"Whew! Finally!" I let out a sigh of relief after stepping out of the cramped bus. I looked around the place we had come to a stop at, and saw many others getting off the other few shuttle buses. "Where are we? I don't recognize this place…" I muttered aloud.

"I'd say it's a safe bet to say we're still in Erusea."

I turned to look for the voice that had said this. My eyes fell upon the man who had sat behind me on the bus, a rowdier, younger man than myself. "Oh really?" I responded sarcastically, "I had no idea, what with that sign saying 'Erusian Military Property' over there." "Chill out man, just kiddin' ya," the other man said, "This is some air base, I don't really know where we are either."

"Great. Just-" My sentence was interrupted when an Erusian official began talking on a megaphone. "Can I have your attention, everyone, please!" he called, "I welcome you to Spire Air Force Base. You men --and women-- are to be trained as pilots here, to serve in Erusea's newest elite squadrons." A murmur ran through the mob of people. They had signed up for a civilian training course! But now they were going to be actual military pilots? Despite having been deceived, the people were overjoyed at hearing this. "We have been studying your past achievements with civilian aircraft and have decided that you fifty are to go on to the next level. Please follow me, if you will," he finished. Five of the pilots turned around and demanded to be returned home. Everyone else, however, was intrigued by the offer, one never heard of anywhere else! And besides, after having been cramped in that bus for hours, why not stretch your legs? They walked through the heavily guarded gates onto a tarmac in front of three tremendous hangars.

"What do they got in there, the demon of Razgriz itself?" It was the young guy again. "That's just a fairy tale, they probably just have cargo planes in there or something," I told him. Then we were cut off again; another man with another megaphone.

"Welcome pilots, to your new temporary home," he said in a rather raspy voice. "Ugh. That'll get annoying," the kid said. Kid, that'll probably be his nickname. The official went on, "We have here a little test, nothing big, that will help us determine which of three squadrons you will be placed in. These squads are the Seraph, Blue Angels, and Red Devils."

"What? Seraph? Angels? What kinda names are those! That sucks, I hope I get in the Devil squad," complained the kid. "What does it matter? If you're any good, then you can make your squad the most feared no matter what its name is," I explained, then, in a whisper, "Look at that ribbon guy from the Continental War."

"IF I'm any good! Gee, thanks, bud." "You're missing the point." "I got the point loud and clear man…"

I shook my head and turned to look at the officials. They were handing out the tests. Kid and I got ours fairly slowly, so I set off working on it immediately… when I noticed the kid looking over my shoulders. "Uh… you don't mind me copying answers do you? I want a familiar face in my squad," he said slowly. "You barely know me. And can't you answer them yourself? What if my answers end up getting me in the Angel squad? Eh?" I jeered at him. He was unmoved, to say the least, and kept right on copying.

You are chasing a bandit when he dives into a canyon to evade you. You:

a) Follow him.

b) Break off and wait for him.

c) Keep your distance, attack from out of the ravine.

"What kinda question is that?" I thought to myself, "I guess I'd follow him. A jet should be able to maneuver well enough in a canyon, right?" I circled 'A.' The kid did the same. "Okay, next question…"

When a battle goes wrong, you:

a)Fight to the last plane!

b)Retreat once there's no other option but to fight to your death.

c)Ensure your allies retreat first, then yours.

"Uh…" The kid was struggling with this one. He turned to me and asked, "Do you think that ensuring your allies retreat first would be angelic?" "What?" "Do you think if I put this answer down, that it'll get me in one of those dumbly named squads?" I just stared at him, so he looked at my answer instead, 'C.' "Aw, c'mon man, I wasn't gonna put that answer!" "Then don't copy me!" I shouted back. Next question…

You are chasing an enemy through a turn. You want to bring him in range of your guns. You:

a) Accelerate.

b) Perform a low speed yo-yo.

c) Just wait…

"Hmm…if you accelerate you'll probably crash right into him! And what exactly is a yo-yo anyway?" I thought. "Guess that means 'C.' This was probably the only answer so far that the kid didn't complain about copying.

A wingman is shot down but ejects. You are low on fuel/ammo, and the chopper to pick him/her up is taking its time, cutting your linger time dangerously low. You:

a) Wait for the chopper to pick him up, running the risk of crashing yourself.

b) Return to base once the chopper is close enough.

c) One of my wingmen shot down! Yeah right!

"I don't think 'C' is too good an answer here… 'A' is probably the best," I muttered. "You're just trying to get me into one of the stupid squads, aren't ya man?" I ignored him. On to the next question…

Your favorite tactic for taking out a bandit:

a) Stiff-arm them!

b) Dogfight it out!

c) They never knew you were there…

I stared at choice 'B' for a few seconds, debating whether or not to choose that answer, since I had no idea what a dogfight was. But pretty soon kid's head started to lean towards my paper, so I ended up circling that letter. Right, next…

You would rather fly:

a) A plane manufactured in your homeland.

b) An exported plane from an ally.

c) An exported plane from a neutral nation.

This one seemed to be based on trust, who would you trust to make your plane? I wasn't one for planes from allies or other nation at all, so I answered 'A.'

Your aircraft's color scheme would be:

a) Something that draws attention.

b) Something that strikes fear into the enemies' hearts!

c) Something less noticeable.

"Hey man, why are you putting 'C?'" Without even looking up I replied, "To make you stop copying." Okay, last question…

Your callsign would be:

a) Terrifying to the enemy!

b) Something that gives hope to any allies.

c) One that is not easily forgotten…

"Seriously, what do they expect outta this?" I pondered. Might as well choose 'B.' It seems like a response that'll get me into one of the Angel squads. That'll piss the kid off. I must have smirked, because the kid noticed. "Gees, not again… whatever, if you want to be a stupid angel dude…" He rolled his eyes and circled 'B' as well.

We handed in our tests. Slowly, everyone finished, and then we all sat and chatted while the officials 'graded' them. I turned to the kid and asked, "Did you copy all my answers on that test?" "Yeah, I said I would, didn't I? Oh, no, I didn't…" "All fifteen answers? I swear kid." "Kid? That's what you're calling me! My name's James Ericks, I'll have you know. I'm 24 years old, hardly a kid." This surprised me; he was only a year younger than me, yet he looked no older than twenty. "Ericks," I repeated, "Okay, so I won't call you kid anymore." "Thanks. And you are?" James asked. "Aaron. Aaron… Thatcher," I lied. Thatcher had been my mother's maiden name, and I wasn't sure why I told him it instead. "Aaron, eh? Well, Aaron, who else do you think is gonna be in our squad? Hopefully that chick over there, she's hot, did you see her?" he rambled on, but I paid no real attention to him. I was looking around at these other pilots, seeing quite the motley crew of people here. Some older than me, a few younger, including James, then, there was another pilot who sat alone. He was watching me, I know it, from the nearest hangar. He was leaning against the wall of it, looking right through me. He didn't seem to notice my eyes returning the stare.

The official stood up again. He began to call out names, and the pilots one by one rose and walked towards the desk, then were sent off to one of the three hangars. Not ten people had gone when James name came up. I heard him muttering "Not Angel. Not Seraph. Devil. Please, Devil, please!" When he came walking back towards a hangar, he stopped by me with a look of disgust. "Thanks bud! Seraph, that's the squad we're in! Good answers man!" He stormed off. They called me eventually, using the name 'Thatcher.' I remembered signing up under that name, but couldn't think of why.

I walked up to the desk. A man sitting there hastily wrote down my name, age, and gender on a piece of paper divided into three columns. My information went into the first one, marked 41st Squadron, which I guess meant the Seraph. Another handed me a metal pin, two wings with the word 'Seraph' and the number '41st' emblazoned on it. So I was right. He told me I was now Seraph 8, and was to go to hangar three. I made my way there, and when I walked in, my eyes met with fifteen brand-spanking new planes, giant ones, maybe 70 feet long or so, with these weird, backwards wings. All were painted light gray and blue. I couldn't help but stare. Fifteen. Fifteen of these aircraft…whatever they were. I spotted Ericks and walked over to him, keeping one eye on those beauties.

"Like 'em? That guy told me they're Su-47, uh, Berkuts, I think," he called, "And we get them. They're ours." He laughed at my expression upon hearing that, and went running down the way, even doing a heel click at one point. "Wonder what the other squads are piloting." I mused aloud when he came skipping back. "No idea. But, I take back what I said, man! No matter what our name is, we most definitely get the best planes!" "It's the plane you two chose yourselves to fly. That's what the test was all about," a civilian pilot said, walking up to us, "I am Captain Jones, but you'll know me better as Seraph 1." We shook hands, and he introduced us to the rest of the squad that was already there. "We are to start training tomorrow," Jones began, "Classes of course, no real piloting…" I again found myself not paying attention. Some other pilots had meandered in, and now I realized that the latest one to be assigned here was the shifty character who had been staring at me earlier. I walked up to him and asked him his name.

"It's Arthur Richardson," he responded, taking his time, "Seraph 10." "Why were you staring at me earlier?" "I was…interested in your discourse with the…other pilot." "Other pilot? Man, no one gives me respect around here…" James had heard him. I was going to accuse Richardson of lying, I could tell he was, but James had interrupted me. Now the two sized each other up, or, rather, Arthur was just blankly stared at Ericks. The tension was broken however, when another pilot accidentally tripped and fell into Ericks, knocking the two of them down. "Hey man! Watch it!" "Sorry, I fell, and, uh, yeah…" This pilot was younger than even Ericks, only twenty or so. I saw that only one other pilot had entered after Brian, before this guy. "So he's Seraph 12?" I thought, "How many are there? Fifteen right? But were they counting on five people leaving?"

Eventually all the pilots, fifteen indeed, had arrived. The last was obviously the youngest, a timid teenager, just barely over the age of eighteen. Another official stood up, introduced himself as the squad adjutant. He said that we were to be lead to our dorms for the night. He then made a speech about what was in store for us.

"You fifteen men (there were, as I noticed, no female pilots in the squad) are to be trained round the clock on this aircraft, the Su-47 Berkut, one of the best air superiority planes in the world today. You will learn the ins, outs, and everything else about it before you ever take to the skies. Then you will receive top training in your field, including maneuvers, G-suppression techniques, and some other more advanced things that a regular flight academy wouldn't teach you. Tomorrow marks the beginning of your jet fighter education. After you graduate the school, you will be trained to your limits in your aircraft by the best aces in the FEAF. By the end of your training here, you will have a natural innate advantage over any other pilots, as you will know the boundaries of your aircraft and yourself better than anyone else knows about himself, even…the ribbon. Keep in mind, this whole affair is top secret, and only you and the men and women of our staff on this base know about it. You are forbidden to speak to anyone about this without clearance. Do I make myself clear?"

A unanimous 'Yes.' The adjutant frowned. "That's 'Yes, sir!' you got it!" "Yes sir!" "Good, that's better, there's hope for you nuggets yet…"

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We were led to our dorms, everyone talking excitedly about the day and what our classes will be like. We were joined by the other pilots for dinner after we memorized our dorm number, and I found out (through Ericks) that the other squads would be flying F-22s and F/A-18s. That, of course, meant nothing to me; I knew nothing about military aircraft, especially not fighters. The Blue Angels, the guys piloting F-18s, seemed to be the happiest of all of us. None of us or any of the Devils could figure out why. Wasn't the F-18 really outdated? All of the people around me seem to believe so, and thus that became my opinion as well. I was wondering how I was going to succeed here with no knowledge in the least when it came to aircraft, and who might be able to teach me.

When I got to my room, everything I had packed for the flight school was there. I was sharing the dorm with Seraph 9. He's a nice guy, no real way to describe him, he just…blends in. That's probably why I didn't notice him when he came into the hangar. He told me that he had served in the Continental War, but only as a cargo pilot. He had been shot down near Comberth Harbor while delivering supplies and was captured and imprisoned by local people. They released him to ISAF detainment when they invaded and captured the area. He said he had never flown for the military since.

I settled into bed that night uneasy, wondering about the Angels' F-18s, the previous war, my new wingmen, my aircraft, my real training, my…

Jet engines roared periodically outside. Jet fighters taking off, none of them coming back or landing. Where were they going?