Chapter 1: The Boy Who Fell from the Sky

“I wasn’t born to fly... I flew because I had nowhere left to fall.”

The Aftermath of the Skies

The MiG was hit.

Smoke trails burst from its wingtip as it spun, trying to escape. But Blue Falcon—calm behind the stick—locks on.

The nose of his ancient F-86 Sabre aligns with precision, six barrels humming.

“Fox-Six…”

The trigger pulls.

BRRRRRRRRRT!!

Dozens of .50 caliber rounds rip through the air. Sparks ignite along the MiG’s fuselage—but it’s not enough. The enemy pilot rolls, jukes, and limps away, leaking smoke but still flying.

“Damn. Lucky bastard.”

Blue Falcon begins to pursue—but the radio crackles urgently.

“Blue Falcon, break off now! Repeat—disengage!”

“But I’ve got him—!”

“This is not your mission, civilian. Return to base immediately!”

He grits his teeth and lets out a breath.

The Sabre banks away, peeling off into the clouds.

Behind him, the MiG vanishes over the horizon—wounded, but alive.

Touchdown

The wheels of the Sabre hiss as they hit the runway. The old bird glides with a smoothness that shouldn’t be possible for something seven decades old.

As Blue Falcon taxis toward the hangar, another aircraft lands behind him—sleek, grey, a Buccaneer. It comes to a rest with the quiet menace of a seasoned hunter.

On the tarmac, security teams swarm, cautious but calm.

From the Buccaneer steps a tall, broad-shouldered man in a worn green flight suit. A steel-grey streak runs through his dark hair. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp.

They call him Geezer—one of Fleetwood’s legendary pilots. Ace of the 4th Wing. War hero. Survivor of a dozen air campaigns during the final days of WWIII.

“Who the hell was flying that Sabre?” he asks, brushing aside a tech crew.

The mechanic, young and clueless, scratches his head.

“Uh… that’s just Kidd. Works part-time with the weather station. He’s like… a high schooler?”

Geezer’s brow twitches.

“A kid?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t even have a license, I think. But he flies better than half the reservists.”

Geezer doesn’t answer.
He walks—no, strides—toward the old hangar.

A Ghost in the Hangar

The Sabre engine is still whirring gently when Geezer enters. The canopy is open, the helmet still sitting on the seat.

Then he sees him.

A boy—fifteen at most—wearing a half-buttoned school uniform over a flight harness, grease on his hands, sweat on his brow. His black hair sticks slightly from under a worn cap.

He’s wiping down the fuselage like it’s a family heirloom.

Geezer blinks, stunned.

“So… you’re the antique pilot.”

Kidd doesn’t even flinch.

“And you’re the guy staring at my plane like it owes you money.”

Geezer chuckles.

“This rust bucket shouldn’t even fly.”

“Tell that to the MiG I smoked.”

The man walks closer, eyes trailing the perfectly-maintained exterior, the nose art—an old pin-up girl painted just beneath the cockpit with the words “Hot Stuff”.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Stole it. Pirate tried to jack some equipment from Tower Alpha a few months ago. Left his plane running. I beat the crap out of him. Took the Sabre. Fixed her up myself.”

“You beat a pirate… at age what, fourteen?”

“Fourteen and a half.”
Kidd flashes a proud smirk.

“Name?”
“Kidd.”
“Real name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Grandpa.”

Geezer chuckles again. He’s starting to like this punk.

“You fly like someone taught you.”

“Taught myself. But my uncle was a pilot—flew F-16s for the UN during the last war.”

“Name?”

“He never told me. But he had a babe painted on the nose. Big red lipstick, heels, smoking a cigar.”

Geezer freezes.

“...That’s not possible.”

Kidd looks at him.

“Yeah. Bit of a perv. Playboy. Said flying was like chasing skirts—dangerous, addictive, and never the same twice.”

“Where is he now?”

Kidd turns serious.

“Dead. Tried to evacuate us on a commercial aircraft during the final strikes. Nuclear blast caught us mid-air. Shockwave hit us hard. We went down near the coast. He didn’t make it. None of them did.”

Geezer steps back, eyes misty.

A name floats through his memory.

Commander Michael ‘Maverick’ Oswald

He salutes silently.

“I knew your uncle.”

Kidd blinks.

“...You serious?”

Geezer nods, turning toward the overgrown memorial outside the hangar—a plank nailed into the earth, faded paint reading “He saved us.”

“He was a pain in the ass. But one hell of a pilot.”

Kidd nods slowly.

“He didn’t want to be a hero. Just wanted to fly.”

“Why do you fly, then?” Geezer asks.

“He said the sky’s peaceful. Even when the world’s burning… the clouds don’t care.”

They stand in silence.

Geezer notices the shelf behind him—full of trophies. Air races. Years apart.

“Yours?”

“Nah. Dad and grandpa’s. Both died in races before I was born. Guess flying runs in the blood.”

Geezer smirks.

“Kid… you’re not a pilot. You’re a damn natural.”

He walks out, keys in hand.

“Keep your wings polished, Kidd. You’re gonna need ’em.”

Whispers of a Legend

As the Buccaneer lifts into the skies, Kidd stares after it, frowning.

He turns to a tech crew.

“Hey, who was that old man?”

The crewman blinks.

“That was Geezer. The Geezer. War hero. Flying ace. Survived Jakarta Siege and the Antarctic Skirmish.”

Kidd whistles.

“Huh. He looked taller on TV.”

Freetown

Later, Kidd walks through the broken remains of what was once Kundasang—now called Freetown, a lively fishing settlement tucked into the surviving slope of the Croker Range.

The sea has taken much of Sabah, but life still clings to the ridges and cliffs.

He heads toward the local school.

Waiting by the gate are his friends—three kids who know nothing about what he did in the sky.

He waves.

Then—

“Hey, flyboy!”

A rough voice.

Three delinquent upperclassmen block the path. One cracks his knuckles.

“Heard you were acting tough again.”

Kidd sighs.

“I just want to go to class.”

The punch comes fast—
He doesn’t dodge.

THWACK!

He stumbles—blood dripping from his lip.

But before the bullies can finish him, a voice cuts the air.

“Back off, losers.”

A girl—short hair, blazer worn like a cape—steps forward. Her foot sweeps out, and the delinquents hit the ground like bowling pins.

She stands over them, arms crossed.

“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t even flinch.”
“Didn’t feel like dodging.”

The girl stares at him, curious.

“You’re weird.”
“Thanks.”

That Night

News spreads: three students hospitalized. The leader mutters about a demon boy with dead eyes.

But Kidd says nothing.

He returns to the hillside ruins—once a resort, now his quiet home. Pictures of a smiling family sit on a dusty shelf. He touches one.

“Hey, I made it through another one.”

A knock.

Old man Bart, a mechanic from Tower Alpha.

“Got another job, kid. Island appeared offshore—volcanic shift. Need scans.”

“Weather or geology?”

“Both. Place might be unstable. Pirates love hiding near thermal vents.”

Kidd nods.

“I’ll go.”

At the hangar, his Sabre waits.

He loads camera equipment, scanning gear—and, quietly, two Sidewinders, 1,000 rounds of cannon ammo, and chaff pods.

He knows the risks.

As the Sabre taxis to the runway, a Fleetwood pilot spots it.

“Whoa... an F-86? Haven’t seen that in years.”

He watches as the plane lifts off—sleek and clean.

“Wait... who's flying that thing?”
“Just a kid.”
“Seriously? Damn. He flies like a ghost.”