DEAR ILLITERATE FUCKTWAT

IT IS SPELLED "CAESAR"

THAT IS ALL, CARRY ON

Very funny, panzer. I'll wait for the real planefag to show up first.

[x] All of the Above

WHY IS THIS EVEN WHO

>>22811954

>CELEBRATE! HOOORAY!

HOLY FUCKBALLS WE LIVED

KISS MINNA!

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>>22811954
To the gallows with you Panzer.

>>22811954
But Pranefag, Eila is the best witch!

>Holy fuck balls we lived

>inb4panzer

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>inafterPanzer

CELEBRATE. YES. THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE WAY WE CAN FIND.

>>22812037
What the fuck is going on?

>>22811954
>HOLY FUCKBALLS WE LIVED
>CELEBRATE IN INAPPROPRIATE FASHION

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>>22811977
>KAY-SURR
>pronounced see-zur

AND THAT

IS WHY

I FUCKING

HATE

EYE-TALIANS

>>22812063
HEY FUCKTWAT

LATIN IS A DEAD LANGUAGE, THE PRONUNCIATIONS ARE MOSTLY SPECULATION. IT MIGHT BE PRONOUNCED KAY-SARR, BUT UNTIL WE GET TIME TRAVEL WE MIGHT NEVER KNOW.

SO DIE. IN A FIRE.

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>>22812059
Panzer fucked us. Now we Fuck him.

>>22812063
Actually it's pronounced closer to 'Kaizar' in proper Latin.

Where do you think the German Kaiser and Russian Czar come from?

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>SWQ
>happening

WHAT IS THIS HERESY

>>22812100
YEAH THAT'S THE PRONUNCIATION SPELLING I WAS LOOKING FOR.

HIGH FIVE, BRO.

>>22812104
>heresy
NO, DIESEL. YOU ARE THE HERESIES

>>22812081
>conquer most of the Western world
>get owned so thoroughly that not even the remnants of your very language survive

AND THAT

IS WHY

I FUCKING

HATE

EYE-TALIANS

>HOLY FUCKBALLS WE LIVED

What's going on here exactly?

>>22812173
An experimental plane packed with explosives crash landed on a beach fort and exploded. We survived by running like hell.
Some of the littler witches are now MIA, hopefully unexploded.

>>22812212
I mean the OP post which reeks of panzer writing.

>>22812151

TELL THAT TO MY BOOZE

>>22812168
AND YET THEIR CULTURE IS THE BEDROCK UPON WHICH WESTERN CULTURE BUILDS ITSELF

AND FUCK, MAN, ROMAN ROADS. SHOULD HAVE INVITED THEM OVER JUST TO BUILD THE ROADS.

>>22812221
Cause it is the Panzer.

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>>22812221
Planefag actually wrote it bro.

Would Ericabutt lie to you?

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oh my god he lives!

>>22812241

It's ERICA. Of course she'd lie to me.

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>>22812241
Hey Panzer...

Tonkwitches when?

>>22812293
never

ever, ever ever

>HOLY FUCKBALLS WE LIVED
>CELEBRATE IN INAPPROPRIATE FASHION?

Get Sanya and Zucchini drunk

>>22811954
>HOLY FUCKBALLS WE LIVED
>CELEBRATE IN INAPPROPRIATE FASHION?

>>22812330
>Sanya
...Oh fuck, we never found her, did we?

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>>22812303

fuck it, go to the future, get Merlin, and take her and Sanya for lewd

>>22812346
eh I bet she is fine

>>22811954
>>22812037
No, but really.
We kind of just piled into the jeep.
Check on Minna and Sanya for injuries.

Also, explosion that big, there's going to be commandos all over this place. Better call it in to Barin that it was just a stupid Yank experimental plane that blew up, and not the opening shots for a Martian offensive.

>>22812346
Wasn't she with Zucchini?
>>22812373
SANYA AND MERLIN NOT FOR LEWDS!!!

>>22812390
lewd them in the butt

>>22812390
Believe that was Miyafuji.

>>22812397
off with his head!

>>22812427
no, give her the dick

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>>22812397
Lo and behold a heretic!

>>22812382
This. Let Barin know the Martians didn't beat us to the nuke. No. On second thought, have Minna do it. We're not that responsible. We'd probably tell them the Americans did it.

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>>22812447
How about we give you the dick faggot?

Is kotters dead?

>>22812479
that's cool too, bro

I'll even give you a reacharound

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You're a pilot. You've come through some tight scrapes, and survived things you never should have due to your 'unique talents,' and even survived effective suicide missions. But there's something special about two-thousand-plus pounds of Torpex high-explosive landing damn near in your lap, then detonating with such force you can feel the Earth itself tremble and your puny internal organs vibrating as God smashes the world with a sledgehammer. As jaded as you are, that still seems noteworthy - as is the fact you're still freaking alive.

"WE'RE ALIVE!" you declare triumphantly, grabbing Minna and kissing her soundly. You release her with a wet *smack,* but she's still busy staring at the roiling mushroom cloud above you. "WE'RE ALIIIIIVE!"

"WE'RE ALIIIVE!" Joe screams. Not to be out-done, he grabs Luuchini's wrists and starts spinning in a circle so fast the Italian witch's feet lift off the ground. She keeps silent, the vacant look never leaving her face.

Sanya, meanwhile, is cowering in the back of the Jeep. Her ears and tail have manifested, and she's clutching her tail to her like a security blanket, stroking it gently.

>now what?

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>>22812485
I hope so, he liked the worst witch,

>>22812233

AT LEAST THEY'D SET DETROIT STRAIGHT IN A FUCKING HURRY

>Crucifixion

OH LOOK THE BUDGET IS SUDDENLY BALANCED, WASN'T THAT QUICK

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>>22812502
Comfort Sanya, pet fluffy tail

>>22812528
NUKE AND PAVE, BRO. NUKE AND PAVE.

>>22812408
sanya was in the fort with Zucchini, Miyafuji was with us.

>>22812502
[x] Check on Sanya, don't bring up the cupcake kissing matter unless she does.

>>22812502
[x]Comfort tiny Sanyan

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>>22812502
>[x] Comfort Sanya
>>22812528
HAHA

>>22812502

Did... Did we breaks the Zuchini? I kinda feel bad now, but then I remember...

Italians.

ALSO,

[X] LAUGH AT ITALIAN, FOR HER FORT CRUMBLED JUST LIKE ITALY'S MILITARY ALWAYS DOES

>>22812502
inquire as wtf Kennedy was doing landing a plane full of explosives on the island.

Wouldn't it be safer to ditch it somewhere out at sea?

>>22812502
Adorable Cossack needs hugs badly, but we can only provide so much hug. Thus Mina hugs her from behind, we hug her from the front and she gets sufficient values of hug.

>>22812502
Pick Sanya up
Hand to Minna

>>22812548
RIGHT. I remember now. HaHAAAAA I suck at memory.
>>22812502
Believe there was a party going on. Also, Doctor Seuss was on fire.

>>22812575
It would be if he could swim as fast as a jeep.

>>22812570
Maybe.

the whole Zucchini buttmonkey thing is starting to become a bit overplayed, just like Meiling being a buttmonkey

>>22812575
Then it wouldn't blow up the fort.

>>22812582
>>22812610
Let's not go overboard, have we forgotten where the Sanyan obbessing got us?

>>22812612
It ended last night

>>22812502
Ask Minna to call in to Barin that it wasn't a new Martian bomb that just barely missed the island, but an experimental American prototype.

Pat Sanya on the head, tell her it's alright now.

Inquire as to the health of the airman whose jeep this was.

Woot swq the day before i leave for the army.

>>22812645

"Don't worry, it wasn't a MARTIAN explosive, it was just the americans being american."

>>22812672
GO HOME DONTE

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rip fort italy

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Sup, gents.

Since I wasn't able to do it last thread before it fell off page 10, I'm gonna do it now while the thread is still young. If you liked Mack and the California in their short appearance the past two threads, how about you give them a shot in their original story, Prune Barge Shuffle? You can read them on pastebin here: http://pastebin.com/u/dante41 And in one go on Tofusaur here: http://tofusaur.us/res/4332.html

Sage for offtopic.

>>22812702
Does that mean you'll post a update this thread?

>>22812702
GO HOME DONTE

>>22812719

It depends. I'll definitely post Chapter 12, the one that I was prevented from posting last thread.

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>>22812757
Excellent

>>22812502

>Check on Sanyan
>not checking on Miyafuji too

I am disappoint. Check on BOTH Miyafuji and Sanyan. Wave hand in front of Zucchini's face to see if her eyes move. She may be catatonic.

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After a few more pseudo-sane kisses are landed on Minna, you remember yourself. Releasing her abruptly, you fish around in your shirt pocket and produce your aviators. Snapping them open, you slip them on your face to hide your wild eyes, and turn your head at a slight angle so your disheveled hair looks dashing, instead of just disheveled.

"Hey," you call to Joe. "HEY!"

Joe is just spinning down, letting Luuchini's toes skim the surface of the sunken lane before he finally lands her, gently, on her belly. She twists into a sitting position, swaying slightly.

"Fort.... Italy..." she repeats, dazed.

"Hey, Joe?" you ask, looking back up at the towering mushroom cloud.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell, man? Why didn't you just bail out? What the hell HAPPENED up there?"

Joe leans against the stone wall bordering the sunken lane and produces a pack of cigs from his pocket, plucking one out with his lips. "Fuel leak - no, obstruction, in the fuel line. We weren't in the air ten minutes before we realized what was going on - ship wouldn't have enough fuel to make the target."

"This is the part where you should have bailed out like your ass was on fire," you point out.

Joe gestures at the mushroom cloud with his cigarette pack. "And let THAT happen where-ever it damn well chose to fall?" He shook his head. "Detonator's in the nose, so I figured if I could make the beach... set it down in the sand, real gentle-like..." Joe's produced a zippo and has managed to light it, and now he's absently chasing the flame with the cigarette in his mouth; rather difficult, given how much his hand is shaking. "You know, just... gentle-like..."

From somewhere down the road, you hear the sound of multiple engines roaring your way.

>Evac?
>Embrace?
>ENGAGE!?
>OTHER?

>>22812873
>ENGAGE!?

>>22812873
>>Embrace?

>>22812873
Evac. Fuck dealing with this shit.

>>22812848
Miyafuji should be back on Barin, with Robin.

>>22812873
>ENGAGE!
Let's be (hopefully) proactive

>>22812873

>Embrace.

Hugtimes now.

>Try to see whats making those noises

EVAC LIKE THE FIST OF THE NORTH STAR

and check on Lucchini. Administer HUG SANDWITCH. With Sanya in between.

>>22812873
This is crazy, I know... but I say we just ride this one out. We are at NO fault here. Maybe we should give Zucchini a cookie or something.

>>22812873
>OTHER
Stay calm, and have Minna comfort Lucchini and Sanya.
See if that RAF Airman is injured or not.

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>lucchini's face when

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Planefag lives!!

>OTHER?
We did nothing here. We can not be held responsible for anything!

>>22812929 Here, I'd like to add "figure out some way to console Zuchini"

As quite frankly if it was Sanya getting her fort nuked, anon'd be retardedly tripping over themselves to console her. Such Hypocrisy sickens me.

>>22812961
Whats suppose to be in her hands? I feel sad.

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>>22812961
>that file name

>>22813006
A beetle I think.

>>22813017
sega is not touch screen

>>22813006
>>22813020
It's a boot. I have no idea why.

>>22812998
I endorse having Minna console Lucchini and Sanya, while we get the RAF airman whose jeep this is, to intercept the approaching, likely British, investigators.

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>>22813006
It's an empty christmas stocking

http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=manga&illust_id=32395427

>>22813037
>>22813020
>>22813006
A Christmas stocking.

An empty one.

>>22812873

This isn't our fault, so wait until whoever gets here and help Joe explain this shit. Also help Minna console Zucchini.

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>>22813028
>implying sega has homeworld rights
HA HA

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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>>22813060
>empty christmas stocking
Welp, now I'm depressed.

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"Sanya?"

You look over to see Minna shaking Sanya's shoulder, but the Russian girl is uncommunicative. She curls up tighter, hugging her knees to her body as she worries her tail in both hands.

"Sanya, honey..." Minna tries, stroking her hair soothingly, but Sanya is completely unresponsive. Luuchini is still sitting in the middle of the road, still staring at the titanic mushroom cloud hovering over you all like the avatar of Destruction itself.

The RAF airman assigned as your driver has extracted himself from the rear of the Jeep, and is studying your face intently. Comprehension dawns as he recognizes you.

"You!" he declares.

"Me?" you ask.

"Yeah..." he strokes his chin thoughtfully. "You're the guy who did that Thing."

"What thing?"

"Uh, you fought the Martian marines surprise attack... and the tele-bots they planted during the attack, later... and then you took out that abomination that landed just outside London... and somewhere in there you were photographed being kissed by a French Witch, which is just regrettable, and..."

The roaring engines resolve themselves into a half-ton lorry and three or four jeeps loaded with scared-looking men waving rifles. The lorry pulls to one side, blocking the road, and all three vehicles screech to a halt and disgorge troops, who quickly surround you with weapons leveled.

The RAF airman looks at you blankly. He slowly turns to regard the towering mushroom cloud at length, then looks back at you. "Did your great-grandfather piss off a Gypsy or something?"

>wat say

>>22813095
The full story is a bit less depressing.

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>>22813108
> and somewhere in there you were photographed being kissed by a French Witch, which is just regrettable


I'm sure you could do worse.

>>22813108
"Yes. He fucked their wife and ran."

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>>22813108
"He did it!"

>>22813108
These good damn brits don't learn not to point their weapons at us.
>>22813111
I read it, warm and fuzzy now.

>>22813108
"Nope. Just Americans being Americans. Can't really help it."

Now get the fuck out of here before they start asking more questions.

>>22813108
"Yes, my luck tends to be extremely good or extremely bad. I can't blame a curse for all of it, half of the stuff I get into is entirely my own fault, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

>>22813108
"Damned if I know, man."

>>22813108
"Oh come on, I didn't do it THIS time!"

Duck behind Joe.

"This guy's the responsible one!"

>>22813108

"It's okay British Comrades! We're Americans! We have come to play you the song of our people!"

Then gesture at the explosion.

We're in the middle of an absurd situation that resulted in tons of damage. No one is going to believe we had nothing to do with it.

I'm not sure if this is good or bad.

>>22813108
"You go far back everyone has a grandfather that pissed off a Gypsy."
Point at Joe.
"HE DID IT, NOT THE MARTIANS OR ME!"

>>22813108
"Maybe? Gotta admin, my luck is either very good, or very bad, and never something in between.
"Now, will you guys stop pointing your guns at us and help us get this jeep out of here? What the hell, do you point guns at refugees, too?"

And get Lucchini out of the road, and into Minna's arms while we try to clean up this mess.

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>>22813108
>swq
Well I'll be damned. Gonna need some booze now

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>>22813320

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"More like a Witch," you mutter, earning you a Look from Minna.

Someone with rank steps out of the crowd of wild-eyed RAF airmen with Sten guns and Webly revolvers. "What the HELL was that!?" he asks your entire group in general.

You look into the sky, evaluate the mushroom cloud, and look back at the officer with an expression of mild pity.

"An explosion," you say gently. "A right proper one."

The man's expression turns ugly. "The Blitz was no fun and the Martian rocket-bombs even less, so think twice before you get smart, Yank."

"Oh. Right. GERMAN bombs," you say condescendingly, earning you another glare from Minna. "I see, I see. You've never seen an American bomb go off. Quite an experience, isn't it?"

"Who are you?" he demands.

"S-sir-" your RAF driver starts.

"Shut up," the officer snaps. "Who ARE you-"

Minna chooses this time to stand, rising from the bed of the Jeep with slow and luxurious prowess, like a lion stretching. Every man present follows her ascent as her legs unfold... and unfold... and unfold to their full, wonderful length. Standing in the Jeep, they have one hell of a view. Minna clamps her arms together, firm against the small of her back, and stiffens to attention. A few of the young RAF airmen quaver visibly as Minna's buttocks go taut. Thus composed, she turns with crisp precision to look over the assembly, like an officer looking down on her troops from the review stand.

"Would you like to know who the hell I am?" Minna asks sharply.

"... Wing Commander Minna..." the officer says apologetically. He's waving his hand downward, but his men have already let their weapons drop; if not their guns. "I... uh... I'm sorry."

"... quite all right," Minna decides, after letting him stew for a few seconds. "That was... quite an event." She quickly introduces Sanya and Luuchini, since neither of them were expected by the Eddington Strip personnel.

"And you are?" the officer asks Joe.

>>22813437
>Every man present follows her ascent as her legs unfold... and unfold... and unfold to their full, wonderful length. Standing in the Jeep, they have one hell of a view. Minna clamps her arms together, firm against the small of her back, and stiffens to attention. A few of the young RAF airmen quaver visibly as Minna's buttocks go taut.

DAYUM.

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oh boy

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Joe takes a long, long drag on his cigarette, despite it still being unlit. In that long second he buys himself to think, you notice his dog-tags have gone missing and the name-patch on his uniform shirt, once-visible underneath his open bomber jacket, has vanished.

Your brain takes this exact moment to recall just who the hell JOSEPH KENNEDY JR. ACTUALLY IS.

You realize Minna is clueless at almost the exact instant she opens her mouth to answer the officer.

>Stop Minna, let Joe lie
>Cover for Joe
>Look down. Say "no." (Do nothing whatsoever.)

>>22813437

>A few of the young RAF airmen quaver visibly as Minna's buttocks go taut.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, RUN YOU FOOLS, YOU'RE GOING TO DIE.

>>22813495

>Stop Minna, let joe lie.

She'll understand.

>Stop Minna, let Joe lie
Do it. If we don't, this could actually bite us when we run for president

>>22813495
>Stop Minna, let Joe lie
Is probably for the best.

>>22813495
>>Cover for Joe

He did just crash land a giant plane full of explodey bits, we ought to cover for him.

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>>22813437
>"Oh. Right. GERMAN bombs," you say condescendingly, earning you another glare from Minna. "I see, I see. You've never seen an American bomb go off. Quite an experience, isn't it?"
America!
>>22813495
>Stop Minna, let Joe lie
>Cover for Joe

We need to back him up in the lie.

>>22813495
>Stop Minna, let Joe lie

Lets NOT tell the RAF officers that the son of the former ambassador who was a Hitler-loving appeaser is standing in front of them.

>>22813495

"I WANNA SINGA ABOUTA THE MOONA AND THE JOONA AND THE SPRINGA~ I WANNA SINGA ABOUTA THE MOONA AND THE JOONA AND THE SPRINGA~"

>Cover for Joe

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>>22813437
>Minna chooses this time to stand, rising from the bed of the Jeep with slow and luxurious prowess, like a lion stretching. Every man present follows her ascent as her legs unfold... and unfold... and unfold to their full, wonderful length. Standing in the Jeep, they have one hell of a view. Minna clamps her arms together, firm against the small of her back, and stiffens to attention. A few of the young RAF airmen quaver visibly as Minna's buttocks go taut.
pic related
>>22813495
>stop Minna, let Joe lie
knowing us, our "cover" would probably hurt more than help

>>22813495
>>Stop Minna, let Joe lie

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>>22813573

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America strong

>>22813495
>Stop Minna, let Joe lie.

>>22813495
[X]Stop Minna

Oh Shit! Shrapnel! Duck!
>Tackle the minnas while coping a feel, and getting everyone to hit the deck.

Shit gets thrown real high, and real far from that kinda boom.

>>22813495
Stop Minna, let Joe cover his ass.

>>22813571
>who was a Hitler-loving appeaser
Was he really?
Sounded more like he wanted to use the UK as a meat shield while the US got itself ready.

>>22813581
Does Perrine have a metal claw in that picture?

>>22813793
>As fiercely anti-Communist as they were anti-Semitic, Kennedy and Astor looked upon Adolf Hitler as a welcome solution to both of these "world problems" (Nancy's phrase).... Kennedy replied that he expected the "Jew media" in the United States to become a problem, that "Jewish pundits in New York and Los Angeles" were already making noises contrived to "set a match to the fuse of the world"

Yeah, he was a Hitler-lover.

>>22813793

Joseph Kennedy embarrassed FDR so badly that Roosevelt recalled him back to the US and then fired him.

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>>22813893
How awful

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>>22813844

>anti-semitic

...they didn't eat meat?

>>22813924
sons suffering for their parents' sins isn't an uncommon thing.

See: Anon's response to Perrine's granddaughter in SW89

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You cough loudly, thumping your chest with one fist in a thoroughly obnoxious way just as Minna goes to speak. She turns and gives you a funny look.

"Joe Kuhmul," Joe says. "The huge explosion was this..." he trails off, waving his unlit cigarette grandly. "Okay, this is top-secret, so don't tell anybody, ever, or MI-5 will cut off your nads and make bolas out of them to hunt Martians with, okay?"

"Oh-kay," the RAF officer tries dubiously.

Joe glances about conspiratorially, then leans forward. "I was flying a bomber loaded with a shitload of bombs."

".... and?"

Joe glances around again, ducks his head, and leans forward even more. "It craaaashed!" he hisses under his breath.

"... no shit," the RAF officer agrees, looking at the mushroom cloud.

----

A few minutes later you're safely ensconced in a freshly-erected Quenset hut, sitting around a rough wooden table holding aluminum cups filled with bad coffee. Joe is over in one corner with a telephone, talking into it low and urgently.

Minna's staring into her coffee, head propped on one palm, stirring it absently with a pencil. She looks deflated, almost weary - hardly the playful and energetic woman you were talking with earlier in the day. Your two young Witches are each in a separate cot behind a thin plywood wall that partitions the rear of the hut into a separate room, and neither have made a peep.

>talk about young Witches.
>talk about radio-controlled drones, see what you can drag out of Kennedy
>talk about War
>talk about Minna

>>22813973

remoced post because i realized that it ws repeatin stuff said before.

and realized that this is 194x so you are what your daddy is

>talk about young Witches.
We can discus the other things too, this shouldn't take more than a line or two.

>talk about radio-controlled drones, see what you can drag out of Kennedy

>>22814004
>>talk about young Witches.

>talk about young Witches.
>Then talk about Minna

I think that's the bigger concerns at the moment.

>>22814004
>>talk about young Witches.

>>22814004
>talk about War

Lets get an update.

>>22814004
>Talk about Young Minnas.
I mean, young witches.

>>22814004
>Talk about young Witches.

This is going to traumatize them isn't it?

>>22814004
Talk to Minna about the young Witches, quietly.
That plywood won't stop sounds much.

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wootches

>>22814004

>Talk about young witches.

>Talk about Minna.

Though she's probably just exhausted.

>>22814004
>Talk about young Witches.
>Talk about Minna
Make sure the kids are okay. Then make sure she's okay.

>>22814122

emi and rin gone witches

>>22814004
>>Talk about young Witches.
>>Talk about Minna

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>>22814143
get out KS devs

>>22814004
Young witches. I mean really, isn't this child soldiering?

>>22814281

Yes. It is.

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I should not have run a thread tonight. Just not feeling it. My humble apologies to everyone, but I'm calling it a night right here.

WE WILL RE-CONVENE AT 5PM TOMORROW FOR A FILLER EPISODE OF N'OO'P ALIUM. MY HUMBLE APOLOGIES TO EVERYONE.

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>>22814329
>get home
>find out about thread
>CHRISTMAS IN JANUARY
>get caught up
>reload thread
>see this

>>22814329
Hurray, N'oo'p!
P.S. we missed you planefag

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>>22814329

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>>22814329
>SWQ is on
>quickly go get beer and wawa
>get home
>SWQ is off
Now tis time for sad drinking

>>22814329
A'ight.

As the world began to resolve around him, Anders was dimly aware of someone yelling somewhere in the background. He strained at the Lightning’s control column, pulling the yoke back into his chest, working the pedals to stabilize the tumble. Slowly the waves began to inch lower and lower until all he could see was Castle Barin in the distance. And the last gliderbomb.

“Red lead, I’m stable. Going after the last bomb.” There was still a ringing in his ears, and as he looked up he noticed a large crack in the Lightning’s canopy above him. There was still something in the background too- He thought he heard his name for a second, but there was the all-important task at hand.

He realigned the Lightning with the gliderbomb, having lost precious time and airspeed tumbling towards the sea. The Lightning was still in WEP; the engines were still holding up fine, aside from the trail of light-grey smoke. And he thought he felt a new vibration somewhere in number-two. It would be good enough.

He still had a massive airspeed advantage over the gliderbomb, though it still had a head start. There was a slight problem though; as he glanced down at his ammunition count- four digits worth of zeroes. It wasn’t a problem though, because that bomb wasn’t going to hit.

At least there'll be some writefaggotry tonight

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>>22814427
>>22814430

As the gliderbomb grew steadily in the front windscreen, his mind went back to an article he’d read in Time a couple of years back- During the height of the Second Blitz, the Martians had unleashed thousands of rocket-bombs (Essentially larger versions of his current quary with rockets strapped to their ass.) on targets around England. The British pilots had to deal with destroying the weapons without causing them to detonate, often in conditions that gave them only a single small window of time to do that.

In this situation, they had come up with an elegant solution; by flying alongside the rocketbombs they could use their wings to disrupt airflow over their wings, causing the gyroscope-guided weapons to spin out of control and dive harmlessly into the English countryside.

Such a tactic would’ve worked perfectly in the situation Anders found himself in, but instead he hit the gliderbomb with his left wing, doing about a hundred and fifty knots relative speed. The collision was surprisingly smooth, he had flown in from a slight angle allowing his wing strike it about a third of the way from the bomb’s rear. The Lightning itself bucked slightly to the left, but as fast as it had happened he had had control again. It was definitely favoring the left and he had to apply stiff right-rudder to keep her flying straight but other than that…

Anders blinked and double-checked his instruments- everything was workable except the red “RESERVE” light blinking next to a fuel indicator who’s needle was getting very cozy with the letter “E”. “Genie?” He called into the radio.

“I’m sorry, but how in the bloody hell are you still alive?!” She questioned. Loudly. This was actually a pretty good question. In the past thirty seconds he had survived the aerial detonation of a half-ton of Martian high explosives and a mid-air collision; to say nothing of nearly a half-hour of on-and-off dogfighting.

“That’s a great question to ask me once I’ve got my plane back on the ground. Also I’m pretty much out of fuel.” He said, cutting back engine power to barely above idle in order to conserve what fumes were left as well as balance out the drag from his damaged left wing.

The anger was suddenly replaced by a palpable aura of worry. “Can you make Barin?”

He trimmed the flaps, thanking whatever deities of war, fortune or any combination of the two were looking out for him by having the Gliderbombs be travelling towards Barin. The excess power had also given him plenty of airspeed to work with in the event that the engines stopped working but still… “That’s what I’m trying for, but right now the only place I’ll say for certain that I’ll be able to land is the ground. What frequency is Barin using?”

Glancing over his shoulder and through the cracked Plexiglas he could see the British witch had finally caught up to him. She took a few seconds to remember. “Channel three! Your engine is smoking!”

“What color?” He asked as he fiddled with the radio.

“White? Light gray?”

“They do that sometimes.” He remarked as he switched to the correct channel. “Barin Tower. Barin Tower. This is P-38 Red-Two of the 48-512th requesting Emergency clearance.”

For no good reason, Anders was surprised to hear a woman’s voice on the radio. “Red Two what is your status?” She was most certainly exhausted, and he could hear the hurry in her voice as she was probably dealing with a half dozen other aircraft at the same time, but fuck them- Ander’s Lightning was hurt, out of ammo and running on fumes.

“I’m flying on fumes, damaged wing and according to Genie, number-two is trailing smoke.” He figured name dropping a witch wouldn’t hurt.

“Can you divert to-“

He cut her off. “Lady, only place I’ve got the fuel to divert to is the British Channel, a state I find myself in because I burned my remaining fuel ramming a goddamn Martian flying bomb to save your pretty little island. Now either give me some goddamn landing clearance or call the Coasties to come fish me out of the drink!” His voice rose to an angry peak as he finished his diatribe.

A few seconds went by. Anders could practically see the poor woman trying to recompose herself as she confirmed that this was indeed the Lightning that had just taken out the two gliderbombs that were about to make her day a hell of a lot more interesting. “Red Two you have clearance to land.”

“Fantastic, Tower. Which runway?” He gloated to himself before the right engine gave one of those little coughs that told you to get them on the ground as quickly as possible.

“Just… Anywhere flat, Red Two. Will you need the crash nets and ambulance?” The voice was suddenly very tired sounding.

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>>22814347
>>22814360
>>22814387
>>22814389

>letting everyone down

I fucked up double bad tonight, and I even let them see me bleed.

blurf

“I really hope I don’t.” He fired back, still angry, as he angled the Lightning towards the single long runway, flanked on either side by a fifty foot drop onto rocky surf. He dropped gears while the engines were still feeding pneumatic pressure to the lowering mechanisms.

Not a second after they nose gear finally locked in place, the left engine gave a final cough and quit, spinning gently in the oncoming wind. The Lightning violently swerved left, as the only thing that had been equalizing the mauled left wing’s new, higher drag had been the left engine running at higher power than the right. “Anders… You’re drifting off course!” Genie called into the radio.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I already might have noticed this.” He said, with more snark than was probably necessary. He was practically standing on the rudder pedal, desperately trying to correct his course and get the Lightning flying back in a straight line.

“Anders!”

“Genie. Unless you’re planning on pushing this thing-“ He didn’t even finish the sentence before he felt the Lightning shudder, looking out over the left wing he saw that Genie had turned herself into a make-shift emergency engine, latched onto the tip of the wing and using her strikers to shove the Lightning back in line with the runway. “Ok, yeah. That’s working! Keep doing that!” He yelled giddily as the nose finally pointed towards the runway.

>>22814541
its okay. least you're alive

“Alright, I’ve got it from here! Thanks Genie!” He looked over the left engine and gave her a thumbs up before waving her off. Then it was back to the business of putting the Lightning back on the ground with a minimal amount of fire and twisted metal. Flaps down. Speed good.

As he approached the landing strip, he tried to keep from looking at the long drop on either side of him if he screwed up. Or the flashing lights of the ambulance lighting the crash nets at the far end. ‘Head in the game, James.’ He nosed the Lightning up a bit, breaking and letting the fighter come in gear first. Still fighting the aerodynamics of his left wing he felt the bounce and screech as rubber hit runway. As the nose gear started coming down, he threw out the flaps and airbrakes, slowing the Lightning until, thirty feet from the first crash net it finally comes a stop before the right engine finally sputters and dies.

“Damn.” Anders said to himself as he started unhooking himself from the safety belts. “That went better than expected.”

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>>22814541
>SWQ running

That in itself is a rare and fortuitous occasion these days.

...well, that was unexpected. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to finish writing Chapter 13. No double feature tonight, so I hope Chapter 12 is good enough. Time for some more Nahtzee Killin'!

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*Christmas Eve, 1942 Los Angeles, California*

"Come on, come on! We've got to put their stockings up before Santa gets here!"

Douglas Mackintosh came running into his living room following those words, his mother and father sedately folloing him. The little boy made a beeline for the fireplace, which already had a roaring fire lit in it. "And we need to put the fire out, too! It could burn him!"

Donald Mackintosh chuckled. "Aren't you a little hasty, son? It's not even lunch time! We'll put the fire out before we go to bed, don't worry. Santa will be able to get down our chimney safe and sound," He adjusted his pipe as be knelt down by his son. "Now, where are those stockings you wanted to hang, anyways?"

A look of horror dawned across Douglas' face. "Oh," chimed in Caroline Mackintosh, "You mean these stockings?"

The boy brightened considerably. "Yes! Thank you, Momma!" he said as he took them and started to hand them up next to his and his parents' own stockings. "One for Timouthy in the Bahamas, one for Nicholas in England, and one for Samantha in Guada, Gowada-"

"Guadalcanal, son," chimed in his father.

"Right! That place!" replied Douglas as he hung the stocking up. After beaming at his handywork for a few seconds, he frowned. "Momma? Poppa? Do you think they're having a happy Christmas?"

Caroline locked eyes with her husband for a spilt second before involuntarily flashing to the three-starred service flag hanging in the window. "Of course, dearie. I'm postive they are."

"Yes," added Donald. "I'm sure of it too. It's been a rough year for all of us, but just like we got our peaceful merry Chirstmas, I know deep in my heart that your brothers and your sister are having a merry Christmas too."

**

*The North Sea*
"Contact closing steadily, range now 15 miles, bearing 0-4-2 relative," called out the radar officer in the red glow of the conning tower.

Admiral Lee glanced at his watch, and sighed deeply. "Secondary batteries, open fire!"

**

High above, Nixon and Adams were actually startled by the splashes bracketing the raider, visible even through the storm. "Whoa!" shouted Adams as she keyed her radio back on. "Nan - Able - Fox - Tare, Charlie-3! Correct shots as follows!"

This continued for a couple minutes before Adams suddenly stopped. "Dick, do think you can cover me?" she audibly grinned. "I don't want to miss out, letting the ships have all the fun! I want some of these bastards for myself! Be back in a few!" she shouted as she dove for the deck.

"Florence! FLORENCE! LIEUTENANT ADAMS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" shouted Nixon right back, but it was in vain; the witch's form was already lost in the squall. Nixon stared after her for several more seconds before turning around to his radioman. "Well, what are you waiting for? Power up your set, and start calling back corrections!"

"Right," said Mike. ""Nan - Able - Fox - Tare, this is Charlie-1. Correct shots as follows..." he broadcasted into the open air.

**

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>>22814541
Its okay. I still love you.
>Give me a damn hug!

"Hurry with those papers, god damn it!" shouted the captain from the raider's bridge. The shells were already falling, he knew his ship was doomed. But he was determined to go down swinging in the memory of his Fuehrer, another matyr's blood on the Blutfahne, and part of that entailed making sure the Undermentschen never found out who exactly they were fighting if they took the ship.

Before he could shout again, an armband-clad seaman carrying a bag came tearing onto the bridge. "Here, Captain! All our orders, comms logs, codebooks, and enigma cyphers!" he wheezed as he handed the bag over to the captain. "It's weighted down with 2 lead bars. Posideon himself won't be able to find it!"

"Good work, Sturmmann Bauer," replied the captain as he checked the bag's contents for himself, before shoving the ship's log in with them and reclosing it. He dashed to the bridge wing and prepared to toss it over. However, before he could do so, a salvo from one of the ships attacking him hit home, violently knocking him off his feet. The bag arced up above him...before smacking into the outstretched arms of a speeding witch ten feet off the deck with a solid *WHAP!*.

The captain managed to haul himself up on the railing fast enough to dumbly watch the witch's figure disappear into the rain. The man felt numb. In the background, he heard one of his officers yelling to "Send Mueller up after her!", immediately followed by the *BANG* of the catapult throwing the floatplane into the air. He even heard one of his radiomen screaming that there was an American bird aloft above them. None of it mattered. He had failed his Fuehrer, and in doing so, ensured that His Reich would die with his ship.

The Captain calmly drew his sidearm and quietly blew his brains out still staring after the witch who carried off his damnation.

**

Nixon was circling the doomed ship again when the call came through. The Bismarck had opened up with its main battery, so it wouldn't be long now. He was about to radio in the final corrections when Adams broke into the channel. "DICK, HELP ME! I CAN'T LOSE HIM!"

"What?!" Nixon shouted back. "Lose who?! Where are you?!"

"I'm down at 500 feet! I had to dump my machine gun to catch this bag that they were about to toss overboard, and then this fucking floatplane immediately locked onto my ass! My shield is still holding-" the sound of more bullets ricocheting off the magical barrier seemed to make drive the point home "-but I've lost my gun, and I can't shake him!"

"Roger that, but WHERE?" demanded Nixon as he started scanning the sea below him, looking for the sign of Adams' shield. Then he saw it. About nine thousand feet below him, the shield glowed a hot electric blue, even through the rain. "I've got you, Florence! Just hang on!"

Nixon consulted what little AtA training he received, and deduced he only had one chance. The Kingfisher was not built for aerial combat to begin with, was barely armed, and had a massive float hanging underneath. His only hope was to get the drop on the enemy plane...and he'd only have a couple seconds to do that in this storm.

With a gulp and a silent prayer of forgiveness, Nixon nosed his plane over and dove. The wind and rain buffeted him around, but he kept the little Kingfisher locked onto its target. Adams' shield glow grew larger and larger until her pursuer finally appeared: A black Arado floatplane. As his target grew, Nixon pressed his eye into his gunsight and waited. When the plane's fragile glass cockpit filled the sight, Nixon pressed down hard on his guns. The single .30 cal mounted forward in his plane spat death into the Arado for a good 3 seconds before Nixon pulled up and over. As he spun around, he snapped his head to look at the plane...and watched it slowly but surely nose over and plunge into the bounding waves.

Adams began to whoop and holler over the radio as she pulled up onto his wing. "Ho-lee shit! That's a kill! That's a confirmed kill, Dick! Well done! Welcome to the exclusive club of 'Pilots Who Have Actually Done Something!' Oh MAN Lyons is gonna be SO jealous!"

"Ha ha, I did it!" Nixon nervously laughed. "I did it! I shot down an enemy plane! I killed anoth-"

He barely made it in time. He immediately throw the canopy open, and started retching while leaning out of the cockpit, the plane being held level by his knees. He emptied his last meal relatively quickly, before moving onto bile and then finally dry heaves. After a few minutes, he rolled back into the cockpit, letting the rain wash over his face through the open canopy.

"Holy Hell, Dick," said Adams over the radio. "You painted your whole wing! Are you alright?"

Nixon swallowed hard. "Yeah," he breathed as he stared mournfully dead ahead. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Adams frowned worriedly at him. Even through the lessening rain, she could tell he was sitting ramrod straight, and not looking around at all. She sighed. "Nan-Able-Fox-Tare, Charlie-3. Along with Charlie-1, we are inbound for mothership. And we have some very interesting things you and Baker-Sugar will want to take a look at..."

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**

It was over quickly. A converted merchantman could not stand up against the guns of two battleships, even before Bismarck unleashed her 15 inch main battery on the ship. The Schutzstaffel raider Seeadler slipped below the waves just before sunset on Christmas Eve.

Captain Lindermann stalked out onto his bridge wing and glared down into the water at the men bobbing towards his ship, plaintively crying out about "Kamaraden".

"Captain?" asked his XO. "What do we do with the survivors?"

"Survivors?" Lindermann responded as he turned around and walked back into his bridge. "I see no survivors."

"Aye, sir," saluted the XO as the Bismarck's AA battery whined to life.

That's all for tonight, folks! ...and I mislabeled this chapter as Chapter 12, when it was actually Chapter 11. My bad. The pastebin is here: http://pastebin.com/9XvKq1LH , and the tofusaur thread again is: http://tofusaur.us/res/4332.html


Questions, Comments, Pointing out what I got horribly wrong?

>>22814838
>>22814898
I'm not sure if it's technically "wrong" but how low could the AA battery depress on battleships?

>>22814928

Depends on the battleship, but on the Bismarck, they were modified for greater defense against Martian small attack craft. They have an armament that vastly outstrips their size.

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>SWQ thread

FUCK YEAH IT'S GONNA BE AWESOME

>Thread's already over

WTF? SCREW YOU PLANEFA-

>Planefag says he's not feeling well and apologizes
>imagine planefag feeling bravely shuddering on, fighting hard to give us a good time, then feeling awful when he's unable to

;_;

Is anyone still here?

>>22817668
i've kept it open out of laziness

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>>22817716
Welp, I was considering doing something but if it's just you nd me I'll just call it a night.

>>22817824
sleep well minnapup