Don't like ads? PRO users don't see any ads ;-)

WW1 Ace Anon: CH1

By: WiseWisp on Apr 8th, 2013 | syntax: None | size: 18.10 KB | hits: 74 | expires: Never

download | raw | embed | report abuse | print

Text below is selected. Please press Ctrl+C to copy to your clipboard. (⌘+C on Mac)

-Northwest of France, August, 1917-
Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bg92QpjRcJk
>You are Anonymous, pilot within squadron 29 of the Royal Flying Corps.
>Two thousand meters or so below you, men die by the dozens, maimed and blown apart by artillery, gunned down by rifle and machine gun fire, burnt by flamethrowers, poisoned by gas or immobilized by razor wire until they are bayoneted or bled to death.
>There are several small victories, here and there, where tanks assist the infantry in capturing critical trench sections or where the combined firepower of mortars and cannons cover French and British soldiers against the worst of enemy fire.
>Elsewhere, it’s just a senseless massacre.
>And as below, so above.
>You make your reliable Sopwith biplane take a sharp turn to the right and exit the cloud bank you were hiding in, before nose-diving at maximum speed towards the ground. Few hundred meters closer to the ground, your colleague Ralph is playing a deadly game with two Fokker triplanes, luring them into a false sense of security by zigzagging erratically, climbing and dropping like a rookie in his first flight and only using his true skill when dodging oncoming volleys of German gunfire.
>And looks like Ralph has managed to get a good one. If your eyes don’t fool you that bright yellow-painted Fokker on the right, with a four winged skull displayed along the Iron Cross on its side, belongs to an old acquaintance of yours.
>Namenlos.
>Former member of Richthofen Flying Circus and one of the most despicable enemy pilots of this Great War.
>Every pilot in the Front knew about him, or had heard about him.
>Just like the Red Baron, but unlike him, Namenlos wasn’t admired.
>He was hated and despised, even by his fellow Germans.
>Where the Red Baron was considered a paradigm of chivalry and honor, respected by friends and enemies alike, Namenlos was all the opposite.
>Namenlos was known for blowing up gas tanks from his own army, just to create diversions that could slightly increase his chance to score more victories in battle.
>The guy didn’t really care about what he did.
>All he cared was about the rules.
>HIS rules, of which number one was: “Germany MUST win the war”
>It’s not that you didn’t understand him. Everyone wanted their side to win, but Namenlos’ point of view about was too rigid.
>Since his expulsion from his too controlling, cold and strict behavior (you don’t want to know what’s he like in person if the Germans consider him “strict and cold”), you heard, from what British Intel can tell, that he’s been acting low, not really being the pilot he was anymore.
>The fact that he has let himself fall in this trap is proof enough of that.
>Namenlos and his pal on their triplanes seem content with their tag game with Ralph and don’t do a thing to outmaneuver your buddy as you approach.
>The trap is well set and now it’s time to make the most of it.
>You smile wildly before nose-diving and lining yourself with the left triplane.
>Then one of them begins to make a bank to the left. Perhaps he has seen your silhouette outlined against the sun and tries to get away from the imminent attack.
>By then, it’s already too late for him.
>You press the firing switch and two Vickers machine guns unleash hell on the triplane. Pieces of fuselage are blown away by the unrelenting rain of steel, and reddish puffs can be seen when several bullets hit the pilot, one of them blowing an eye out of its socket. The plane begins to drift and soon sinks under the dense clouds below.
>You go past the enemy and continue with your dive, hoping that Namenlos will pursuit. Will he fall straight into this trap too?
>You’re not disappointed when the rattle of machine gun fire behind your tail answers your silent question. You turn and climb steadily to avoid being hit and dozens of bullets sizzle through the air, barely missing your left wings.
>Looks like that boche, as the French say, can still aim fairly well.
>He seems eager to avenge his fallen comrade. So eager he doesn’t see Ralph turning and coming for him until he has some new holes pierced through his wings and cockpit fuselage.
>Realizing his mistake, Namenlos takes a sharp turn and climbs, hoping to do a roll and lose Ralph before he can hit him again.
>But Ralph doesn’t relent and follows him before unleashing a second burst. The Fokker trembles under the onslaught and its engine bursts into flames that quickly engulf the cockpit.
>You turn your head to see Namenlos’ plane plummeting from the sky, leaving a dense trail of smoke behind.
>Glorious.
>You slow down and soon Ralph catches up with you. You wave to your friend. He doesn’t return your smile and instead points at his engine.
>Faint trails of fuel are leaking from several of the outer junctions. Looks like one of those Fokker did his deed when firing at him.
>Well, being the bait in this kind of maneuvers has its risks. Ralph is fortunate enough those bullets went through the engine, and not through his brains.
>You signal for him to turn to Saint-Omer and he quickly agrees.
>You turn around and begin the short way back to the current Corps base. At one point of the journey, when you are checking the direction taken with your compass, you see the hand of the instrument spinning up and down. The strange maladjustment lasts a few seconds before the instrument settles down.
>You shrugh and give it no more thought.
>The two of your fly for a time, staying inside cloud banks whenever you can to avoid any unfortunate encounters with German Air Forces.
>Eventually, Ralph and you stop doing that, as the sounds of battle begin to vanish behind you.
>Being now in friendly territory, you assume it’s safe to fly closer to the ground and the two of you begin to drop steadily.
>It’s not like your own army is going to shoot you down, is it?
>That’s why you’re surprised when hell is unleashed around you.
>The sound of artillery shots, something approaching from below and then an arch of fire clouds sets the sky to your right ablaze, its flaming forms forming a somewhat familiar ringed pattern.
>Both Ralph and you begin making evasive maneuvers. Almost instantly, another volley of anti-aircraft fire almost blinds you, this time the explosions getting closer than before, also in the same pattern, bursting quickly as if they were fired by the same cannon.
>What the hell?
>Are the people of the base insane? Firing at their own planes?
>Then you remember where you have seen those explosions. The only army that uses that kind of rapid-firing cannon is...no, it’s not possible, you checked your compass; this should be France you’re flying over, but instead…
>You just crossed the Western frontline into the Germans’ side.
>The realization hits you as another volley makes its way through the air and one of the projectiles ends up hitting Ralph, blowing up the frontal section of his plane in a sea of fire. With horror, you see your dead comrade plummet from the sky, trail of smoke and all, just like that German pilot from ten minutes before.
>It never ceases to horrify, and fascinate you, how quickly lives are wasted and taken away in this war.
>But this isn’t the time to get philosophical.
>As you climb and begin rolling and maneuvering to avoid more oncoming fire, you check the instrument panel of your cockpit, only to find that, all of a sudden, none of the instruments seems to work.
>The altimeter is dropping fast despite you’re pretty sure that, right now, you’re ascending at a quick pace. The hands of both the speedometer and the clock go back and forth, as though the gears and internal mechanisms have just disarranged all by themselves.
>As for the compass, the bloody thing is spinning madly like before, again incapable of locating the north.
>You don’t have much time to wonder what in the world is happening, however, as the sky lights up all around you again.
>A sudden burst of fire deafens you with its roar, its light blinding you and making you lose all control over the plane.
>The last thing you feel, before losing all conscience, are the flames dancing on your exposed skin.
>Well, at least you die knowing that no one will ever see that Namenlos bastard again.
>You wake up, god knows how much time after the bombs hit you…
>Are you dead? You could be, yes.
>But dead people aren’t supposed to feel exhausted and sick. Those are things reserved to the living, right? To those who still have a body to call their own.
>Also, dead people aren’t supposed to hear the wind sizzling wildly around them and the sound of a too-familiar engine, or feel themselves tied up to a seat, or feel their stomachs drop as they fall…
>As they fall?!
>You open your eyes to discover that you are very much alive inside your cockpit, diving through dense clouds at neck-breaking speed, your body unscathed despite you remembering very vividly the explosions of anti-aircraft artillery.
>The questions you might have are all cut off as you exit the cloud bank and find yourself dropping vertically towards the ground, vast expanses and forests rising rapidly to crush you.
>You immediately grasp the flywheel and begin to pull with both hands, desperately trying to level the airplane and stabilize it.
>It’s a slow process and, for the worst seven seconds of your life, you feel it’s hopeless and that, no matter how great your efforts, you’ll end up dead, flattened or scattered all around when your plane crashes.
>It is with great relief and some whitened knuckles that you manage to pull the wheel closer to you, inch by inch, until the planes stabilizes and begins climbing, barely a few hundred meters above the ground.
>When you are safe from certain death, you check your instruments. The altimeter seems to work fine now, just like the speedometer and the clock. The compass, however, still gives you some trouble, the hand rotating and spinning like there’s no tomorrow. You tap the glass, annoyed, but it does nothing to deter its chaotic dance.
>You sigh and shrugh before taking a view of your surroundings, looking out of your cockpit to the earth below.
>What you see is shocking, to say the less.
>This doesn’t look like the Western Front at all. The scenery is similar enough, yes…you are familiar with fields and hills, with deep forests and meadows, but you don’t remember them as being covered in snow. You even see a few frozen lakes and rivers here and there.
>The skies are shrouded in grey storm clouds and a strong wind is constantly beating against your plane fuselage, forcing you to twist the flywheel a bit to correct the deviation this light gale is causing.
>After noticing all of this, you, of course, begin flipping out.
>It is still August, right?! How could this be? Even if you were in eastern Belgium, the climate should be similar enough to that of France…there’s no way it can be snowing at this time of the year.
>And when you take your gaze to the horizon, you feel your heart sink in your chest.
>Several high mountains you don’t remember seeing in any previous flights or being mentioned in any chart loom over this land, all of them covered in the same white snow.
>The highest of them have their peaks concealed by a bank of pitch black clouds that roll like a hurricane, thunder and lightning bellowing and flashing menacingly in its innards. Something inside of you cringes at the distant sight.
>You don’t like that one bit, so you turn your attention to the other side.
>More clouds and gale, but no threatening-looking mountains or black hurricanes.
>You take that as a good sign and begin making your way in that direction, hoping you find something…or someone, that can help you indicate your way back to Saint-Omer.
>20 minutes later, you’re still lost as you continue to navigate over this impossible winter land. The fuel gauge is low by now. You probably have forty minutes or so more of range before you are forced to land.
>You slow down you airplane to save some fuel and gain some more time before entering in the densest, biggest and whitest cloud bank you’ve seen so far.
>It’s intimidating; to say the least, but at this point you can hardly care about that.
>The mass of cooled and condensed vapor parts aside with ease, just like the others, allowing a swift entry to your Sopwith.
>Just what the hell is going on?! Winter out of nowhere? You surviving an almost assured death? Something ain’t right here.
>And when the plane makes its way through the cloud, you are awarded with a vision that only helps your shock and amazement to grow more and more.
>For a moment, you consider the possibility that you’re dead. It could be. This looks much like heaven, says the part of your mind that remembers the lessons from Sunday mass.
>Several fair beings, winged-beings, standing atop puffy-looking clouds. Yes, this could really be the like the heaven priests taught you about.
>The illusion lasts about one second before the rational part of your brain reminds you that angels aren’t supposed to armor-clad, brightly-colored tiny horses with wings sprouting from their backs.
>A word you heard and read some time ago comes to your mind.
>Pegasus?
>Now you’re truly confused.
>Travelling at roughly 60 mph, you pass by the supposedly mythological beings in a blur of green-painted metal and wood, and still in a bit of shock.
>But when you turn around to get a better look, the mysterious creatures are all gone.
>What.
>You make a few more passes around the area, still uncertain of what you’ve just seen.
>Was all a hallucination? Some sort of weird light effect, like a mirage?
>Perhaps you’re going insane…or not.
>Too much fighting and not a lot of sleeping, you guess.
>A normal day of fighting in the skies of France is demanding to say the less, more if you add up surviving to a shit-ton of anti-aircraft fire and getting lost in a seemingly far away region.
>It’s no surprise your brain is playing tricks on you.
>You turn your gaze to the instrument panel and check the fuel gauge.
>You realize you’ve now only half-an hour left before the plane engine runs completely out of fuel.
>There’s no time to lose.
>Deal with weirdness later.
>Now, you should look for a village or something while trying to figure out the way back to Saint-Omer. Perhaps you can land and ask the locals for some indications.
>Even if that possibly means landing in German-occupied Belgium.
>But that’s what the Corps gave you a pistol for, right?
Meanwhile…
>One by one, the heads of four pegasi guards sprout from inside the clouds, their eyes still locked on the roaring form that now disappears in the distance.
>”Did you just see what I see?”, says one of them, still shaking a bit.
>”We did, Nightgale…we did”, answers a second.
>”Just what do you think that thing was?”, asks another in a nervous tone, its big yellow eyes narrowing in suspicion, “Unicorn magic, perhaps?”
>”Yeah, Skyranger is right! This gotta be magic, there’s no other way!”, the fourth pegasus exclaims.
>”Magic? I ain’t so sure about that” , the second to talk intervenes again.
>”Do you have another explanation, Thunderslide?”
>”What about the others?”
>”The others? You mean the earth…?”
>”Exactly. They’re always trying crazy stuff and they’re getting pretty good at blacksmithery. Perhaps…they were the ones who invented that monstrosity!”
>”Bu…but they can’t even be close to flying with their current engineering!”, Skyranger interjects, “Remember that last stunt they pulled with the catapults and fabric wings?”
>”Yeah… I remember” , Thunderslide chuckles.
>”That was like…a week ago? And now you’re telling me they’re capable of using things like that one? I doubt it”
>”Right, and how do you know that thing was a machine? Perhaps it was some sort of mini-dragon in armor!”
>”A really weird armor”
>”What do you think the wings at the front were for?”
>”What wings? The long and still ones?”
>”No, dude, the others! You know! Those that flapped real fast! What coul-?”
>”Guys!”, Thunderslide shouts, “We’re missing the point here! Or was I the only one that looked at the rider of that thing?”
>”No…you weren’t”
>”Then you’d have noticed that whatever was on that flying thing didn’t look at all like a p0ny, Cloudtamer”
>”Are you sure? I mean…the thing was going real fast, perhaps you missed something or…”
>”I’m sure of what I saw, and what I saw was no p0ny”
>”I saw it too”, Nightgale intervenes after expending some time in deep thought, “It was big, like a minotaur”
>”Yeah, thought so, but aren’t minotaurs supposed to have horns? Anyways…guys, we have to report this to the quarters…”
>”Ha, good one”
>”Hell, no”
>”Um…that might not be a good idea” , Nightgale adds.
>”And why’s that?”
>”Well…to begin with, what’re you gonna tell them? That the unicorns are using minotaur mercenaries to pilot magical artifacts?”, Cloudtamer replies.
>”Or that it’s just the earth ponies with some domesticated dragons in green armor?”, Skyranger adds with a mocking tone.
>”Enough, guys! We are Hooflite Guards, aren’t we?! What we see, we report! Ain’t that the motto?”
>”It is, yeah, but I’m sure whoever came up with that sentence wasn’t thinking about flying magical wagons!”
>”Times change, you know”, Thunderslide shrugs.
>There are a few moments of awkward silence, as the guardsp0nies debate between their sense of duty and their common one. On one hand, doing what they’re supposed to do in these cases and risking the chance of becoming the laughing stock of their fellow guards for the next couple of weeks.
>On the other hand, shutting their mouths and keeping on with their predictable, stable and comfortable lives.
>It isn’t a difficult decision.
>Sometimes, though, common sense isn’t supposed to prevail.
>”Aww…fuck it!”
>”I know you’d come alo-”
>”Not so fast, Thunder”, Skyranger cuts him short before reaching for his saddlebag and producing several straws, tightly held in his right hoof, “whoever gets the shortest one is telling Hurricane about this”

create a new version of this paste RAW Paste Data

-Northwest of France, August, 1917-
Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bg92QpjRcJk
>You are Anonymous, pilot within squadron 29 of the Royal Flying Corps.
>Two thousand meters or so below you, men die by the dozens, maimed and blown apart by artillery, gunned down by rifle and machine gun fire, burnt by flamethrowers, poisoned by gas or immobilized by razor wire until they are bayoneted or bled to death. 
>There are several small victories, here and there, where tanks assist the infantry in capturing critical trench sections or where the combined firepower of mortars and cannons cover French and British soldiers against the worst of enemy fire. 
>Elsewhere, it’s just a senseless massacre. 
>And as below, so above. 
>You make your reliable Sopwith biplane take a sharp turn to the right and exit the cloud bank you were hiding in, before nose-diving at maximum speed towards the ground. Few hundred meters closer to the ground, your colleague Ralph is playing a deadly game with two Fokker triplanes, luring them into a false sense of security by zigzagging erratically, climbing and dropping like a rookie in his first flight and only using his true skill when dodging oncoming volleys of German gunfire. 
>And looks like Ralph has managed to get a good one. If your eyes don’t fool you that bright yellow-painted Fokker on the right, with a four winged skull displayed along the Iron Cross on its side, belongs to an old acquaintance of yours. 
>Namenlos.
>Former member of Richthofen Flying Circus and one of the most despicable enemy pilots of this Great War. 
>Every pilot in the Front knew about him, or had heard about him. 
>Just like the Red Baron, but unlike him, Namenlos wasn’t admired.
>He was hated and despised, even by his fellow Germans.
>Where the Red Baron was considered a paradigm of chivalry and honor, respected by friends and enemies alike, Namenlos was all the opposite.
>Namenlos was known for blowing up gas tanks from his own army, just to create diversions that could slightly increase his chance to score more victories in battle. 
>The guy didn’t really care about what he did.
>All he cared was about the rules.
>HIS rules, of which number one was: “Germany MUST win the war”
>It’s not that you didn’t understand him. Everyone wanted their side to win, but Namenlos’ point of view about was too rigid.
>Since his expulsion from  his too controlling, cold and strict behavior (you don’t want to know what’s he like in person if the Germans consider him “strict and cold”), you heard, from what British Intel can tell, that he’s been acting low, not really being the pilot he was anymore.
>The fact that he has let himself fall in this trap is proof enough of that.
>Namenlos and his pal on their triplanes seem content with their tag game with Ralph and don’t do a thing to outmaneuver your buddy as you approach.  
>The trap is well set and now it’s time to make the most of it. 
>You smile wildly before nose-diving and lining yourself with the left triplane.
>Then one of them begins to make a bank to the left. Perhaps he has seen your silhouette outlined against the sun and tries to get away from the imminent attack.
>By then, it’s already too late for him.
>You press the firing switch and two Vickers machine guns unleash hell on the triplane. Pieces of fuselage are blown away by the unrelenting rain of steel, and reddish puffs can be seen when several bullets hit the pilot, one of them blowing an eye out of its socket. The plane begins to drift and soon sinks under the dense clouds below. 
>You go past the enemy and continue with your dive, hoping that Namenlos will pursuit. Will he fall straight into this trap too? 
>You’re not disappointed when the rattle of machine gun fire behind your tail answers your silent question. You turn and climb steadily to avoid being hit and dozens of bullets sizzle through the air, barely missing your left wings.  
>Looks like that boche, as the French say, can still aim fairly well. 
>He seems eager to avenge his fallen comrade. So eager he doesn’t see Ralph turning and coming for him until he has some new holes pierced through his wings and cockpit fuselage. 
>Realizing his mistake, Namenlos takes a sharp turn and climbs, hoping to do a roll and lose Ralph before he can hit him again.
>But Ralph doesn’t relent and follows him before unleashing a second burst. The Fokker trembles under the onslaught and its engine bursts into flames that quickly engulf the cockpit. 
>You turn your head to see Namenlos’ plane plummeting from the sky, leaving a dense trail of smoke behind. 
>Glorious.
>You slow down and soon Ralph catches up with you. You wave to your friend. He doesn’t return your smile and instead points at his engine.
>Faint trails of fuel are leaking from several of the outer junctions. Looks like one of those Fokker did his deed when firing at him. 
>Well, being the bait in this kind of maneuvers has its risks. Ralph is fortunate enough those bullets went through the engine, and not through his brains. 
>You signal for him to turn to Saint-Omer and he quickly agrees. 
>You turn around and begin the short way back to the current Corps base. At one point of the journey, when you are checking the direction taken with your compass, you see the hand of the instrument spinning up and down. The strange maladjustment lasts a few seconds before the instrument settles down. 
>You shrugh and give it no more thought.
>The two of your fly for a time, staying inside cloud banks whenever you can to avoid any unfortunate encounters with German Air Forces.
>Eventually, Ralph and you stop doing that, as the sounds of battle begin to vanish behind you.
>Being now in friendly territory, you assume it’s safe to fly closer to the ground and the two of you begin to drop steadily. 
>It’s not like your own army is going to shoot you down, is it? 
>That’s why you’re surprised when hell is unleashed around you.
>The sound of artillery shots, something approaching from below and then an arch of fire clouds sets the sky to your right ablaze, its flaming forms forming a somewhat familiar ringed pattern.
>Both Ralph and you begin making evasive maneuvers. Almost instantly, another volley of anti-aircraft fire almost blinds you, this time the explosions getting closer than before, also in the same pattern, bursting quickly as if they were fired by the same cannon. 
>What the hell? 
>Are the people of the base insane? Firing at their own planes?
>Then you remember where you have seen those explosions. The only army that uses that kind of rapid-firing cannon is...no, it’s not possible, you checked your compass; this should be France you’re flying over, but instead…
>You just crossed the Western frontline into the Germans’ side. 
>The realization hits you as another volley makes its way through the air and one of the projectiles ends up hitting Ralph, blowing up the frontal section of his plane in a sea of fire. With horror, you see your dead comrade plummet from the sky, trail of smoke and all, just like that German pilot from ten minutes before.
>It never ceases to horrify, and fascinate you, how quickly lives are wasted and taken away in this war. 
>But this isn’t the time to get philosophical.
>As you climb and begin rolling and maneuvering to avoid more oncoming fire, you check the instrument panel of your cockpit, only to find that, all of a sudden, none of the instruments seems to work. 
>The altimeter is dropping fast despite you’re pretty sure that, right now, you’re ascending at a quick pace. The hands of both the speedometer and the clock go back and forth, as though the gears and internal mechanisms have just disarranged all by themselves. 
>As for the compass, the bloody thing is spinning madly like before, again incapable of locating the north.
>You don’t have much time to wonder what in the world is happening, however, as the sky lights up all around you again.
>A sudden burst of fire deafens you with its roar, its light blinding you and making you lose all control over the plane.
>The last thing you feel, before losing all conscience, are the flames dancing on your exposed skin.
>Well, at least you die knowing that no one will ever see that Namenlos bastard again.

>You wake up, god knows how much time after the bombs hit you…
>Are you dead? You could be, yes.
>But dead people aren’t supposed to feel exhausted and sick. Those are things reserved to the living, right? To those who still have a body to call their own. 
>Also, dead people aren’t supposed to hear the wind sizzling wildly around them and the sound of a too-familiar engine, or feel themselves tied up to a seat, or feel their stomachs drop as they fall…
>As they fall?!
>You open your eyes to discover that you are very much alive inside your cockpit, diving through dense clouds at neck-breaking speed, your body unscathed despite you remembering very vividly the explosions of anti-aircraft artillery.  
>The questions you might have are all cut off as you exit the cloud bank and find yourself dropping vertically towards the ground, vast expanses and forests rising rapidly to crush you. 
>You immediately grasp the flywheel and begin to pull with both hands, desperately trying to level the airplane and stabilize it. 
>It’s a slow process and, for the worst seven seconds of your life, you feel it’s hopeless and that, no matter how great your efforts, you’ll end up dead, flattened or scattered all around when your plane crashes. 
>It is with great relief and some whitened knuckles that you manage to pull the wheel closer to you, inch by inch, until the planes stabilizes and begins climbing, barely a few hundred meters above the ground. 
>When you are safe from certain death, you check your instruments. The altimeter seems to work fine now, just like the speedometer and the clock. The compass, however, still gives you some trouble, the hand rotating and spinning like there’s no tomorrow. You tap the glass, annoyed, but it does nothing to deter its chaotic dance. 
>You sigh and shrugh before taking a view of your surroundings, looking out of your cockpit to the earth below. 
>What you see is shocking, to say the less. 
>This doesn’t look like the Western Front at all. The scenery is similar enough, yes…you are familiar with fields and hills, with deep forests and meadows, but you don’t remember them as being covered in snow. You even see a few frozen lakes and rivers here and there. 
>The skies are shrouded in grey storm clouds and a strong wind is constantly beating against your plane fuselage, forcing you to twist the flywheel a bit to correct the deviation this light gale is causing. 
>After noticing all of this, you, of course, begin flipping out.
>It is still August, right?! How could this be? Even if you were in eastern Belgium, the climate should be similar enough to that of France…there’s no way it can be snowing at this time of the year.
>And when you take your gaze to the horizon, you feel your heart sink in your chest. 
>Several high mountains you don’t remember seeing in any previous flights or being mentioned in any chart loom over this land, all of them covered in the same white snow. 
>The highest of them have their peaks concealed by a bank of pitch black clouds that roll like a hurricane, thunder and lightning bellowing and flashing menacingly in its innards. Something inside of you cringes at the distant sight.
>You don’t like that one bit, so you turn your attention to the other side. 
>More clouds and gale, but no threatening-looking mountains or black hurricanes. 
>You take that as a good sign and begin making your way in that direction, hoping you find something…or someone, that can help you indicate your way back to Saint-Omer. 


>20 minutes later, you’re still lost as you continue to navigate over this impossible winter land. The fuel gauge is low by now. You probably have forty minutes or so more of range before you are forced to land. 
>You slow down you airplane to save some fuel and gain some more time before entering in the densest, biggest and whitest cloud bank you’ve seen so far. 
>It’s intimidating; to say the least, but at this point you can hardly care about that.
>The mass of cooled and condensed vapor parts aside with ease, just like the others, allowing a swift entry to your Sopwith. 
>Just what the hell is going on?! Winter out of nowhere? You surviving an almost assured death? Something ain’t right here. 
>And when the plane makes its way through the cloud, you are awarded with a vision that only helps your shock and amazement to grow more and more.
>For a moment, you consider the possibility that you’re dead. It could be. This looks much like heaven, says the part of your mind that remembers the lessons from Sunday mass. 
>Several fair beings, winged-beings, standing atop puffy-looking clouds. Yes, this could really be the like the heaven priests taught you about.
>The illusion lasts about one second before the rational part of your brain reminds you that angels aren’t supposed to armor-clad, brightly-colored tiny horses with wings sprouting from their backs. 
>A word you heard and read some time ago comes to your mind.
>Pegasus? 
>Now you’re truly confused. 
>Travelling at roughly 60 mph, you pass by the supposedly mythological beings in a blur of green-painted metal and wood, and still in a bit of shock.
 >But when you turn around to get a better look, the mysterious creatures are all gone. 
>What.
>You make a few more passes around the area, still uncertain of what you’ve just seen. 
>Was all a hallucination? Some sort of weird light effect, like a mirage? 
>Perhaps you’re going insane…or not. 
>Too much fighting and not a lot of sleeping, you guess. 
>A normal day of fighting in the skies of France is demanding to say the less, more if you add up surviving to a shit-ton of anti-aircraft fire and getting lost in a seemingly far away region. 
>It’s no surprise your brain is playing tricks on you. 
>You turn your gaze to the instrument panel and check the fuel gauge. 
>You realize you’ve now only half-an hour left before the plane engine runs completely out of fuel.
>There’s no time to lose.
>Deal with weirdness later. 
>Now, you should look for a village or something while trying to figure out the way back to Saint-Omer. Perhaps you can land and ask the locals for some indications.
>Even if that possibly means landing in German-occupied Belgium.
>But that’s what the Corps gave you a pistol for, right?


Meanwhile… 
>One by one, the heads of four pegasi guards sprout from inside the clouds, their eyes still locked on the roaring form that now disappears in the distance. 
>”Did you just see what I see?”, says one of them, still shaking a bit.
>”We did, Nightgale…we did”, answers a second.
>”Just what do you think that thing was?”, asks another in a nervous tone, its big yellow eyes narrowing in suspicion, “Unicorn magic, perhaps?”
>”Yeah, Skyranger is right! This gotta be magic, there’s no other way!”, the fourth pegasus exclaims.
>”Magic? I ain’t so sure about that” , the second to talk intervenes again.
>”Do you have another explanation, Thunderslide?”
>”What about the others?”
>”The others? You mean the earth…?”
>”Exactly. They’re always trying crazy stuff and they’re getting pretty good at blacksmithery. Perhaps…they were the ones who invented that monstrosity!”
>”Bu…but they can’t even be close to flying with their current engineering!”, Skyranger interjects, “Remember that last stunt they pulled with the catapults and fabric wings?”
>”Yeah… I remember” , Thunderslide chuckles. 
>”That was like…a week ago? And now you’re telling me they’re capable of using things like that one? I doubt it”
>”Right, and how do you know that thing was a machine? Perhaps it was some sort of mini-dragon in armor!”
>”A really weird armor”
>”What do you think the wings at the front were for?”
>”What wings? The long and still ones?”
>”No, dude, the others! You know! Those that flapped real fast! What coul-?”
>”Guys!”, Thunderslide shouts, “We’re missing the point here! Or was I the only one that looked at the rider of that thing?”
>”No…you weren’t”
>”Then you’d have noticed that whatever was on that flying thing didn’t look at all like a p0ny, Cloudtamer”
>”Are you sure? I mean…the thing was going real fast, perhaps you missed something or…”
>”I’m sure of what I saw, and what I saw was no p0ny”
>”I saw it too”, Nightgale intervenes after expending some time in deep thought, “It was big, like a minotaur”
>”Yeah, thought so, but aren’t minotaurs supposed to have horns? Anyways…guys, we have to report this to the quarters…”
>”Ha, good one”
>”Hell, no”
>”Um…that might not be a good idea” , Nightgale adds.
>”And why’s that?”
>”Well…to begin with, what’re you gonna tell them? That the unicorns are using minotaur mercenaries to pilot magical artifacts?”, Cloudtamer replies.
>”Or that it’s just the earth ponies with some domesticated dragons in green armor?”, Skyranger adds with a mocking tone.
>”Enough, guys! We are Hooflite Guards, aren’t we?! What we see, we report! Ain’t that the motto?”   
>”It is, yeah, but I’m sure whoever came up with that sentence wasn’t thinking about flying magical wagons!”
>”Times change, you know”, Thunderslide shrugs. 
>There are a few moments of awkward silence, as the guardsp0nies debate between their sense of duty and their common one. On one hand, doing what they’re supposed to do in these cases and risking the chance of becoming the laughing stock of their fellow guards for the next couple of weeks.
>On the other hand, shutting their mouths and keeping on with their predictable, stable and comfortable lives.
>It isn’t a difficult decision.
>Sometimes, though, common sense isn’t supposed to prevail. 
>”Aww…fuck it!”
>”I know you’d come alo-”
>”Not so fast, Thunder”, Skyranger cuts him short before reaching for his saddlebag and producing several straws, tightly held in his right hoof, “whoever gets the shortest one is telling Hurricane about this”

Pastebin.com Tools & Applications

iPhone/iPad

Windows

Firefox

Chrome

WebOS

Android

Mac

Opera

Click.to

UNIX

WinPhone