Vignette:Defiance

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Defiance

Somewhere above the Alva-Kodeshia border
August 11th, 1955
T

he last bomber is gone, somewhere in some unnamed valley in the Kesh Alps. It had gone down without a fight; its smoking engines had simply sputtered out, its propellers grinding to a halt as the pockmarked plane slowly teetered towards the earth. He and his squadron arrived too late to save the oil fields that the bombers had been sent to destroy, but this retribution would have to be enough.

Checking the fuel gauges, he has barely enough for the return trip to home base. Inspecting the wings, there are streaks of paint and panels missing from the ten minutes of chaos that spanned his squadron’s successful interception. He knows one of his guns has jammed, leaving him with two autocannons with an unknown amount of ammunition in their belts. He has the right mind to chew out the ground crew for their improper maintenance, and he figures he’ll do it assuming the adrenaline rush still persists by the time he lands.

Craning his neck back, he checks for any damage to his tail section. He can’t see much, but-

There’s a plane behind him.

An enemy plane. A fighter plane. A prop plane.

Shit, had his engine taken a hit?

He jerks the jet plane left, its frame creaking under the sudden stress. He can hear the guns firing on his pursuer and the sound of autocannon rounds pinging off the belly of his jet. For a new design meant to be the pinnacle of Alva’s inherited Goetic technological prowess, it’s about as maneuverable as an entitled noblewoman; she refuses to budge on the smallest of inquiries, and she fights back tooth and manicured nails when it comes to gross adjustments.

He’ll admit she’s a bloody fast creature, but at this rate, speed will be the least of his problems. With how sluggish the controls are, it’ll be impossible to shake the bastard behind him off. Another barrage of cannon fire above his canopy sends him cowering into his seat and his plane down into the treacherous valleys below. Outrunning them won’t be an option now, what with his plane now at the same level as the mountainsides he saw that bomber crash against. For the moment, they’re both trapped in this labyrinth; the enemy fighter as the minotaur to his questionable Theseus.

He pulls left, right, and left, weaving through cliffs and valleys as much as the plane can handle. The radio’s been shot; his cries for help reach nobody. All the while, the bastard behind him won’t let go of his tail, and the wispy trail of aviation fuel leaking from his left wing isn’t a good sign either. The lights on the dash whir on and on, screaming endlessly about oil pressure, oil pressure, oil pressure. His breathing suffers more and more with each back-breaking twist and turn. He can’t take it.

He pulls up, out of the maze of rock and stone. The skies are a pastel blue, and there’s not a cloud to be seen.

His right wing is ripped off at the root with a final rake of cannon fire.


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