Although you have of course flown tests and proving flights this is your first actual mission, and you can't help but feel a little nervous even though the bomber's twin V12 engines are thundering along smoothly and driving the massive four-bladed propellers through the crisp morning air without showing any strain under the load of the dozen passengers stowed in the fuselage. They were wrapped in blankets, had their hats pulled down and were wearing earmuffs to deaden the sound of the engines as much as possible, but your plane lacked the amenities of a more dedicated passenger carrier and it showed in the grim look on their faces whenever you looked back to check on them. You did warn them it would be a rough flight, but they had been so desperate to reach their destination that they hadn't cared. With no traders expected for weeks you had the only plane large enough to take them out of Bergfluss as a group, and they refused to leave anyone behind for their own reasons. Well, whatever those reasons were they were clearly important enough to pay the significant fee associated with hiring you, and that was the main thing. As long as they pay up when you reach the other end.

Marie had been approached by the passengers first before bringing their spokesman to you. The head of a Rishonim family group, or what was left of one, from further west towards the Gotha Plateau. They had abandoned one town after another as a warlord groups battled for a hold on the region and were traveling to a commune inhabited by members of their faith. Somewhere they could feel free to practice their religion without Goths treating them as bayonet practice, the old man (a grandfather? Priest? something like that, you think) had said, spitting on the ground as he said 'Goths'. You knew enough not to take it personally, rumors about a particularly grim group of warlords - or maybe an alliance of pirates? - trying to resurrect the name of the old empire had been in the air for years. This is the first time you have met someone with such an intense hate in his eyes when he said the word, though, and if it hadn't been for Marie's silent pleading eyes you might have turned him down out of fear he would...sabotage the plane, or something. Looking back at him now comforting an infant crying about the noise of the engines you feel like a piece of shit for even thinking about refusing. It would only be a few hours flight to the east, refuel and turn around. With good weather you could make it back the same day, 18 thalers richer. Minus some expenses, anyway. But plus the satisfaction of doing the right thing, which counts for...something. Probably.

Turning your eyes back to the sky you look around with mild curiosity. You haven't been out this way before, and as the Euler Valley stretches away below you you're pretty sure you can see the Elba River sparkling in the morning sun. A light scattering of clouds are the only impediment to your vision, and probably all you need to do is follow this heading to the east until you start seeing the landmarks indicated on your map.

Something looks out of place in that cloud that's drifting lazily across the sun. Is that dark patch rain, or a shadow? You stand up, put your foot on the yoke to stop it jumping around, then lean over and tap Jana on the shoulder. When she turns around you yell over the rushing wind and engine sounds: "12 O'Clock! Is something in that cloud​?" She turns to check, shading her eyes and squinting at the shapes to try and make them resolve as you sit back down and wrestle with the stick as your wings catch a slight thermal rising off the valley floor. She turns back to you with a grim expression and holds up her hand, signalling ENEMY SPOTTED before turning back to her guns and working the charging handles. You squint yourself and sure enough the little dark splodge on the cloud is moving against the wind. After a second you can see the shape of...a monoplane, maybe? Can't make out any markings this distance, but there's never a friendly reason to hide in a cloud and come out of the sun. You pass the signal back to Marie, who charges her own guns and swings the Scarff mount around to track the movement of the other plane. You look back at your passengers for a second - a sea of worried faces in the dark - and do your best to give them an encouraging smile and thumbs up before turning your full attention back to the controls. You hope that reassured them, but you're not confident that it did.. You're closing the distance fast and starting to pick up details on the smaller aircraft (definitely a monoplane, rotary engine, single pilot) giving you a a few seconds to make a life or death decision:

You realize two things in very short succession. First that the little plane has had to climb a few hundred meters to match your height, tapping out it's energy reserves. And second that the cloud it came out of is close, dense, and in your way. With a bit of speed you could zoom right past him and be hidden before he gets a chance to do more than look at you. You sign DIVING to your crew and yell for your passengers to "HANG ON TO SOMETHING​" as you push the throttle and the yoke forward simultaneously. The dive is only shallow, but with your engines roaring at the same time you gain momentum the other plane can't possibly match You feel light-headed for a second as the negative g-forces mess with the blood supply to your brain and then you level out in time to watch what you can now clearly identify as an Arntwerks c.10 (obsolete at the start of the last war, but still popular with anyone who wants a cheap pair of wings and a gun) zip past your upper wing close enough that you rock in each other's wake. You stop paying attention to them as you plow into the cloud bank, cold moisture suddenly coating your goggles and windscreen. It's quiet for a few minutes other than rushing wind as you convert the speed you built up into height, and then you burst out the other side. There's no sign of the other plane, just clear skies. You wipe your goggles on your scarf and check on the passengers - scared, but unharmed. Jana makes an unreadable face at you and signs MISSED - OPPORTUNITY. You shrug back. You're getting paid for delivery, not fighting.


After making sure you're not being tailed you check your bearing and start looking for landmarks to guide you to Wiesental. At this point you should be able to see a scar in the forest where a zeppelin crash started a fire off to your north, and the sickly haze over Elbaburg further to the northwest, and the reflections from the heliograph tower at Heidelheim down to your southeast...but you can't. Something's off. You tap your compass and the needle springs free from the trace moisture that had gotten inside the case. You groan at the realization you've been on the wrong bearing for Göttinnen knows how long, before muscling the controls around to double back and find where you went off track. You have plenty of fuel left, but every mistake like this increases the likelihood you'll have to put off a return trip until tomorrow. And those engines aren't getting any cooler. You eventually find the point where you diverged from your intended path and get back on the correct bearing, double checking your compass this time. From your lofty vantage point you feel like you can see all the way from the Fokker Mountains to the Eastern Sea, even though you know your observation range is more like a fifth of that distance. You CAN see the Elba River quite clearly below you, and you offer a quick prayer to the goddess it's named for, asking for her protection and guidance as you pass the half way mark of your journey.

With absolute confidence that this time you've got your bearings correct and the skies are free of any kind of threat or menace, you decide to pop back and check on your passengers. This model of Volksfestung doesn't exactly have an autopilot, being designed for rather more crew than you have available. What it does have is good positive stability which you put to use by tying a piece of rope between the yoke and and a handrail to keep your heading before leaving your seat. Steady as a rock, the bomber thunders onward without so much as a wobble. Ordinarily you would have to squeeze between the seats to make it into the tight space currently crammed with human cargo but you removed the co-pilot chair before take off, which is good because squeezing isn't your strong point. The frightened faces focus on you as you join them, dark clothing making them blur together in the shadows. It's marginally quieter in here than out there without the rushing wind adding to the roaring engine noise, but you still have to raise your voice to be heard. Smiling to reassure everyone that there's no trouble you speak directly to the old man (You really should get his name later. Marie told you yesterday but you were distracted and forgot.) but your question is for everyone:

"WIE GEHTS? SORRY ABOUT THE BUMP EARLIER! THERE WAS A PLANE...WE WENT AROUND!"​ No point upsetting them with the details, you figure. Most of your passengers just mumble in response, but no-one seems to be hurt and more miraculously no-one has thrown up back here yet. The baby is still crying and you motion with your hands to ask if you can hold them for a second. The baby's mother looks at you for a long second and then hands the child over for you to admire. It's clearly soiled whatever undergarments it has on but you've been in the hospitality industry your whole adult life and a mother for like, a year, this isn't your first airshow. You get a cuddle and for a blessed second the crying stops as you smile at the stinky bundle before it starts grabbing your hair with the vigor of a tiny drunk person. The mother (is she? you haven't exchanged two words with most of these people) helps untangle you before you lose any of your scalp, and you return to your chair.

Checking your compass as you settle in and the bearing is dead on. Another hour or so and you should see Wiesental's tallest structure, apparently an impressive temple spire, visible for miles even at ground level. You didn't even know Rishonim built temples, unless the temple was already there when the town was founded? Well, given the amount of time lost you might have the evening to find out.

After settling into your chair you look to your left and right at the tachometers on your engines, and decide you should maybe ease back a little on the throttle and adjust the fuel mixture to be a little leaner and keep fuel consumption down for the last part of the journey. As soon as you're done futzing about with the controls you can hear the rhythm of your engines change slightly - is that a misfire in engine 1? You can see the oil temperature is a little elevated. Is it worth leaving your seat again and shutting the engine down in flight to take a look at it, or would it be better to leave it until you land? It's not far at all, you can make out the steeple and what you think is a windsock on top of it. In the time it takes you to calculate the distance you can hear the knocking get worse. Definitely a misfire, probably on more than one cylinder.

You carefully reduce power to the troubled engine to the point that the propeller is just pinwheeling in the slipstream before you shut it down completely. You can feel the balance of the plane shift as the second engine comes under more strain, but it seems to be coping. In response to the curious stares of your crew you sign PATCH FIX, and Marie nods. She's able to get out of her seat and shimmy along the fuselage to join you as you step gingerly out onto the left wing. Just as you find your footing the whole plane lurches left and you nearly stumble before catching yourself with a white knuckle grip on one of the wire stays. You hear the passengers making upset noises and what sounds like praying and Marie looks pale when you turn to check on her. The rope you put to hold the yoke in place has slipped and you're now gently banking around. Better make this quick. You hold out your hands for Marie to pass you the tools, but she takes your hand and pulls herself to you instead. She's tapping at the side of her head...no, her ear. Pilot sign language doesn't have a proper sign for 'listen' because it's usually pointless to try, but that's what she's saying. You tilt your head in confusion but then you hear it - something's still knocking in the engine. It's definitely turned off, you check the gauges on the side and they're showing nothing. You share another glance with Marie and then hold up three fingers. Two. One. The pair of you rush to open the engine case, ready to confront...



What the hell is that?

Whatever it is, the little creature is in the middle of trying to pull your engine apart with it's bare hands when it looks up at you and bares it's teeth. Other than cosmetic scorches and stains it doesn't seem any the worse for wear after traveling (presumably) hundreds of kilometers trapped inside a V-12 engine at 1500 meters. On an instinct learned as a young girl on the farm used to being confronted by a sassy chicken or aggressive piglet you act fast, sticking your gloved hand in and grabbing the beast by the scruff of it's neck. You haul it out, squirming and chittering, and look for somewhere to stash it. Marie reluctantly proffers her toolbox, and you squeeze it in and thumb the catch closed. After that it's just a matter of replacing the parts that have been pulled out, reconnecting the tubes that have been chewed on, and clearing out what looks like a small nest of wiring and bits of wood. You think it must have done all this in flight becuase there's no way you would have missed it during your checks before take off. With the last spark-plug properly tightened you and Marie carefully get back to your seats. She leaves the toolbox with you. It makes occasional rattling sounds as the trapped creature tests the container before going silent.

You restart the engine and correct your course with the calm dignity of a grown woman who was nearly killed by a fluffy animal the size of a cat trying to pull her 4000 kilogram aircraft apart with it's grubby little hands, and who definitely didn't wet her pants a little when she narrowly avoided being thrown overboard. Thankfully it's only a short distance to your destination and as you descend in a gentle spiral to the airstrip, put your wheels on the grass, power down your engines and bring the Volksfestung to a blissfully silent stop you don't spare a thought to the danger or difficulty you've been through. A pair of ground crew rush out to chock up your wheels and another pair bring out a ladder to help you and your crew down. They're chattering to you about your arrival being unexpected, but when they see the passengers file out of the storage bay everyone goes quiet. One of the crew takes his hat off and shakes his head, another goes pale, a third runs for the shed they came out of and the fourth stammers out a greeting in a language you don't understand. After that there's a rush of activity that overwhelms your senses as what must be the whole town comes running to the airfield to welcome their new residents. You try to get an explanation from Marie, but people keep running up to shake your hand and thank you for service and it makes actual communication impossible. You are bone tired. You feel like your limbs are made of lead and your head is full of wool, but it doesn't look you've got a chance to rest yet.

Wiesental is one of a thousand postage-stamp towns just like it, spread along the Euler Valley and the Elbe river to take advantage of the temperate climate and ready availability of water to raise crops and livestock away from the bustle of cities. Before the cities were bombed out, anyway. Now the little towns are more isolated than ever and any visitor at all can be a cause for huge excitement. You remember that feeling as a girl, when Wingendorf was visited by a Flying Circus or traders or even a Skyborn fleet. This seems more intense than that, and as the mob starts to sweep you away from the airfield to the town proper you start to realize from scrap of conversation that your passengers arrival is somewhat unexpected. You manage to get to Marie for a moment and grab her arm to ask her:

"Marie, what's going on? Why is everyone so - yes, you're welcome, thank you, uh, excuse me - happy to see us?"

A lanky teen who smells strongly of sheep has just approached you and dropped a flower crown on your head while mumbling something in Gotisch so heavily accented that you only vaguely understood that he was being complimentary. Marie smiles patiently as an old lady in a headscarf holds her hand and gives her some kind of blessing. She manages to reply after a second:

"The people we bought, they thought they were all dead! They hadn't heard from them in over a year and there was going to be a funeral held in a few days! Also Herr Meyer is a respected teacher, and -"

The sound of a violin tuning cuts her off. You've arrived at an old and worn but immaculately maintained beer hall. There is a band inside warming up, you can smell baking bread and roasting meat, and your finely tuned barmaid senses detect a well stocked cellar very near by. If you had to guess, you'd say the townsfolk are converting the supplies they'd out aside for a wake to a more joyful feast. The crowd's chattering reaches a new intensity before an earsplitting whistle silences them. You look around for the source and see the old man (Meyer? you think?) standing next to a tall, lean woman with pale skin and black hair done up in a series of plaits. She takes her fingers out of her mouth and wipes them on the apron she's wearing over her dress. She addresses the crowd with authority:

"Today is a great day for all of us! The workings of Göttin and the skill of these fine aviators (she indicates your crew) have bought my wise friend Zero Meyer and his sons and daughters to us, when we had thought them dead these long months. This is cause for celebration, and that can't wait! Put aside your duties, work will be there when we're done! For now, let us be good hosts! Come, männer und frauen! Let us rejoice!"

There is a rousing chorus of cheers and you are propelled into the beer hall at the point of the crowd. The next few hours are best recalled as a series of vignettes:

A shy girl offering you a stein that's mostly froth, and you taking over pouring for her with a deft hand. Just to give the kid a few pointers, that's all.

Jana being cornered by a group of small children who jabber excitedly at her and shriek with delight every time she shows her razor sharp teeth.

Marie bringing you a bundle of lamb chunks wrapped in flat bread with a sauce so spicy your nose starts running, and laughing at your discomfort.

You getting her back by telling the young shepherd to ask her to dance and tipping the band to play something slow.

The village leader, who tells you to call her Klaudia, getting you up to dance and the band playing something fast, leaving you sweating by the end.

Jana obliterating the town's champion in a contest to see who could drink a meter long glass dry the fastest to the admiring cheers of the onlookers.

It's dark by the time you can escape outside. You're drunk and tired and sore and still wearing your flying clothes sans gloves and jacket, but all your spare clothes are in the plane down the hill, and you don't want to walk that far right now. As the night air cools your skin you pull a pack of cigarettes from your shirt pocket and pull one out with your mouth before sliding down the wall to the ground and lighting a match. In the light you can see Meyer sitting across from you on a log, hands clasped together and mouth moving silently. You begin to apologize for disturbing him, but he waves it away.

"Nonsense, Frau Schmidt. You saved my family's lives today at least once today from what young Marie tells me. You've more than earned your smoke break. Can I trouble you for one?"

You oblige him, lighting you both up and flicking the match away into the darkness. He takes a big lungful of smoke, coughs a little, and smiles wryly.

"I quit these things a few times. Never seems to stick. Before the war the doctors were telling everyone they were bad for us, but it turns out they were worrying about the wrong kind of gas. My oldest son was in Elbaburg doing work for the War Department when everything ended. I was living with his wife and my other children on the outskirts, far enough away that we escaped. He never had a chance. Bombers just like yours streamed over from the west and dropped canisters full of some foul thing that spread and killed...is still killing, if you're foolish enough to go back. I can sometimes still hear the screams."

He pauses to puff at the cigarette a few times, and you try to marshal some kind of apology or at least commiseration:

"I...I'm so sorry, Herr Meyer, I had no-"

He cuts you off again with a wave.

"Not your fault. You would have hardly been more than a child at the time. Still, it was hard for me to climb into your plane. Never would have done it without a fellow believer vouching for you. And I wanted to apologize for that. You were there to help a suspicious old man when no other pilot would. You bought my girls and their children safe to a new home. You're a good woman, and you should remember that."

The memory of how you nearly didn't take the job because Meyer had seemed so bitter eats at you even worse now, and you spill it out.

"I nearly didn't. Take the job, I mean. I...I was scared of you. Afraid you might be...I don't know, trying to get revenge or something. Marie had to convince me. She's the good woman, I'm just trying to get money together."

He nods slowly, taking a last drag and grinding his cigarette out on the ground before replying:

"Hah. Was I that obvious? Those fascist bastards must have filled my mind with hate worse than I thought if you could see it in me. Listen, Ilse, our thoughts are less important to the world than our deeds. You may have been afraid that the wily old Rishonim would sabotage you, like in the stories, but you acted anyway. And I was worried that the stupid Himmilvolk would...throw us out of the plane in mid flight, or something, but I got on anyway. And here we are. Alive, healthy and smoking together. We're nothing if we can't trust each other, but everything if we do. Now, if you will excuse an old man, I'm going to find a soft bed."

He wanders off, leaving you to your thoughts. You get through about half the pack before you are discovered and dragged back into the party. There's a bottle of schnapps, and then...

You wake up the next morning with a throbbing head, dusty mouth, still in your filthy flight suit, and for some reason stretched out in a hanger at the airstrip. Klaudia is looking at you with mild amusement and holding a jug of water. As you gulp down the clear fluid she explains that you left the night before having said something about making a deal with the monster you caught. She's not sure what you meant, but you look like you lost a fight with a cat, and there's an empty toolbox lying on the floor next to you.

You don't want to dwell on it. There's a more pressing question on your mind.

"Where can I get a bath in this town?"

The bathing situation in Wiesental is fairly primitive, a few blocks of gender-segregated showering facilities and a deep rocky pool for the daring or cold resistant. You and Marie opt for the showers and leave the pleasures of the pond to Jana . Hot water, slightly rough soap, and a very rough toweling off later you dress and head back down to the airfield to inspect your plane. Other than a few rods needing adjustment and some grease needing to be applied to a few parts there is no major work to be done. The gremlin refuses to be grabbed again, and has shown the ability to tuck itself into almost any nook and cranny. It might take an expert to catch it this time. It's mid morning. If you wanted to head back to Bergfluss you would need to leave by mid-afternoon at the latest, but the weather looks to be staying clear so there's no rush.

What would you like to do?

You wear down a bit of shoe leather hunting down work, but there simply isn't much call for your particular services in this town at the moment. They don't really have a trading relationship with their neighbors, no-one's made them angry or frightened enough to warrant bombing them, and you just bought passengers in with stories of how dangerous the outside world is - no-one's going anywhere in a hurry. Eventually Klaudia takes pity on you and offers to sell you a small agricultural surplus that you can hopefully make a profit on back in Bergfluss. You look at her offer skeptically and ask:

"Why only one thaler? What's wrong with the goods?"

She shakes her head, chuckling under her breath.

"Pilots, always suspicious. Look around you, Frau Schmidt. There are no warehouses here, no factories. We can only store so much, only eat so much. This stuff would just rot if we held on to it. If you want to consider it a favor, that's fine. If you happen to come across useful machines you can do us a favor and bring them back here to sell."

You ask her what she means by useful machines.

"Weapons, a radio-telegraph, machine tools, generators, that sort of thing. Heavy, I know, but you're so big and powerful. I'm sure you can handle it."

She winks and walks away to round up the goods. You suspect she was talking about something other than your Volksfestung for a moment there, but shake off your concerns and go look for someone who might know something about gremlins. You're rewarded with directions to a library attached to the old temple and told to ask for Martin. And to watch your head as you go in, for some reason. It's a pleasant walk up the hill through the town, a few people people watching you with the idle curiosity a stranger gets in a small town. One leathery old woman looks up from her knitting and shakes her head for some reason. Maybe it's your dress? You never got around to getting new clothes after the brewery and beer garden burned down and maybe the dirndl you're wearing isn't super modest, but clothes don't grow on trees and most of your clothing budget has gone into keeping the orphans in shoes lately. You're still thinking about it when you arrive at the library, knock twice on the door and walk in without waiting. You remember the warning to duck a fraction of a second before you bash your head on a low shelf that some idiotisch person has left there, the impact knocking a handful of books to the floor.

"Ah! Careful please, those are probably irreplaceable!"

Martin is another of the young beanpoles this town seems have in spades, although by his clothes and accent he's not Rishonim. He hurries over to pick up the fallen tomes and pays no attention to you as you step into the library, rubbing your head. You ask why, if these books are so precious, are they being kept on a shelf placed so that everyone walking into the room is going present a hazard?

"It's...If I could, I...well, look at them all!"

He gestures helplessly all around the room. It's small, made of stone with few windows, and lined floor to ceiling with books. They all look very old, and you comment on this. Martin beams at you excitedly.

"Yes! Exactly! The original inhabitants of this building were a sort of religious fraternity studying the theology and philosophy of the Gothic peoples. They'd acquired a fairly extensive collection of rare works, and I think some of these may even be original works! Unseen by researchers before me! Extremely exciting! I'll show those hidebound fools at Heidelheim what results real fieldwork gets you yet!"

Before he can start cackling you quickly ask if any of these books have anything to say about the Fae, or more specifically Gremlins. He nods his head and starts hunting around the room humming and and clicking his tongue like some kind of demented bee.

"Hmm. No. No. Tsk, no! This should be over in Creation Myths, not here! Ah ha! Yes, this is the one! Die Gesetze der Geister! Do you know I've only seen this book referenced second hand? It was proscribed under Imperial statutes. Too much of the old world about it, probably. Anyway, yes! Gremlins! Let's just go over to the lectern here..."

The book is printed but the script it uses is nearly illegible to you, more cramped and spiky than a tangle of barbed wire. Martin doesn't seem to have any trouble with it, skimming his gloved fingers over the pages and flicking swiftly through until he reaches a page with a recognizable illustration of the creature bedeviling your plane. He reads aloud, but most of what he reads is useless academic trivia.

"...and our experiments had to be curtailed for lack of funding, after the subject stole and deconstructed a pocket watch belonging to a local dignitary. We did establish quite clearly that like a normal animal or small child bribery and treats are the way to ensure compliance. Harsh behavior seems only to provoke at best sullen and at worst destructive attitudes. Small mechanical devices, toys, and curiosities are the only currency the Gremlin respects..."

You ask if you can borrow the book, and Martin stares at you like you've grown an extra head. You explain that you have an actual gremlin problem, and might need to refer back to the book when dealing with it. He eventually agrees to write a short summary for you to reference, and hands it to you before shooing you out of the library before you can ask any followup questions.

It is now Noon. What would you like to do?

You look carefully at the position of the sun and sight heavily. There's no way you're going to fly with a gremlin on the plane in a wild mood. You can't risk your crew like that. You've heard stories from pilots (who were drunk at the time, trying to impress you, or both, but still!) about an angry gremlin stopping engines or wrecking instruments in flight. One man swore he'd seen a wingman's entire tail ripped from the plane after he shot at a gremlin for drinking his fuel. You're pretty sure that was more likely to have been a maintenance failure than a spirit the size of a large cat, but taking chances doesn't make old aviators. You find and inform Jana and Marie that you are going to try and work something out with the creature and that it might take all afternoon. Jana shrugs.

"Your call, boss. I don't mind."

Marie was looking less sanguine about the prospect of flying with it and nods more enthusiastically, but does add:

"Are you sure you can do this? Last night it made a mess of you. Can we...find a witch or something?"

You tap your piece of notepaper and reassure her that you have the state of the art in fairy law to assist you in negotiating. Now you just need some kind of mechanical trinket. Between the three of you you don't have so much as a spare sparkplug, so you spend the next couple of hours finding someone in town willing to part with one. You finally track down the old lady who was giving you the eye earlier and manage to talk her into parting with a battered old watch on a chain, but not before she tells you the long, involved and mournful story of how she came to possess it. You express your condolences on the breakdown of her marriage many years ago and extricate yourself before she can make you another cup of tea or show you another photograph of her son Jonas, who will be arriving any day now! You make your way back to the airfield and stand in front of your plane. The Gremlin is trying to make Engine One's propeller spin by leaping at it to no avail and seems to be deliberately ignoring you as you approach. The notes Martin has supplied you provide a kind of...magic spell? A prayer? A contract? A form of words, specific and hopefully binding, for dealing with this exact situation. You clear your throat.

"Pay heed to me, oh Gnome/Kobold/Dwarf/Gremlin/Insert Other As Applicable! I, Ilse Schmidt, am the owner of this Engine/Balloon/Glider/Aircraft/Installation! I welcome you, Gnome/Kobold/Dwarf/Gremlin/Insert Other As Applicable to my Engine/Balloon/Glider/Aircraft/Installation as a friend! I will offer you no Harm or Insult nor tolerate any offered to you while in my care! If you will treat my Engine/Balloon/Glider/Aircraft/Installation as your Home/Nest/Treasure during your time Traveling/Residing with me I will repay you with Fine Worked/Artisanal Goods for your Consumption/Amusement! Take this Example as a token of my esteem, and may we be boon companions ever more!"

You aren't sure if you were supposed to pronounce all those slashes, but once you get going it's hard to stop. Seeing you have the full attention of the gremlin you squat down and proffer the watch in one hand. The gremlin is cautious at first, sneaking up to the offering like a stray cat approaching food, but once it gets close and senses you have good intentions it snatches the watch away and examines it. To your amazement it pulls it apart and reassembles it with the precision of a trained clockmaker, sniffs at the result and then, seeming satisfied, climbs onto your shoulder and pulls a cigarette from the packet in your sleeve. You light it and have one for yourself, sitting grass while the creature chirps happily.

As Jana, Marie and the ground crew recover from their mysteriously coordinated coughing fits and start to oversee the loading and fueling of your plane, the gremlin sits on your shoulder and eats the cigarette, lit end first. You grab it under it's arms and hold it out in front of you, talking around your own cigarette as it reaches for it with both hands.

"Alright then, what are we going to call you? I'm not yelling out all that pronunciation when I need you to bleed a fuel line in flight. You got a name, little monster?"

It makes a noise like a typewriter in response, chattering and then making a mechanical tone like it hit the end of a line.

"Taktaktaktaktak-Ding? Ding like Thing? That work for you?"

It shrugs and makes another, more successful grab for your smoke. You set it down and stand up as it stubs this one out and unravels it. You look at the sun's position and grimace. Flying home now you'll be staring into the sunset most of the way, and landing after dark. It should be safe if the weather stays clear, the airfield at home is usually at least partly lit up and the moons are nearly full. Even so the idea doesn't thrill you. Still...you go home now and you can be snug in your own bed tonight. No tavern room or sleeping on the floor and you'll have your wife there! She's worth the risk. You fix Ding with a steely gaze.

"Mechanikerin Ding! Stow your gear, we're leaving in half an hour."

It doesn't salute, but does climb aboard without complaint and vanish into the engine compartment. In the end it takes closer to forty-five minutes before you can get airborne due to the slow hand cranked fuel pump at Wiesental. You initially regret taking the time to fully fuel up but when a series of navigation errors course corrections costs you forty percent of your fuel and you're less than halfway home you forget those regrets and instead concentrate on being smug about your foresight.

You're shading your eyes against the sun as it comes down over the horizon ahead of you when you think you see something reflective at your 1 o'clock high. You raise your hand to signal for a second pair of eyes but before Jana or Marie can confirm it you all hear a pair of machine-guns chatter and a burst of red tracers sail past your left wing. A handful strike home with no worse effect than some torn canvas - whoever put that burst out slightly misjudged their shot. You reflect later on your good fortune because a better, more patient shot could have killed you outright. In the heat of the moment you don't think at all, you just wrench the yoke over to the right and stamp on the left rudder pedal. The Volksfestung shudders in the air as it sideslips causing a second burst to miss you completely and as the clean lines of the orange and black late-model Thaler Albatross resolve out of the gloom you can see and hear your own guns reply, blue tracers from Jana's position and yellow from Marie stitching their way along the fuselage. You barely have a fraction of a second to appreciate their gunnery as the scout passes behind you and you sideslip back in the opposite direction to allow the observers another good clean shot. This time their fire converges on the front of the Albatross as it tries to line up another attack run and the rain of bullets must have hit something vital because it never gets the chance, going into an uncontrolled spin towards the ground a kilometer and a half below. You whoop with excitement and sign GOOD SHOOTING! as emphatically as you can. Whoever the hell that was messed with the wrong crew!

It's dark now. It would be quiet but for the sound of your big V-12s, a roar like the Devil's own sewing machine that vibrates the entire plane and sends the hands on the controls numb from the effort of keeping them steady. You're pretty sure you've been circling the wrong mountain looking for Bergfluss's landing lights for an hour now, and you're down to the last third of your fuel. As you start to contemplate finding somewhere soft to ditch Marie comes up behind you, taps your shoulder and points out a red dot in the distance. It blinks on and off...Oh! The docking tower! Finally, a landmark! You squeeze Marie's hand in appreciation and start to plan your approach from here. You'll need to fire a green flare off to let the militia know it's not a raid, come in from the southeast, and hope no-one's left a herd of cattle grazing on the landing strip. You've seen a stray cow engage in mutual destruction with a small plane on the landing strip and you aren't keen to end your flying career in that fashion. You start throttling back power to the engines and reducing altitude. Nearly home. So close you can smell it. Another few hundred meters down, a gentle turn, and fire the flare...Runway lights flick to life in response after an agonizing minute and you let out the breath you forgot you were holding as you ease the wheels down onto the dark grass. Cut the power, yoke forward, pray to the Goddesses that no rut or stone traps your wheel, feel the point that friction and gravity start to take back control of your life, and soon after come to a full stop. You can see lamplight approaching from the hangar side as ground crew (and probably the militia) run out towards you.

Home.

You have a moment of deja vu when you're surrounded by worried faces again, but this time some of them are looking at you down the barrel of a gun. As your engines come to a stop you can hear someone yelling at you to get out of the plane, and not really feeling like ordering your crew to open fire on people you probably know you comply.You lever yourself out of the cockpit with a grunt and the strain of flying catches up with you all at once. You can feel your hands trembling a little as you descend the ladder. You try to force them to be steady as you put your hands in the air, looking around at the circle of lamps. You hear someone shouting over the top of all the other ruckus, a voice like brass band being fueled by a hydraulic bellows that you recognize immediately.

"Put your rifles down, you bloody fools! Are you all blind as well as stupid? It's Schmidt, she lives here! She's not going to bring saboteurs into town."

Neumann. The old foreman at the brewery, now captain of the militia by virtue of seniority and no-one really wanting to argue with him. He pushes through the nervous crowd to stand in front of you, shaking his head so hard his pinned sleeve and immense grey mustaches flutter in the generated breeze.

"Sorry, Ilse. Forgive the lads and lasses, they're just jumpy because you're in late and we had some trouble with a spy while you were away. Every plane that comes in has to be searched for the time being, but we'll pull your bus into a hanger and get it done in the morning, eh? Anything to declare?"

You give an account of your cargo and explain the presence of Ding. Neumann frowns and waves over a dark-skinned young woman in a peaked cap.

"Sergeant, is hanger 5 still empty? Good. This one goes in there, no-one messes with it. Clear?"

She nods, salutes both of you for some reason, and starts ordering the assembled troops to roll your plane away. You suppress an urge to sigh. Hanger 5 is the farthest from the town and well separated from the other airport facilities. It's inconvenient, but until you can prove Ding is tame it's going to happen a lot.

As you walk towards a waiting ox-cart you also describe the plane that attacked you earlier in the evening. The model isn't much to go on - Albatross variants are everywhere - but the color scheme was distinctive. You ask if Jana or Marie saw the roundels or any other detail while they were shooting at it, but the best they can give you is that it was probably a diamond, common enough among merchants and mercenaries alike. Neumann grunts and and has another militia member write down what you can recall. When you're seated on the cart he waves his arm at you.

"Be back here early tomorrow, unless you want us going through your cargo without you! And say hello to Beatrice for me!"

The cart rumbles away, wheels first grinding the dirt and gravel then clattering on the cobblestones. Jana and Marie get off first, intending to hit up a tavern and sort out exactly who got the last shot in before heading home. You wave away their offer to join them, right now you just want to go home and sleep. The driver drops you off at your garden gate, you tip him and hop down. There's still a light in the window as you walk up the path through the herbs and flowers, but it's quiet inside. The door creaks softly as you walk through it into the front room. You discard your flying gear into a carefully arranged pile on the floor, lock the door, and pick up the lamp to go further into the house. Everything is still were it was when you left. No fires, no floods, no earthquakes or other disasters have come into your home. The door to your bedroom is open, but you check the children's room first - all five accounted for and asleep. You walk in to see Beatrice lying on top of the covers with a book in one hand, still dressed but snoring softly. You smile and shut the door behind you, turn out the lamp and lie next to her, taking her glasses off, breathing in her scent and listening to her murmur under her breath until you fall asleep as well.

You wake to the smell of frying bacon, bread, and eggs. You savor the aroma for a moment and then open your eyes. Bea is still right there, looking down at you and smiling. She strokes your hair, saying:

"Hey, there's my brave pilot. Glad to see you decided not to stay at the commune. How was the flying?"

You mumble something about the trip being fine. It's not quite true but you don't really want to think about the journey right now, not when you could take your wife's hands and pull her down for a kiss instead. Before you can go any further than gently nibbling her lower lip you're interrupted by a loud "Ahem!" from the open door. You look up to see Petra standing there with an apron over her overalls, holding a greasy spatula as Niklas peers from behind her. She wags a finger at the pair of you like you were children caught stealing candy.

"No canoodling before breakfast, you two! Ilse, you need to clean up and put your stinky leathers out to air. Beatrice, you need to come and make coffee. Come on, out of bed!"

You and Bea blush and disentangle yourselves. As you stand up (and wince, last night's exertions coming back to you again) Petra's stern look breaks into a smile and even Niklas looks a little bit happy.

"Welcome home, Mutti. But seriously, throw those clothes out so they can get some sun. They smell so bad."

After hauling the offending items into the yard and piling them next to the tub you're forced to agree with her. You spare a minute to have a birdbath before the smell of breakfast overpowers you and you're drawn back into the kitchen to eat. The eggs are runny, the bacon is greasy, and the bread slightly burned. It couldn't taste better if you'd paid a chef in gold for it. (The coffee is amazing, but that's all Bea. You married her for a reason.)

After breakfast, cleaning, and rushing down to Hanger 5 to watch the militia carry out an inspection of your cargo, you still have most of the morning at your disposal. You hear from Tanja, the sergeant overseeing the inspection, that an agent had damaged a number of aircraft belonging to the militia before being caught. Unfortunately they had been killed trying to escape but rumors said the Von Ribbecks were behind it. Your take your cargo and a receipt up to the marketplace, where a representative from the council is more than happy to purchase it. Money burning a hole in your pocket you browse the market stalls until the prices at a aircraft parts shop draw your eye:

1. Shopping (Harness): 2d10 16. Safety harnesses can be installed for your plane at 1Þ per position (5Þ) (+2 Crash Safety, -1 Bail Out)
2. Shopping (Parachute): 2d10 11 A single parachute is available, but will cost 5Þ. (Allows Bail Out...for one person)
3. Nah, save the money.

You move on, drop by the jobs board and chat with the handful of pilots there. It looks like plenty of things need doing that you might be able to help with.

1. The Government Job: A spy is leaving Goth territory. Distract their pursuers. (Decoy, Night Flying, Hostile Land).
2. The Military Job: Keep a vital mountain pass clear for trade flights. (Patrol, Wildlife, Weather)
3. The Private Enterprise Job: A salvage team is stuck in a dead city. Get them out. (Pickup, Landscape, Competition. Desperate Client)
4. The Pilot Job: A pirate squadron has been cornered. Help us destroy their headquarters. (Bombing, Banditry x2.)
5. The Desperate Individual Job: A nearby village is having trouble with poachers. Shoot them down. (Air Superiority, Competition, Wildlife)

You take a few copies of the notices but then get down to the real business of your day: arranging date night. Beatrice hasn't had a break in forever and (not counting getting drunk at Wiesental) neither have you. But now you have the money to take her out on the town for a proper romantic evening, pay someone to look after the kids, hit up the dance halls and fancy restaurants and get a room in a hotel with a big hot bath! You're nearly drooling at the thought of it. And her. You really ought to make sure you have a solid babysitter on hand first though. Who are you going to ask?

• Jana? The kids are always well behaved for her, but sometimes they say strange things about 'the City under the Sea' afterwards.
• Marie? The kids are always happy to see her and exhausted when she goes home, but sometimes it takes a couple of days to get her to leave.
• Surely you know more than two people in this town? (Write in)

You decide your money is best kept as a buffer in case of lean times for now, and tear your eyes away from the parachute. You are able to justify the less extravagant purchase of a somewhat daring red satin gown for yourself and a new suit for Bea to wear on the grounds that local clothiers are in desperate need of business. The packages get sent to your home and you make a quick stop at the downtown apartment complex haunted by your mother-in-law. Wilhelmine is...you like her, honestly. She's fiercely protective of her daughter and maybe a little too traditional in her outlook to really approve of you as a partner for her even when you were working as a waitress. When you said you were going to try being a pilot she laughed at first, and then when she realized you were serious she blew up at you. That was the only time you ever heard her swear, she was so angry. Bea explained to you later that her father and older brother had flown for the Fokker Empire and were killed in action, and Wilhelmine has done her best to keep pilots out of her life ever since. If you're going to reconcile with her, now's the time - when you have had a couple of successful flights to reassure her, and when you can offer her a night with the kids (who she adores and spoils sickeningly) as leverage. You walk up the stairs to her second floor apartment and knock on the door, clearing your throat of the sudden knot that formed for no reason. She opens the door and on seeing it's you initially puts on a sour face, but beckons you inside with a sigh.

"I heard you got in late last night. Reckless of you to fly in the dark, but here you are. Lucky if nothing else. Sit down so I don't stretch my neck looking at you."

You sit at the kitchen table as directed and ask how she heard about your landing.

"Bah, those militia fools like nothing more than gossiping. Phillip is the worst of them, I'm surprised those whiskers of his have time to grow with all the flapping his lips do. Now, what do you want?"

You start with an apology.

"I'm sorry for not taking your feelings into account when I started flying. I...Beatrice told me what happened, and I understand why you would be upset. I'm not going to stop, not yet. But I promise I'll be careful. There's no empire to force me into danger, I won't do anything I'm not confident about coming back from."

She stares inscrutably at you for a long moment, then lets out another long sigh.

"Give me a smoke, would you?"

You comply and light her up. She takes a long drag before continuing.

"I don't believe you. No, don't interrupt. I don't think you're lying, you just don't know yourself well enough to realize you're wrong. You're going to see some injustice and go fight it regardless of the odds. You won't be able to help yourself and that sort of thing is why I didn't want you together, because I've seen what happens to heroes. It's also a big part of why my daughter loves you, so you understand my position is difficult."

She leans back, tapping ash into an empty jam jar and staring at you again.

"I'm not going to give you my blessing or anything stupid like that. But I can't stop you and Beatrice is too soft to reign you in, so I'll tolerate it. But if your new life brings any pain or shame to my girl I will lay down such a curse upon you that your ancestors wombs will wither at the thought of it!"

Her ferocity has you entirely convinced she's not joking. And then like a cloud has passed the sun her mood changes and she smiles.

"Now, schwiegertochter, why don't we talk about those lovely children, hmm? I bet they missed their old granny while we were feuding, so when can I see them again?"

...

The next stop on your journey is Wolkenland, a tavern that services out-of-town pilots. The notice you pulled down from the board directed you to a Herr Andreas Dresner of a circus calling themselves the Hirsch Gruppe at this address. You push through the door and walk down a flight of stairs into the dark cellar that houses the actual bar. The underground bar is a relic of a local wartime edict banning consumption of beers and spirits at places other than those owned by the Von Ribbeck's company, one of many petty tyrannies that the people of Bergfluss haven't forgiven. It's not hard to find Dresner's party, they're the only people in here drunk just after noon. There's 5 of them seated around a table, dressed in pilot mufti and chanting a vaguely obscene song as the sixth downs a stein in a single pull. The drinker finishes his lager with a flourish and slams the stein down in a way that makes you wince at the thought of it cracking. You tap him on the shoulder and as he turns around unsteadily you're struck by a) the fact that he has little antlers coming out of his head and b) how young he is. How young they all are. Göttinnen, this better not be a mistake. He manages to focus his big brown eyes on you with a little effort.

"I'm sorry miss, if this is about the tab I'm afraid you'll have to wait a -"

You cut him off with a wave.

"I don't work here, I'm a pilot. Ilse Schmidt, I'm looking for Dresner, about the job. You work for him?"

He laughs and the table joins in.

"I am him, Frau Schmidt. Please, take a seat. Let's talk business."

You pull a chair from the adjacent table, spin it around and sit down in one practiced move. You do have to push some of their empty glasses back to make room for your elbows which spoils the effect a little, but at least you have the table's attention. Dresner sits as well, leaning forward slightly and holding his head on the side like a curious dog. The other pilots go quiet as well. One coughs. You get the distinct impression they want you to talk first. You feel ridiculous about feeling nervous in front of these kids, but you still have to clear your throat before speaking.

"Uh...the notice said you needed a bomber. I've got a Markgraf Volksfestung in working order, she's down in Hanger 5 at the moment. What's the job?"

The girl sitting to your left whistles, running a hand over her short cropped (and deep mossy green) hair. She looks at you slightly more closely now.

"That's a lot of plane. You handle that all on your own, lady?"

You shrug. Maybe you put a little more effort into showing off your powerful shoulders than you need to.

"I've got a couple of observers, but I'm short a co-pilot at the moment. We've managed so far. The job?"

Dresner chuckles as the girl returns to her drink. He pulls a map out of his pocket and passes it to you. An old military map with a lot of more recent notes, it shows an area in the lowlands to the north with a big X over an airfield well away from any towns. He taps the spot with a broad grin.

"We found a nest of pirates. They've been operating out of this old field for a couple of months now, raiding small villages and intercepting traders everywhere in their operating radius. There's a big bounty for getting rid of them, big enough that we can pay you to level their hangers and still come out rich. We think they've got at least a squadron. They're not local bandits, that's for sure. We spoke to some of the villages they've raided and these bastards are mean and organized. They call themselves Dämmerung and paint their planes orange and black because they've got no imagination. If you've been flying out of here I'm surprised you haven't seen them."

You think back to the previous night. Was that plane in those colors or was it just a trick of the light?

"I might have done. Someone took a shot at us last night but I couldn't be sure of the paint scheme. They were sloppy, though. My observers shot them down before they could make more than one pass."

Dresner nods approvingly.

"Alright, Frau Schmidt. I like the sound of your team, the job is yours. And I'll tell you what, if you can beat me at a game of darts I'll hire a couple of extra crew for the you and cover the cost."

He stands up a little unsteadily and points out the dartboard. You fail to stop yourself from smiling at his rookie mistake, you've been sharking drunks since this guy was in short pants. As he walks over in front you can't help but notice the tail sicking out of a hole in his trousers. In fact, now that you think of it, his whole team kinda have that wildling look. Animal ears and eyes, a couple of tails, the odd tusk, that sort of thing. Not that you have a problem with Wildleute! You just don't see a lot of them around here, that's all. You line up in front of the board and he offers you the first throw with a cheeky grin. You smile back and slam your first dart into the bullseye seemingly without aiming. His jaw drops and his crew erupt with laughter.

...

Later still, you arrive home. Your packages and Wilhelmine have arrived before you, and Bea is already all dressed up and looking divine. The suit could use a little tailoring maybe, but if you have anything to say about it she won't be wearing it for long. You take a little time to wash up before pouring yourself into your new dress and instantly regretting the only shoes you have for dancing in aren't in a matching color. The heels give you enough extra height that you can rest Bea's head on your chest while standing though, and that makes up for any fashion sins. Now you just have to work out your nights itinerary:

You and Bea give the kids hugs and kisses (except Niklas, who doesn't like being held and instead accepts a solemn handshake) before giving Wilhelmine strict instructions with regards to bedtimes, stories, candy, and the like. The three of you know full well the rules are going to be broken the second you're out of sight, but that's all part of the fun. You arranged for a dog-cart to pick you up and the six heavyset dogs with their red and white coats create a cloud of steam with their breath as they pull the pair of you to the most prestigious beer hall in town, the Eagle. It used to be the Prince's Arms, but the name changed quite recently. For some reason. You help Bea down from the cart and pay the driver with a generous tip.

Dinner

You have the Cabbage Rolls (Ground Pork, Rice, Herbs & Spices rolled in Cabbage Leaves - cooked w/Sauerkraut & Smoked Hock Meat. Served w/Sour Cream & Ciabatta Bread), she has the Herring & Apple Salad (Paprika Spiced Herring & Apple on a bed of Crisp Garden Salad & Fried Potatoes w/a Dijon Mustard & Sour-Cream Dressing), and you barely have a second to talk in between mouthfuls. Food for the last few months has been pretty basic with everything good or special reserved for the kids, and a meal you don't have to cook or clean for has been a luxury. The chefs here used to cook exclusively for the elite and sometimes they get a little too fancy for your tastes, but this is just right. You split a strudel and end up having to clean cream off Beatrice's new jacket when your forks get tangled up chasing the last perfect crisp bite of pastry.

Drinking

There's beer with dinner, obviously, but you'd heard good things recently about imported wines from all the way up north in what used to be Macchi and so you get a bottle to share. The slower pace of drinking wine lets you have an actual conversation about your plans for the future, although it pretty quickly devolves into increasingly unsubtle flirtation as the bottle empties. It's light, fruity and incredibly drinkable. You order another, but then a band starts playing and Bea is on her feet and trying to pull you to the dance-floor so you have it sent to your room instead.

Dancing

The local music scene had been stiflingly traditional for years after the war, with the workers choir and brass band or a handful of chamber musicians pretty much being the only game in town. That had changed with the influx of refugees from the bigger cities to Bergfluss bringing new instruments, new styles and new ways of thinking about music with them. Now young people demand faster, louder and more scandalous acts seemingly each week, and Bea loves every bit of it. You can take or leave most of the music, but when your wife holds out her hand to lead you to the floor you can feel your heart flutter and you don't care what the band is doing so long as it gives you a beat to work with. By the time the band is playing it's last slow, soft piece you couldn't name a single song. Bea's tie has come undone at some point and you sway and press your bodies together to the last notes as the lights come down.

Hotel

By the time you're walking to the hotel the evening chill has well and truly set in, and you shiver as the cold wind bites at your bare shoulders. Beatrice comes to your rescue with a chivalric display of giving you her jacket, which is a couple of sizes too small but it's a nice thought. When she starts shivering you have to resort to using your body to keep her warm, which seems to have been her plan the whole time! She's clever like that, and when you reach the hotel you're both red cheeked from the cold and from stopping along the way to adjust each other's clothing. The night manager winks at you as he hands over the key to the honeymoon suite and assures you the fire is on and your wine has been delivered. You have to carry Bea the last few meters as she gets more and more irresponsible, locking the door behind you with one hand before throwing her onto the bed. It's been a good night. It's about to get better.
...
You can't sleep. You're lying in a feather bed with your wife's arms wrapped around you, enjoying the warmth of her body and her smell and her nearness. You should be relaxed and happy. Instead your thoughts are racing ahead to the next flight, the next mission, the next brush with death or damnation. Those wildling kids are so eager and confident to go and face down a whole squadron of pirates. Do they have any idea what they're getting in to?

Do you?

Later that morning you're standing around a table at Wolkenland with Hirsch Gruppe, Jana and Marie, all poring over a surveyors map depicting the general area the target airfield is in and an old aerial photograph of the field itself, blown up to the size of a newspaper. It occurs to you that Dresner must have some pretty good sources or deep pockets to get information like this, but it feels like it would be impolite to ask about them this early in a partnership. If that's what this is. Are you a partner or a sub-contractor here? The kid never made your status clear, once you showed off your skill at darts he just gave you the job without asking questions. Odd way to do business. He seems to be professional enough at arranging an attack at least.

"So as you can see there are four hangers here, here, here, and here. The large block here used to be the barracks and administration, and we can presume 'Dämmerung' (he makes use of sarcastic air quotes every time he says the pirate group's name) are at least using it to sleep in if not carrying out much actual administration. Further down here was a hardened munitions dump, but there's been no reports of them using any ordnance larger than a flare so we can presume that's empty or already blown up. Four large gun pits. We don't know if the old flak cannons are still in operation, so assume they are because that's the worst scenario. They'll definitely have a few machine-guns set up to keep low level attackers honest, but that's where our new friends and their fancy Markgraf bomb-sight come in."

He nods in your direction.

"Our job is to render the airfield unusable, or as close to it as possible. Practically that means destroying the hangers, maybe the admin block. If we could get our hands on some air-dropped mines we could close the runway but the locals don't have any, and frankly that's a dick move anyway and I shouldn't have asked and ow, dammit, Anne! I get it!"

The moss haired girl (Anne, apparently) has been kicking him under the table and staring daggers from the moment he mentioned using mines. Obviously this isn't the first time they've had this conversation. He turns to you and coughs to cover his embarrassment.

"ANYway, the rest of the approach is up to you. We can escort you there and back because it's well within our endurance, but we expect there's going to be more of them than there are of us, even if not all of them are in the air when we arrive. We'll have time do to familiarization so your gunners know who not to shoot at, but honestly I'd like to get this show on the road as soon as possible. What are your thoughts?"

Everyone looks at you as you clear your throat.