The Sky Kid was famous for many a reason. The cozy little bar in the eastern districts of San Salvacion was rumoured to be the oldest public house in the city, and over the years had stayed within the same family and seen little change from the old wood and brick walls with the grey stone floor. It was still supplied by the same old brewery, an age old partnership that had remained strong for just under a century. It was what made the pub a favourite among old regulars and residents of the area.

But what also made it famous was the Continental War of 2004, thirteen years ago. After the occupying Erusean soldiers were kicked out by the Erusean Air Force, the famous Yellow Squadron became the regular customers. The wall vandalised by the excited pilots still remains, a reminder of the damage and hardships under Erusean occupation.

"Why don't you just cover it up or refurbish it?" Was a common question. And the barkeep would always reply "Because it's a piece of history." And so the kill count of each Yellow Squadron pilot remains on the wall with the flight lead Yellow Thirteen on top, Yellow Four just below and Yellow Nine a close third. The only pilot to trump the famous Erusean Ace's impressive record was ISAF's very own legend.

The Sky Kid was currently owned by a woman called Allison Lloris. Twenty nine years of age with long hair the colour of white sand, she polished the dark oak bar clean of evidence from the antics the night before. It was the festive season, snow lined the ground outside and made the bar feel warmer and cozier than ever before. The birds sang their morning songs, and Allison wasn't expecting the streets to stir for a few hours at least. It was peaceful.

The bell above the door jingled unexpectedly, and Allison jumped. She looked up with wide, curious eyes and laid her gaze upon a plain, pretty woman with hair like fire and eyes as blue as the early morning sky outside. The woman was shorter than she was, and had an athletic build outlined by the tight jeans she wore. She wasn't a regular, that much was obvious by the way she stopped to examine the bar, the tables and the kill count on the wall before she made her way to stand opposite her.

As she always did to everyone, Allison greeted her with a smile and bade her good morning. "What can I get for you?"

The woman replied in a clear voice, an accent that Allison recognised as one from the Republic of Amber. "I'm looking for a man named Thomas Lloris."

"He won't be in for about another ten minutes. He usually runs errands in the morning." Allison hid the cleaning cloth under the counter, wiping hands dry on the towel tucked into the drawstrings of her apron. "Can I get you something to drink perhaps? You're welcome to wait until he comes in."

The woman nodded, eyes scanning the handwritten drinks menu on the chalkboard above the bar. "I'll have a hot chocolate, please. And whatever Thomas usually drinks."

Curiosity gripped Allison as she turned obediently to prepare the order. She knew all of her husband's friends, she had met every single one of them, and never had she seen the redheaded woman before. An old acquaintance perhaps? The hot chocolate smelled lovely, and Allison poured the remainder into a mug of her own before she handed the two drinks to the woman. She paid the correct amount of change, and took the drinks into a quiet corner to wait patiently for Thomas to arrive.

And true to Allison's word, her husband pushed open the door ten minutes later with a small gust of icy winter wind following him in after. He didn't notice the woman in the corner, and instead headed straight to the bar with shopping bags in hand to greet his wife with a kiss on the cheek.

"There's someone here to see you." Allison pointed to the corner where the redheaded woman watched the city awaken.

"Who is she?"

"You don't know?" Allison frowned. "She asked for you by name."

Thomas shrugged and left the bags on the counter. He took off his insulated jacket, unneeded inside, the room heated by a crackling wood fire opposite the bar. Running a hand through brown hair dampened by the falling snow, he strode over to the table in the corner and the woman looked up as he approached.

"Good morning." He said politely, careful not to let the chair squeal against the floor as he took a seat opposite her. "You asked for me?"

"Good morning, Thomas." The woman pushed a cup of black coffee gently across the table to rest in front Thomas, the warm aromas of the Aurelian coffee teasing his nose. "I'm Major Elizabeth Skyra of the IUN Peacekeeping Force."

"What can I do for you, Major?" Thomas took a sip of the coffee, the strong but smooth liquid warming his stomach. Well made, as it always was when Allison made it.

"Please, call me Elizabeth." Elizabeth smiled and offered a pale hand across the table for a handshake, and Thomas did the same. Her hands were slim, and hard skin bordered where long fingers and palm met. A contrast with Allison's soft hands.

"Have we met before?" Thomas asked.

"Not exactly." Elizabeth rested her arms on the table, elbows tucked into her body as she leaned forward in her seat. She paused, licking dry lips before she spoke again in her clear but quiet voice. "Years ago after the war, I found a letter. There was no name, but their letter was a story."

Her eyes watched as her fingers danced about each other, one rubbing the unpainted nail on her thumb. A nail biter, Thomas noticed. The ragged nails and chewed skin was obvious. Elizabeth almost seemed nervous, her eyes stared blankly at his coffee cup.

"The story was about a boy, who lived in San Salvacion during the Erusean occupation." She continued, eyes never raising nor fingers stopping their weaving. "He was forced to move here with his uncle, after his parents were killed during the initial Erusean advance."

Thomas said nothing, sipping his coffee once more. The warmness of the room combined with the heat from the coffee cup sent painful shivers through his fingers, once made numb by the outside air.

"He spent a lot of time in this very bar, playing the harmonica for the Erusean soldiers that came here every night until they were kicked out by the Air Force." Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to the faded kill count, next to which hung a framed newspaper page. The same one Yellow Thirteen had pinned up thirteen years ago about the lone ISAF pilot that had destroyed Stonehenge. "The Yellow Squadron. They took him in, he befriended the pilots and crew of the squadron."

This time it was Thomas' turn to lean forward. "I'm curious, what did you all think of the Yellow Squadron?"

Elizabeth smiled. "They kicked our asses during the early months of the war. We sure feared them, they became an ISAF pilot's nightmare. But reading the letter I realised that actually they weren't too different from ourselves. Not the monsters we made them out to be."

With both hands, Elizabeth brought the mug to her pale lips and drank slowly. Thomas did the same. The coffee was cool enough to drink comfortably, the perfect temperature. The pilot set her mug down and using a napkin, wiped her mouth.

"The boy went on to describe how the squadron felt after Yellow Four was killed. That I could relate to, it was a feeling all ISAF personnel felt. But it was only afterwards, once the war had ended, I realised it was a feeling everyone involved, on both sides and those caught in the middle, would have experienced." Her eyes wandered again from Thomas, this time inspecting a robin that had landed on the snow-covered tables outside.

"That's the thing about war. It leaves its mark everywhere. When you're in it, you get tunnel vision. You only see your side of the story, only feel the losses you're taking. You almost forget that on the other side, they're feeling the same as we are."

There was silence. The two of them sat quietly as they pondered the words Elizabeth had spoken. Long enough for their drinks to go cold, and for Allison to collect the forgotten cups from their table with a polite smile.

"So is it true that Mobius Squadron had only one pilot?" Thomas asked. It was a question that had been burning at him for years. Internet searches had never confirmed the existence of more than one Mobius pilot until the assault on Megalith. But surely, he thought, there must have been more?

Again, that little smile. "Perhaps. A lot of history is written by those who win the war. The Eruseans had made up these stories of one pilot with a ribbon who single handedly turned the tide of battle. The Belkans too, there are many tales of the Demon Lord who could wipe out entire armies on his own. And everyone knows the tale of the Razgriz. Every story has its legend."

"And Mobius One was the Usean War's legend." He concluded.

"As was Yellow Thirteen. One war, two legends."

"That letter you have. Have you ever found the one who wrote it?"

Elizabeth looked up to meet his curious gaze. "I've searched for years, but I've never been able to find him." She reached into her pocket, and from within took out a battered envelope and a circular blue patch. "But if you do, maybe you'll have more luck, would you perhaps give these to him?"

Thomas took the envelope. A letter fell out, and he immediately recognised the handwriting. It was the story Elizabeth had been talking about, written all those years ago. "I shall." He reached into his own pocket, drawing out a leather wallet. Inside was a simple handkerchief, white with delicate embroidery. "And if you should ever meet this Mobius One, would you give this to them? I think they'll understand."

Elizabeth took it, her thumbs rubbing the cloth. "I'm sure they will."

Both of them stood, the chairs rubbing the stone floor to shatter the quiet peacefulness for a second. Thomas showed the woman to the door as she collected her jacket, the cold air rushing in to fight the warm fire. Once outside Elizabeth turned, both Mobius One and the Storyteller Boy shared a long knowing look at one another.

"Goodbye, Thomas."

Thomas smiled.

"Goodbye, Elizabeth."