Chapter Text
There was something dangerous in his eyes. Besides being known as Harling’s murderer, those eyes glimmered with a golden tint holding the truth that their owner has killed dozens by now. And as much as he's inflated his own kill streak, there was not a shadow of a doubt in Count's mind that Trigger had already tripled it. Guy was a crazed lunatic in the air. His eyes said as much.
"Do you wanna get on my nerves? Stop staring at me!" Count pointed over at Trigger—the rag he held thrown into the sudsy bucket on the ground.
Trigger, as usual, said nothing and merely went back to cleaning his own jet. Count clicked his tongue in annoyance. His time in the penal unit already sucked. He didn’t need the eyes of a murderer watching him every so often either. Was it fair to keep calling Trigger a murderer when every one of the Spares has at least attempted to kill someone in the air? Hell, Count inflated his kills just to sound like he was the best of them. Trigger definitely surpassed his count by a landslide. No questions about that. But still; he killed Harling. Straight out of the blue sky.
Of course, Trigger’s attorney claimed it was an accident, but with all the witnesses of Mage squadron Trigger’s innocence went down the drain. And now he was here. Showing up everyone yet keeping up the habit of pissing off both Bandog and McKinsey. Him surviving his first sortie as a Spare was hilarious if only for the amount of money Bandog lost. Still, Count wanted nothing to do with murderers. He was there as a criminal, but he did something miniscule compared to killing the former president. Three sin lines was too much for his small group. Hell, he didn’t like Champ’s two lines either, but they were all stuck together. Just a ragtag bunch of criminals forced to fly as decoys.
The longer he worked with Spare, the more Count missed his old squadron. Back when he was known as Wildcat 3. His squad leader wasn’t that bad, but what he missed most was the praise he’d gotten from his other squadmates. Ever since he started this career he’s gotten nothing but praise from others. What could he say? He was a natural fighter. A real ace. At least that’s what everyone thought of him until the hammer was brought down. So what if he faked documents about him being from a noble family? He was still good at his job! Too bad the law didn’t think that way and threw him behind bars until his ability to fly was needed.
As bait! He was stuck with no weapons and a makeshift mothballed Su-33 Flanker-D that at least ran pretty smooth. He tried thanking the Scrap Queen for it’s easy handling but all he got was an eyeroll. She definitely thought he was being facetious, but it was easier to make her think that way instead of changing her opinion. At first the only ones making the rounds in the sky were him, Full Band, and Tabloid, but once the war started getting closer his team expanded. And he couldn’t stand the majority of them. None of them listened to his commands despite him being Spare 2. He should be in charge! After all he was the one who directed them back to base after Spare 1 was decimated by a missile. Bandog didn’t care at all, of course, so it fell to Count to finally convince Bandog to let them land after scaring off the bandit.
Now the the world's biggest dumbass murderer joined them and absolutely decimated all expectations anyone had for him. He immediately got praise for saving the base while Count was left in the contrails. It—for lack of a better word—pissed him off. Like, yeah, he lied about his actual headcount for that sortie, but still! He wasn’t just chopped liver like the rest of Spare. He knew what he was doing and to put it quite simply he was just avoiding dying for this base. He didn’t care about the rest of Spare besides Full Band and Tabloid. And he definitely didn’t care for the higher ups who threw him behind bars. Why should he risk his life for them when they could get bombed, die, and then he could fly off in peace? It just pissed him off.
He inspected his jet. A nice blue color that worked well in the sky. Perfect for being on the ocean. On a carrier craft like it used to be until it was trashed and thrown here. At least the Scrap Queen made it usable again. Count slid his hand against the plating. Warm from the nagging rays of the sun that bore down on Zapland. Except for the single white line on the tail, it’d look perfect. He sighed and looked up to see what the others were doing. Yesterday, they were all put in solitary but seeing as that they were needed they were sent to do basic cleaning on their jets. Full Band had a sliver of grease on his chin he busied himself with wiping off. Tabloid appeared to have either been finished or just lazing about as he sat on a nearby crate. High Roller was nowhere to be seen. Probably making a bet with someone. And Champ was arguing with the Scrap Queen over something. Count wanted nothing to do with that and so he kept to himself.
Or he would’ve had he not noticed Trigger’s eyes bearing into him again. At first he was perplexed. Did he have something on his face? He looked in the shine of his jet. Nothing. His clothes were dirty, but that was expected. The curiosity annoyed him. Perhaps the heat of the sun also had a play on his mood, but before he knew it he was stomping over to Trigger.
“Do you have a problem with me or something?!” He shouted. Trigger’s eyes gave nothing away to how the newest member of Spare was feeling or thinking. Instead he just watched silently as Count got closer. From their respective locations the others’ heads perked up. Hungry for the smell of a fight.
“Huh not going to say anything? Just going to keep staring? Well, get a good of a glimpse as you can, murderer!” Count’s arms were spread wide open and he did a slow 360°. When his face was back to Trigger’s the rage grew at how disinterested he seemed to be. Feeling red, Count got closer to Trigger until their chests were nearly touching. The thought that Trigger was slightly taller than him passed through Count’s mind and fueled the burning anger he felt for the newbie.
“C’mon say something! We all know you’re not a mute!”
The rag that Trigger held fell to the ground and right as it hit it, Count’s hand fisted into Trigger’s flight suit. Trigger frowned at the bunching of his clothing and his mouth fell open.
“Let him go, Count!” Bandog’s voice sliced through the tension. Around them the sound of gun safeties coming undone alerted the two to the guards that surrounded them. Of course they’d appear now, Count complained to himself.
“Tch!” He let go of Trigger and held his arms up. “I wasn’t going to hit him. I don’t want to be murdered y’know.” A guard stepped in between the two criminals and led them away from one another. Bandog sided himself near Count.
“You need to cool it and I know just the place for it,” he sneered.
“If it’s not a nice beach away from here, I don’t want it.”
“Aw, but it’s something better for a crook like you.” Count rolled his eyes ready for Bandog’s favorite word.
“Solitary!”