them in. And the problem? You never know if the enemy is still going to be there when they land.”
She gestured with her hands, illustrating movement. “It doesn’t take long for a foot soldier, a jeep, a truck, or even an armored vehicle to move out of the kill zone. One second, they’re dug in, sitting pretty. The next? They’re gone, and now you’ve wasted an artillery shell, a mortar round, or an airstrike on an empty patch of dirt.”
Her expression hardened. “And humans are unpredictable. You can watch an enemy position for thirty minutes, see no movement, and think, Alright, they’re staying put. But the second you key your radio and call in a strike, suddenly they decide now is the time to pack up and leave. By the time the rounds land, they’re already outside the blast radius, and all you’ve done is make a lot of noise and burn through expensive ordnance.”
Sonata crossed her arms, glancing around at the others. “That’s why in special operations, we don’t just rely on fire support. If you can guarantee the enemy is staying put, sure—bring the rain. But if there’s even a chance they might move, it’s better to get in close and handle it yourself.”
Mitchell nodded knowingly. “That’s just how it is in combat. Whether you’re in a minor skirmish or a full-scale battle, calling in fire support isn’t instant—it takes time. People who’ve never been in a fight think you just radio in, and boom, problem solved. But reality? It doesn’t work that way.”
He glanced at the others, emphasizing his point. “Even if you already have coordinates pre-sighted, it still takes at least fifteen seconds for mortar or artillery shells to hit their target. And that’s assuming the guns are already dialed in. If they’re not? Add another minute or more for adjustments.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Fifteen seconds might not sound like much, but in a fight, that’s plenty of time for someone to pack up and move. A single soldier on foot can sprint out of the blast zone. A truck or armored vehicle? They can be halfway down the damn road by the time the first round lands. And if the rounds are coming from off-map artillery? We’re talking minutes before they even start hitting.”
He sighed, crossing his arms. “That’s why fire support isn’t a magic solution. RTOs and Special Forces guys have to account for this delay and time their requests perfectly. You have to predict where the enemy will be when the shells finally arrive, not where they are when you make the call. And if you get it wrong?” He shrugged. “You just wasted a lot of high-explosive rounds on empty dirt.”
Mitchell then smirked slightly. “That’s why guys like us train to solve problems without fire support. Because in the time it takes to get approval, get the rounds in the air, and actually land them, a good operator can already be up close, handling the situation the old-fashioned way.”
Macaroni furrowed her brow. “What exactly does ‘off-map’ mean?”
Sonata glanced at her, then explained. “It’s a Little Bird military term for ‘outside the area of operations.’ Basically, it means that whatever fire support you’re calling in—artillery, mortars, airstrikes—is coming from a base or battery positioned outside the immediate combat zone. Most of the time, these fire support bases are set up far behind the front lines, well out of enemy reach.”
She gestured vaguely, as if tracing an imaginary map in the air. “That means when you call for support, you’re not getting shells dropped on target within seconds. It takes time. First, the request has to be processed and approved. Then, if it’s artillery, the guns have to be aimed, loaded, and fired. If it’s an airstrike, the pilots have to receive coordinates, get into position, and actually launch the attack. And in the middle of combat?”
Sonata shook her head. “Nobody stays put for long. By the time the rounds actually hit, the enemy could’ve already moved. That’s why timing is everything. Call it in too early, and you might tip them off to run. Call it in too late, and you’re just bombarding an empty field.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s not like in movies where you just yell into a radio and bombs instantly start dropping. Real fire support is a calculated process, and in a fluid battlefield, where everything shifts second by second, that delay can mean the difference between wiping out an enemy squad or just kicking up a bunch of dirt.”
Sonata elaborated on her point, explaining that one of the fundamental reasons Special Forces like hers never relied on fire support was because of the dangers of conformity. She shook her head. “Why bother with tactics? Why even worry about a battle when you can just radio in artillery or call for an airstrike with cluster munitions to wipe everything out? It’s easy to fall into that mindset—to get comfortable with the idea that firepower is the solution to every problem.”
She exhaled sharply, her expression darkening. “But back in the day, my unit and I didn’t have that luxury. More often than not, we were deployed across the border, operating in either neutral or outright hostile countries—places Little Bird wasn’t officially at war with.” She looked around at her team. “And do you know what happens when you start dropping mortars or calling in airstrikes in a country that you’re not supposed to be in in the first place?”
She let the question hang for a moment before answering it herself. “You start an international incident. And if things really go south? You start a war.”
Mitchell nodded in agreement. “That’s the problem with relying on fire support—it’s too easy to get comfortable. You get used to having mortars, artillery, or airstrikes as a safety net, so you start calling them in every time you hit resistance instead of figuring out a way to handle things yourself.” He leaned back slightly, a thoughtful expression on his face.
He then added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s kind of like how people today don’t actually talk anymore. They just watch talk shows. They don’t play games, they just watch game shows.” He shrugged. “It’s the same thing with soldiers who get too reliant on firepower. Instead of learning to adapt, they just wait for someone else to press a button and solve the problem for them.”
Sonata leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Special Forces are the unsung heroes of the military," she said, her voice carrying the weight of countless unseen operations. "But then again, it’s not like the military is going to send a war journalist and a camera crew with us when we’re operating behind enemy lines."
She glanced at the others, letting that sink in before continuing. "Most war journalists embedded with the military stick to frontline units or just stay back at base. They report what they see, but more often than not, the public only gets to see what the politicians want them to see. They see you, and they see destruction. They don’t see the why, just the aftermath."
She tapped the table absentmindedly, as if recalling past missions that never made the headlines. "How you do your job reflects how the public perceives you, but let’s be real—missions like the ones I was on? They’ll never be public."
She straightened up slightly, her expression hardening. "Sabotaging a power plant behind enemy lines to slow down an advancing force? Deploying deep into hostile territory to destroy a prototype aircraft before the enemy can capture and reverse-engineer it? Rescuing key personnel before they fall into the wrong hands?" She shook her head. "Missions like that don’t get press coverage. They don’t make it into history books. But they change the course of wars just the same."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was an underlying bitterness. "People only know what they’re allowed to know. And some things? They stay buried forever."
Sonata exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Ninety-nine percent of my missions?" she said. "They're buried under black ink, stuffed in a classified folder, and thrown into some forgotten archive at the War Department. Probably sitting in a sub-basement somewhere, lost in a sea of after-action reports dating back to the First World War."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering. "But for the branch I was in? Long story short—the truth never comes out. Not to the public, not even to most of the military. Because Special Forces like mine? We go to frightening extremes to do our job, and even greater extremes to keep those jobs buried."
Her expression darkened. "The government isn’t going to stand at a podium and admit that a $1.3 billion prototype stealth aircraft was shot down by the enemy. And they sure as hell won’t admit that we were the ones who destroyed it before it could be recovered." She smirked bitterly. "Nope. Officially, that jet will be ‘lost in an accident’ or ‘destroyed in a crash.’ And the men who pulled the trigger? They don’t exist."
She sat back, her gaze distant. "That’s the reality of it. People think war is all about what they see on the news—troop movements, battle footage, speeches from politicians. But what they don’t see? What they’re not allowed to see? That’s where people like me come in."
Sonata’s tone was grim as she continued. “If we ever took a casualty? The military did everything in its power to erase them. To make it seem like they never even existed. No service record, no obituary, no grieving family getting a folded flag at a funeral. Just… gone.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “There are entire teams of people whose job is to ensure that soldiers killed in Special Forces never existed. That their names were never written down, that their lives were never recorded. Anonymity isn’t just a policy—it’s our entire identity. We are silenced; our native tongue is silence itself.”
She glanced around at the others before continuing. “Our missions will never be publicized, not because they aren't important, but because they require speed, precision, and secrecy. Ninety-nine percent of the time, we were outgunned, outmatched, and outclassed. If we hesitated, we died. If we failed, no one came to save us. And that’s why things like sabotaging an enemy war factory, assassinating a high-ranking officer, or destroying an enemy superweapon project will never get the time of day from politicians or the general public.” She scoffed. “They only acknowledge what they can spin for a speech, not the shadows that keep them safe.”
Mitchell crossed his arms and nodded. “On TV, they’ll gladly show an M2A1 Main Battle Tank firing a 125mm white phosphorus round into an enemy machine gun bunker. They’ll show a tank commander ripping through targets with an M357 Minigun, or a .50 cal heavy machine gun mounted on a jeep mowing down enemy positions in open combat.” He gave a dry chuckle. “But a five-man team slipping behind enemy lines to sabotage an enemy supply depot? That’ll never make the evening news.”
He leaned forward slightly, his expression serious. “People want war to look like a damn action movie—big explosions, tanks rolling down the street, soldiers charging in formation. What they don’t want to think about is the quiet work. The surgical strikes. The decisions made in the dark that save thousands but can never be spoken about.” He glanced at Sonata. “And that’s the reality for people like you.”
Mitchell leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "People don’t realize just how much commando raids shape a war. They do more good than bad—well, depending on which side you're on, of course. But those raids can mean the difference between an easy battle and an absolute bloodbath. Special Forces operations aren’t just about direct combat; they’re about setting the stage, ensuring that when the main forces arrive, the enemy is already crippled.”
He gestured vaguely as he spoke. "Take a power station, for example. Disabling electricity to a base doesn’t just mean the lights go out—it means their surveillance goes dark, their automated defenses shut down, and their comms might get jammed, cutting them off from reinforcements. That kind of sabotage can buy precious hours, even days, for an attacking force. Same goes for an enemy supply depot—blow it up, and suddenly their frontline troops are starving, low on ammo, and forced to retreat or fight at a disadvantage."
Mitchell leaned back, tapping a finger against the table. “And that’s just the start. Special Forces teams don’t just fight; they prepare the battlefield. They plant homing beacons for missile strikes, infiltrate enemy command centers to steal intelligence, and even handle tactical nuclear operations when necessary. We’re talking about assassinating enemy officers before they can rally their forces, sabotaging radar installations to blind their air defenses, or even blowing up bridges and fortifications to stall enemy movements.”
He looked over at Sonata, nodding slightly. “It’s not the flashy kind of war people imagine. It’s not tanks rolling in or artillery pounding away from miles out. It’s five or six people sneaking into an enemy-controlled city, setting explosives in the right places, and slipping away before anyone even knows they were there. And by the time the main battle starts, the enemy is already fighting with one hand tied behind their back.”
Mitchell smirked slightly, shaking his head. “Hell, sometimes Special Forces win wars before they even start. But no one ever hears about it, because their victories are measured in battles that never happen.”
Sonata leaned back, arms crossed, as she recalled her time behind enemy lines in Eastern Europe. “Bridges were always priority targets,” she explained. “Every time we entered an Area of Operation, we’d rig any bridge in sight with explosives. If things went south, we’d blow them to cover our escape. It was simple—no bridge meant the enemy had to take the long way around. And the more bridges we took down, the longer it took them to find another route. That extra time? That’s what let us disappear.”
She glanced at Mitchell before adding, “Honestly, being in Special Forces was better than high school. At least out there, everything made sense. You had clear objectives, a team that had your back, and a purpose. High school? That was a mess. I knew people who stopped taking their meds, and let me tell you, that showed exactly why it’s a bad idea to quit medication cold turkey without a doctor’s supervision. Some of them became a danger to themselves—and others. And the adults? The teachers? They didn’t care. They just ignored it, as if pretending a problem didn’t exist would make it go away.”
She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “But Special Forces? That was stressful in a whole different way. Most of the time, we were deep behind enemy lines with no guaranteed way out. We had to plan our own exfiltration, and let me tell you, improvising an escape route while dodging patrols is not fun.”
Sonata tapped the table. “A few times, we had a predetermined exfil site, but even then, nothing was guaranteed. We had to get creative. Ever heard of false flag operations? We’d use a hostile-marked vehicle as part of the exfil plan—made it look like an enemy transport instead of a friendly extraction. Why? Because if we just took off in a standard evac chopper, we’d have a surface-to-air missile chasing us in seconds. But if the enemy thought they were tracking their own vehicle, they’d waste time, giving us just enough of a window to escape.”
She smirked slightly. “That’s the kind of stuff they never put in the war movies. In the field, it’s not just about firepower. It’s about deception, misdirection, and making sure the enemy has no idea what just happened until you’re already gone.”
Sonata scoffed, shaking her head as she reflected on her past. "You know, people always say the military is hell, but honestly? High school was worse. At least in the military, there were rules that made sense. In high school? It was just corruption, hypocrisy, and outright cruelty."
She leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the table. "I had teachers who sold test answers. Straight up. You had ten bucks? That got you three answers. You had fifty? You could damn near guarantee an A. It wasn’t even subtle—it was just another part of how things worked. If you were poor or actually tried to study? Too bad. You were on your own."
Sonata’s expression darkened. "And the way they treated students? We weren’t people to them. We were just... inconveniences. They didn’t see kids trying to learn—they saw problems they wanted to control. I had teachers who actually advocated for bringing capital punishment in schools. Not just detention, not suspension—I mean full-on capital punishment. They wanted kids beaten like we were living in some dystopian nightmare."
That last part made Midnight do a double take, her eyebrows shooting up. "Wait, what?" she said, stunned. "Are you serious?"
Sonata just nodded. "Dead serious. I remember hearing them talk about it like it was just another school policy discussion. ‘Kids these days have no respect.’ ‘Back in my day, a good beating kept us in line.’ That kind of garbage. Like, are you kidding me? These were the same people who wanted us to respect them, but they didn’t even see us as human."
Midnight shook her head. "That’s... extreme. Even for me."
Sonata chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, well, that was high school. At least in the military, if someone wanted to kick your ass, you usually knew why."
Mitchell raised an eyebrow at Sonata’s words, his expression shifting from disbelief to outright concern. "Wait a second—do those teachers even realize there’s a huge difference between corporal and capital punishment?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulity. "Because one is just about discipline—still messed up, but discipline. The other? That’s literally the death penalty we’re talking about. And if they were seriously advocating for that in a school setting? Those people shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near students. Hell, they shouldn’t be around kids in general."
Sonata let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. "Oh, trust me, Mitchell. They knew. They just didn’t care. If anything, they probably saw the two as interchangeable."
Midnight scoffed. "Jesus. What the hell kind of school did you go to?"
Sonata exhaled through her nose, crossing her arms. "A small-town hellhole called Dilimore High. You ever been to a town where everyone acts like it’s still the 1950s? That was Dilimore. Population of about 2,400, and the way they ran things? It was like they had their own little world, completely cut off from reality."
Mitchell shook his head. "That still doesn’t give them the right to say stuff like that. I mean, yeah, sure, people have the right to free speech, free thought, whatever. But wanting something like that? That goes beyond just having an opinion—that’s straight-up extremist."
Sonata nodded in agreement. "Exactly. And the worst part? Nobody ever really questioned it. It was just one of those things you had to put up with, like it was normal. Looking back, I don’t know how I made it out of there without strangling someone."
Midnight huffed, shaking her head. "Yeah, well, I’d take the military over that any day. At least when someone in the military wants you dead, they have the decency to tell you to your face."
Sonata smirked. "Ain't that the truth."
Macaroni expressed her fondness for the country of Little Bird, emphasizing its unique blend of fashion eras. She noted how the inhabitants' attire seemed reminiscent of the 1950s, while the affluent and preppy individuals appeared to have stepped out of the 1980s. This juxtaposition extended to the vehicles, with many hailing from the '50s and '60s. Macaroni found this mix-mash of elements from the 1940s through the 1980s to be quite charming, contributing to Little Bird's distinctive character.
She elaborated on this observation, pointing out that the fashion, vehicles, and music predominantly reflected styles from the 1940s to the 1960s. However, this nostalgic backdrop was interspersed with everyday technology typically associated with the 1970s and 1980s, such as computers. This created an intriguing blend of the old and the relatively new.
Sonata asked Midnight if she has any other place that they can go start looking for Julia in which Midnight being Midnight she pulled out an manilla folder and slapped it down onto the table and said that back during the war that the Little Bird Military ran drones over the country but never got wind of possible targets and targets ever coming to this country but every place that the drones flew over showed that these places are fortresses only one way in and out unless you’ve learnt to fly