"Ten years ago, had I been told that would be working with demons, I would have laughed at my boss so hard I'd be looking for a job clearing out the radiation on the Belkan border."

"Well, the universe has a grim sense of humor. And it loves proving us wrong."

Albert Genette smirked to the Belkan-Osean man sitting at the other side of the table. "Was that a pun?"

"Maybe," he admitted with a smirk. "But you know that saying about a grain of truth."

"No one believed them, but we always knew there was a reason for those stories. And why so many draw names from them." Albert shook his head. "But here we are in the aftermath of the Aurelian-Leasath War, and only now does everyone see just how wrong they were."

"Should we get started?"

Albert looked at the others in the room and nodded. He knew each and every person in the small room, the whole group of a half dozen men and two women. They had for ten years kept secrets from the world. And now, at long last, it was time to share them with the world. He reached for his new recorder at the center of the table and activated it. A holographic display appeared and acknowledged that the recording had started.

"Ten years ago, there was a war. The Circum-Pacific War. Today, it is merely known as the Belkan Conflict. There are many rumors surrounding the nature of this war. Why did it start? How come it ended so quickly? Vincent Harling and Seryozha Nikanor, who at the time were the President of Osea and Prime Minister of Yuktobania, respectively, suddenly reappeared before the world in Oured after months of intense fighting. And they declared an end to the war, then and there."

"But they also asked for their soldiers to now aid a small squadron of fighters rushing towards Sudentor, a city in the now independent South Belka. This squadron remains to this day a mystery to the public. No one knew who they were, or where they came from. All that was known back then and to the public at large today are stories from the battlefields in Yuktobania and Osea. Stories of four black F-14 Tomcats, diving into the fray, completing some objective, and then disappearing just as fast."

"Many skeptics argue that they were simply misidentified by the soldiers, citing a report from Eugene Yeller, who operated in the war as AWACS Thunderhead, and his claims that they appeared and disappeared from radar too quickly in a rather thorough report in regards to one of their missions in Osea."

The others in the room smirked proudly at that before he continued.

"As so some dismiss them as just a battlefield legend, or as a symbol manufactured to end the war drawn from mythology. And this logic is applied to other stories; Galm, Strigon, Garuda, Phoenix, Razgriz… they were all just names of old fairy tale creatures and mythological characters told to children. And, eventually, names given to the fighter squadrons of our day and age. The symbolism was not missed, but was often dismissed as chance."

"And while sometimes it was genuine chance, the theory subscribed to by much of the world at a practical level. But they knew better. These myths of old were always lying in wait, patiently readying themselves for the right people to come. For the right people to listen in the shattered skies of our world as wars continued to erupt. And at the right moment, they pounced, and became part of willing hosts. Hosts who may not have known the full extent of what they had just consented to."

He could see the uncomfortable shift in some of the individuals around him as he took a moment to let the implication hang in the air for the recording.

"Both the Wardog Squadron and Ghosts of Razgriz are an enigma to this day. Many myths of their fate have surfaced in the years since the war ended. Some claim that the Wardogs did indeed die over the Ceres ocean and the Ghosts of Razgriz were nothing more than a coincidence."

"Others believe the shootdown was a ruse for Wardog to become said ghosts, that the entire thing had been staged by members of the OSDF to fight the silent coup d'etat that had happened.

"And then were are an oft-belittled few who maintain that Wardog Squadrons members were traitors while the Ghosts were a black ops unit who only formed afterwards, who stole their reputation for use as a cover."

"And some believe that the Ghosts of Razgriz are an element of the now known supernatural, the slain Wardogs returned to wreak justice on those who murdered them before returning to their rest."

Albert glanced towards the others, who were shaking their heads with various expressions of amusement, exasperation, and eye rolling. They had heard the many theories far too often, and knowing the truth only made them worse as they were dragged into those discussions.

"As all legends go," he continued, "there is a grain of truth in every telling, but having been there myself over the Ceres Ocean, the moment of utter uncertainty, I can attest to what happened." He paused, shivering uncomfortably as the somewhat hazy memories and feelings of fear came back.

"I now sit with members of both Wardog and the Ghosts of Razgriz. And today, as promised years ago by now former President Harling and former Prime Minister Nikanor, the curtain will be lifted. The war that began ten years ago will have all its events disclosed. This is the story of the Ghosts of Razgriz. Of the ace pilots, and the demon within them."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ten Years Ago

September 23rd, 2010

1100 Hours

Cape Landers

"You alright back there?"

"I'm okay," Albert Genette answered as he snapped the battery back into his camera in the cramped confines of the rear seat of the fighter jet he was in. "Just takes a little getting used to."

The pilot chuckled. "Just be glad that's all you have to worry about. If you were a nugget, I'd be drilling you about how to use a heads-up display to put the bullet in someone's fusela-" the pilot stopped and in a heartbeat his tone was angry. "Oi! Aero, loosen up, you trying to kiss the only lady up here?"

"Sorry sir! Just trying to keep her steady in formation, that's all," the trainee answered as he drifted his fighter away as he had held the formation too tightly.

"Save it for the ground. Or better yet, don't, we've got rules about fraternization." The pilot switched off his outbound microphone as another of the instructors began to talk about the workings of Sidewinder missiles. "Sorry," the pilot continued, "but sometimes you just have to yell at a kid."

"It's okay," Albert said. The pilot in front seat was none other than Jack "Heartbreak One" Bartlett, a veteran of the Belkan War who had fought alongside the Demon Lord himself and supposedly had been noted by the pilot for handling himself well. While the older pilot never answered the question and simply said that he had been shot down in the battle over area B7R - the so called 'Round Table' of Belka - the rumor persisted.

And now the veteran was passing on his knowledge, and Albert was there to write about it. He had been sent to Sand Island by his bosses in hopes of telling a story about how the Osean Self Defense Force was doing, and to see just how true President Harling's statements that the military was sufficient to defend Osea and did not need to be expanded to its pre-Belkan War levels to ensure security. And to see just who this fighter pilot was, this ace who was said to be able to take the greenest rookies and turn them into the fiercest of fighter pilots.

Albert was trying to get a look at the seventh jet in the formation with his camera when a loud buzz from Bartlett's radio interrupted him. "Red alert!"

"Oh gimme a break!" Bartlett groaned before he keyed his headset to respond. "Hey, we're babysitting nuggets up here!"

"Sand Island Command to Wardog Squadron, we have leakers crossing the border to Cape Landers, bearing 278 to 304, altitude 7,000. Captain Bartlett, your flight is the only group able to make the intercept in time."

Well that certainly puts a damper on Harling's statement, Albert mused if they were stuck at throwing trainees at unknowns.

"Roger that," Bartlett said. "Okay, Baker, Svenson, you're my trail. All other aircraft, stay low and away from the fight. The three of us will do the intercept."

Which put the three trainers who actually knew how to fly into combat while the trainees - the so-called 'nuggets' in pilot parlance - were out of it.

But, Albert realized as the plane sharply pulled up to change course and his stomach turned inside out, it also put him in the line of fire.

"Don't worry," Bartlett said as if he knew what he was about to ask, "I haven't been shot down since B7R. Not even when playing it light for the nuggets."

That did not reassure him as alarms suddenly screamed to life.

"Missiles! BREAK!" a woman shouted suddenly.

"Shit! The nuggets!" Svenson shouted.

"Angels and de… nuggets, get the hell back to Sand Island ASAP! If you get hit, bail out! THAT'S AN ORDER!" Bartlett screamed as he snapped into a dive and into the dogfight beginning in earnest.

The last thing Albert heard before he passed out was one of the trainees screaming before his voice was cut off with radio static, and Bartlett angrily shouting "Fox Two!"

XXXXXX

1352 Hours

Sand Island - Main Runway

"Sorry 'bout that," Bartlett said as they walked away from the jet, much to Albert's confusion . None of what had happened was his fault. The unidentified aircraft had fired without warning.

In fact, Albert had awoken in the middle of the dogfight, just awake enough to see the old captain doing everything in his power to protect his trainees - one of whom managed to defend herself quite well - as the air battle died down.

But to the far right, Albert also understood why Bartlett was apologizing. As a civilian, he was supposed to be nowhere near a live battle. Particularly a battle where only three jets survived. Bartlett's, of course, but also Svenson's jet which had been shot full of holes, and one of the trainees who had survived the ambush with only minor damage. But Svenson's jet crashed on landing and was still burning as the fire control crews tried to put it out, though Bartlett had called it on impact.

Yet as the last trainee of the day's sortie was tending to her jet, Albert understood what was eating away at Bartlett. He had told them to go low, to stay out of the way. But what he did not know was that the command room's inexperienced crew had misplaced zeros, and that lead the trainees directly into the unknown aircraft while the trainers were unable to respond first with their far higher altitude.

And because of that, eight people were now dead, most of them trainees.

"That pilot in the number seven jet was amazing, though," Albert said to try and guide the Captain towards something to be proud of, "did you see her fight back?"

"I couldn't bear to watch," Bartlett retorted as he paused and turned towards her. "Nagase!" he shouted as he pointed his helmet at her, "You keep flying like that and you'll die real soon!"

"I won't die, sir," she answered, her voice almost a whisper as Albert felt his jaw dropping in shock at Bartlett's cruelty.

"Are you sure?" Bartlett asked in disgust, "you look like you couldn't hurt a fly."

He waved his hand dismissively and walked away, leaving Albert wondering just what Bartlett was thinking. This woman, still in training, had defended herself against an ambush and had shot down one of the jets that was sent to kill her.

Albert's journalistic instinct took over, however, and he raised the camera. The missing spaces that had been filled with training jets just a few hours ago were not in the camera shot, only the single trainee who had survived to rejoin her fellows later that day. The pilot managed to crack a slight smile for the camera.

But even as he took the picture, how pale she looked gnawed away at him.

XXXXXXXX

1402 Hours

Sand Island - Mess Hall

"Hey, Nagase, talk to us! What happened out there?!"

The number twelve trainee pilot nominally, Mason 'Blaze' Lamb had been grounded that day along with the number three pilot, Alvin 'Chopper' Davenport, because of how the two had managed to dislodge their engine intakes during their last landing, and had to sit out the training sortie that day while the mechanics were running redundant tests to make sure the problem was fixed.

When they only saw three jets return, and one of them full of bullet holes belonging to an instructor crashing, they knew something had happened.

"We…" the only surviving trainee paused to swallow before answering. "We were ambushed. Unidentified fighters, and we flew right into them."

"Shit," Chopper said in horror as Mason's eyes went wide. "Who were they?"

"As she said, unidentified," another voice cut in and they turned to see Bartlett walking in angrily. "Don't bother snapping to attention you three," he added before any of them could.

"We got ambushed by a flight of Fulcrums, but who they were we don't know. Look, this is all classified, alright? We've got a briefing in two hours to discuss what happens next, but zip your lips. I've gotta go find that journalist before the colonel skewers him over the camera."

The two men moved to the side to let Bartlett pass. "Why would this be classified?" Mason asked.

Nagase shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that we're the only trainees left."

"Us and that new guy, Grimm. Pops hasn't even finished with him yet." Chopper elaborated. "I… just how? How did this happen? We were literally talking with them just this morning!"

"I don't know, I just don't know!" Nagase shouted as she pushed past them and towards the barracks. Mason moved forward when the other pilot put a hand out.

"Don't."

"Why?" Mason asked incredulously as he looked at the older trainee. "We're supposed to be the same squadron."

"Trust me," Chopper said with an usually serious tone, "when you see a bunch of people die, sometimes you need time alone first."

Mason was still staring towards the barracks as the other pilot moved on to the base's recreation room.

XXXXX

1405 Hours

Sand Island - Crew Quarters

Kei 'Edge' Nagase had not even taken her flight gear off before she had fallen into her bed, staring at the unused bunk above her. She had never been assigned a roommate - Osean regulations still forbid mix-gendered bunking, though only the Air Force obeyed those with regularity. The Army and Navy, with less room to argue with when performing their operations, ignored the regs as much as possible. She was not the only woman on the base, but all the other rooms had been filled, so she was assigned a new one.

But for once, the loneliness was not reassuring. It was no longer a break from being the only female trainee in the squadron and the occasional (usually joking) advances towards her by a bunch of bored out of their skulls pilots with nothing else to do. No longer a place to rest from Bartlett's tough but effective training and the well placed mockery he used to motivate people. And no longer a respite from Colonel Orson Perrault's weight as the rotund base commander liked to run Sand Island like a general from an era where Osean military discipline had decimation on the books.

But walls were never a shield from memories. She could still hear the screams of her fellow trainees as their planes exploded out from under them, as their voices were cut off mid-scream by radio static. The sheer terror racing through her as she desperately tried to apply what she had been taught. The panic in their instructor's voices as they dove in from being out of position.

She looked at the model of the Arkbird lying on the cabinet and smiled faintly. That bird of peace meant to clear out the remains of the asteroid Ulysses from orbit had lead her here. And she had survived to potentially go on towards it.

There was a knock on her door and she slid herself against the wall so she was sitting. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Mason," the man on the other side of the door say.

What does Wardog's resident lamb want? she thought angrily. He was not up there, fighting for his life. He had been sitting here with their talkative git because they had screwed up the previous day. "What is it?"

"I wanted to ask if you were okay. Dumb question, I know, but…."

Despite herself, she had to smirk. Blaze, at least, had a sense of self awareness about his commentary. She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said. Or as fine as I can be, she added silently.

Blaze seemed to pause before answering. "Alright, but if you want to talk me and Chopper are going to be down with Pops to make sure we're ready."

She simply shrugged as she heard his footsteps walk away from the door and she looked down at her hands. There was no blood on them, nor had there been blood on her gloves, but they still felt tight. She still felt her hands squeezing around the trigger that had released a pair of missiles to turn an enemy plane into a twisted heap of screaming metal.

Hands that had killed.

She had joined the military aware of the fact that she may have to go and kill people one day. That was part of the job - the duties - even if she intended to move on from it eventually, unlike pilots such as Bartlett. She knew that joining the military meant a rather likely occurrence of combat. Sure, the cold war between Osea and Yuktobania had been buried with the Belkan War, and the alliance formed in that war ensured that peace would remain in the foreseeable future, but she always knew there was a chance of conflict. Of Osea being asked to commit peacekeepers to an Assembly of Nations effort to combat civil war or to protect refugees from some conflict. She had joined willing to do so.

But today, to want to just kill someone in anger? To just snuff a life out with the flick of a button? She thought back to her home, her family. Her hopes and dreams. And what were those of the pilot she had killed today, those she had extinguished with a fireball at a thousand feet? Did he or she have something they hoped to achieve one day? Or maybe they just wanted to do something mundane like check their e-mail once they got back because they had forgotten to do so before their mission.

She was still thinking about these questions when Captain Bartlett came by to collect her for the debriefing.

XXXXXXXX

1600 Hours

Sand Island - Briefing Room

There were only five chairs filled today, compared to the normally full room. The trainees were scattered around, Bartlett noted as he leaned back in his chair to think about what to say. The two trainees who had been on the ground were sitting together, while the airman that Pops was training was sitting in the back corner trying to avoid everyone else's attention. Edge sat in the front row, looking at him intently, and Bartlett had to fight down guilt.

He was supposed to take these kids and turn them into pilots who could survive up there. And what did he have to show for it? Both of his fellow trainers dead and only four trainees. One of whom didn't even have a plane yet because he was still training with Pops in a Hawk training jet to learn basic maneuvers. And now he was supposed to tell them that they were Osea's first line of defense? Even with the three flying nuggets being his pick of the crop, it was still too soon to bring them out.

Fucking penny pinchers, he thought. Sand Island was a forward outpost. Sure, it was remote, but the whole point of the base originally was to act as a screen against Yuktobania. Then when the Belkan War began, it turned into a trainee station because the Belkans would be unable to reach the area, and thus was safe. When the war ended, no one wanted to station a proper defense squadron there as the situation returned to normal. There was supposedly no need as the rivalry Osea had with Yuktobania never reignited.

Still. He had to lead them. He was the only one left on Sand Island who had been in a war. The only ace amongst them. With a sigh, he pushed himself back upright and leaned forward to look at them.

"I know you won't like this, but we're short on people. Starting tomorrow, you three are going to be sittin' alert with me," he nodded to Edge, Blaze, and Chopper. "Understood?"

"Yes sir!" they all answered.

He nodded and looked to the other man. "You'll be staying on the ground, at least until Pops is finished with you and we get new fighters in. Study hard and take in everything he says, we may need you soon."

The youngest trainee simply nodded as Bartlett continued.

"If we launch, I want you to stay glued to me, alright? I don't care what our bosses say, we are not going to split up for anything." He glanced towards the only woman in the room. "Nagase!" he barked out.

"Sir?" she asked, still dejected from the events earlier that day.

"You'll be flying number two on my wing. Gotta keep an eye on your or who knows what trouble you'll end up in," he said, trying to put some levity in his voice to raise the mood. She was still staring blankly at him as he turned to the other two.

"Chopper, you're still number three, and Blaze? You're on his wing as Wardog Four. Any questions?"

The room remained silent and he knew he had to say something. He could see it in Edge already and if they had another encounter, he was sure he would see it in the others too.

"Look, I know what you're thinking. 'But we're all trainees, we aren't ready yet!' No, you aren't. You're never ready. No man or woman is ready to take the life of another human being. No one. None of you, not me, not the Demon Lord, not Mobius One, not anyone. How you deal with that, though, is up to you. Now then, go to bed early tonight. You'll have a long day tomorrow. Dismissed." He rose and nodded and the pilots began to disperse.

"Nagase!" he called out.

"Sir?" she asked as she turned to leave.

"Look, I'm sorry about earlier today," he said as the others left the room. "You did well defending yourself, but it's going to take more than a lucky break to survive out there, understood?"

"Yes sir," she answered automatically as she turned to face him.

"And about your kill… there is nothing wrong about wanting to kill someone because he or she is trying to kill you or your friends. That's normal. You are by no means a worse person for having killed today. Be concerned when you no longer care who is caught in the crossfire, or when you're willing to burn down your own side for the pay."

She perked up at the remarks, but simply nodded.

"Go on, you're on your own time now."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

End Chapter

Author's Notes:

- So, this is the first part of what I hope to be an interesting AU spin on the story Ace Combat fans know and love. Rather than the urban fantasy of AC5 being happening to fulfill the legend, what if they actually are that legend? Though with fair warning, it will be starting mundane as far as missions go. The supernatural isn't known yet.

- Also, while the premise is "the supernatural exists", I'm not going to handwave insane ammo counts or anything like that. Might have them carry more Gun than usual, but no recharging ammo unless it's a solar powered laser or something. So, things are going to be rescaled as needed.

- I am aware that there were more pilots in the briefing room when Bartlett explains things, but they never showed up again and the story acts like the in-game squadron was all that was present, so I just ran with that..

- And yes, I gave Blaze an embarrassing last name. Well, there's a reason why it's never used, right?