Chapter 2: A Veteran's Burde

Asher:

"Steady, Asher," I muttered tae myself, adjustin' my grip on the control stick. The familiar hum o' the engines beneath me was both comfortin' and exhilaratin'. This was ma element—the sky, the thrill o' the hunt, the dance o' death.

"Asher, ye ready for this?" Captain Fiona McGillis's voice crackled through ma earpiece, a steady anchor in the chaos 'bout tae unfold.

"Ready, Captain," I replied, ma voice steady and confident.

"Good. Let's show these Clockshire dogs what it means tae face the Valorian Airforce."

I could hear our squadron's engines roarin' tae life, the E.S.S. Valiant openin' its massive doors tae unleash us upon our enemies. As I glanced tae ma left, I saw Lieutenant Duncan MacLeod give me a thumbs-up. He was a reliable wingman, despite his occasional cockiness.

"Stay in formation and follow ma lead," I ordered, ma eyes fixed on the horizon.

The mission briefin' had been clear—we were tae strike the Republic's sky ship, R.S.S. Tempest, inflict maximum damage, and retreat before reinforcements could arrive. But there was more tae this mission for me. It was another chance tae prove maself, not just tae ma superiors, but tae ma father.

General Roland Whitlock, ma father, had always wanted a son. Instead, he got me—a daughter who had tae work twice as hard tae earn his approval. Every mission, every battle was a step towards provin' I was worthy of carryin' the Whitlock name.

"All units, prepare for launch," the command came through.

A final deep breath, and then ma fighter was propelled in tae the sky. The world below shrank away, and I was once again in ma element.

"Enemy fighters, twelve o'clock high," MacLeod reported.

"Engage," I commanded, and our squadron surged forward.

The enemy fighters appeared on the horizon, their brass hulls glintin' in the sunlight. As we closed the distance, the battle began in earnest. Gunfire erupted, and the sky was filled with the deadly dance of combat.

I zeroed in on one of the enemy fighters, ma fingers deftly workin' the controls. The enemy pilot was good, but I was better. Ma shots found their mark, and the enemy fighter spiraled out o' control, plummetin' towards the ground.

"Good kill, Whitlock," MacLeod's voice praised.

"No time for compliments," I replied curtly. "There's more where that came from."

And then, amidst the chaos, I saw him. A Republic fighter movin' with a level o' skill that caught ma attention. Our eyes met for a fleetin' moment, and I knew—I was facin' someone worthy o' ma skills.

"Engagin' target," I announced, lockin' onto his fighter.

The enemy pilot, Kelton Kopperfield, as I'd later learn his name, was a formidable opponent. Every move I made, he countered with precision. Our fighters weaved and danced, each maneuver more darin' than the last.

And then, the battle truly began.