I'm very familiar with the anime, having seen huge chunks of it including the entirety of the first season. Beyond that I barely comprehend what the rest of your words mean (this is why using random acronyms is problematic).
I'm very familiar with the anime, having seen huge chunks of it including the entirety of the first season. Beyond that I barely comprehend what the rest of your words mean (this is why using random acronyms is problematic).
Translation: Strike Witches Quest is a tale that was held on 4Chan's /tg/ (Traditional Games) board that basically greatly improved the setting of Strike Witches.
For starters, I'm just going to go ahead and personally interpret that strike-through as a violation of Sufficient Velocity Rule #3 (No Personal Attacks Against Other Members) since it serves absolutely zero purpose other than to antagonize and so I'd just like to make a personal request that you refrain from doing that. I'm not a mod so I can't do anything else about it, but I'm hoping you'll take such personal request into consideration.
It was actually considered quite aerodynamically efficient. It was considered both highly maneuverable and stable (two usually exclusive flight characteristics) and well-liked by its crews. Wikipedia also lists a speed of 366 MPH at altitude which is rather fast for a twin-engine aircraft of this size. It was, after all, designed by the same guy that designed Northrop's flying wings and indeed whose name forms the same as that of the company itself. As summarized in said Wikipedia article, the main failings of the P-61 relate to teething problems throughout development (many were solved in successive marks) and simply in that it arrived too late in the war to rack up an impressive combat record.
The radar sets were cumbersome at the time yes but I'm not sure what's being get at with "planes were smaller." Relative to contemporary single-engine types it was larger.
they had a lackluster record in the real world because by the time they were in production and flying most of the Axis airfields and carriers were reduced to chunky salsa or empty parking lots
That part is true, but again a lack of ability to see combat does not automatically translate into a "lackluster record." By that logic the Su-37 or even F-22 is an incredibly lousy airplane. Plus most Japanese night intrusions were made with land-based aircraft (usually large bombers that would not be able to deploy onboard a carrier, at all).
because of the fact that islands make AWESOME airbases from which to bitch-slap the other guy and the fact that America never ran out of material.
I'm not even sure what kind of sentiment is going on here. But as liked to the articles above the P-61 did enjoy much success being deployed from island bases.
You sir, have a uncomfortable lack of familiarity with the flight ergonomics of a brick. I speak from experience that they have a most excellent set of ballistic figures, and are well-suited for throwing and thus it may be presumed that if airfoils and engines were added they would handle quite similarly in powered flight to a P-51 Black Widow.
You are a fighter pilot of the 442nd Night Fighter squadron, newly minted ace-in-a-day, and you've just seen a blonde girl in her underwear hauled backwards out of her bedroom window by a big tentacle.
You process the information, analyze the situation, and come to a reasonable conclusion.
"We're fucked," you state intelligently.
Your radar operator, Sean, has a more eloquent reaction. Sprinting for the window, the crazy motherfucker makes a perfect swan dive right through it without touching the sides.
"Why," you ask empty air. It's all you can think to do, all things told.
In adjacent rooms, you hear the splintering of wood and more high-pitched feminine screams.
I've had good days, bad days, and weird ones. This would not be the first or last one.
Either way, though, shit is about to get real. Time to nut up or bail out, and parachutes don't work off of castles.
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Being woken up in the middle of the night after an exhausting day of almost dying by evil martian tentacles has kind of thrown you off your groove. Or whatever it is those beatnik shitheads call it.
The blonde girl was reaching for an end-table drawer. You dash over to it and yank it open, hoping to find some glowing weapon of eldritch and terrible power.
Instead, you find a Walther PPK. Well, one out of three isn't bad. You jam it in your belt and rush to the window to see what the hell is going on. Looking out the third-story window, you see nothing on the ground - but there IS some crushed shrubberies, and a busted ground-floor window.
From within you hear the distinct *popopop* of Sean's S&W .38 caliber revolver going to work, and the hair-raising wail of something slimy and utterly alien.
Horrified screams and cries from the other rooms continue, and you reason that most of the other Witches have been taken by surprise as well - and with a chill you realize the Martians would not have overlooked Sanya, either.
Ok, this isn't too bad. Sure, it's only 9mm Parrabellum, holds eight rounds with one in the chamber, and is pint-sized. Not that bad.
Maybe if I keep saying that I'll believe it.
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With your wits finally turning, you reason there's damn little you can do against prepared Martians on your own. Martians are big, nasty-looking bastards, but not much more durable then a human, unarmored.
Except these bastards most certainly came prepared with body armor, rayguns and all that other Buck Rogers shit. And against that, a pistol and a single pilot ain't going to cut it.
I'm going to get so much millage out of that image it isn't even funny. Worse, the martian masers and heat-rays work like flashlights, except theirs aren't junk. I think MC may need to hug a Thunderhawk or something after this.
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You dimly remember some old guy with a beard who liked to say a lot of things that sometimes sounded deep. One of them was "a pistol is for fighting your way to your rifle." Turns out he was half-right - two pistols are for fighting your way to somebody else's medium machine gun.
You exit the room and go bolting down the hallway, ignoring the rooms and heading for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Your goal is the hangar, or nearby spaces, where weapons and ammo will be stored.
Deeper in the castle, no screams or shouts of battle can be heard - more likely owing to the thickness of the walls then anything else. As you pass the dining area, you notice movement in the kitchen. You dash into it, both pistols up and ready.
It's just Miyafuji, with a sammich on a plate. She squeals when she sees you charging in, mussed up and waving two pistols around.
"Oh, shit."
See what I mean about limited-usefulness Witches? This is a medic who happens to also be a fighter. BAD COMBO. At least she brings food and is conveniently located.
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"What are you doing!?" she wails, understandably upset.
"Uh, don't freak out, but there are aliens in the base."
She promptly freaks out, with all sorts of "GYAAAAH?" and other half-human sounds you suppose must be common modes of communication in Japan. From what little you've seen of it you assume the Japanese language is a hybrid of actual words and a kind of fucked-up morse code, where different pitches of squeals stand for dots and dashes, with a few special-case phrase-squeals thrown in.
If I was making a drinking game, Young (the MC) saying something stupid would be a sip, and making someone panic would be a shot. If it happens in battle, down the whole glass.
I may or may not want my audience to dump tons of money into prosthetic livers at the end of this.
Either way, there is a plan. Get to Armory, get guns, get Strikers in the air. Not a bad plan- Young's an officer for a reason.
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As you round one wing of the castle, you see Sean limping towards you, the blonde girl with him. Before you can raise your hand to greet him, a Martian emerges from a high window and drops towards Sean, tentacles extended in all directions like a starfish.
To describe a Martian is an exercise in futility, because no two look exactly alike. Scientists have spent plenty of time arguing the point, but the best guess is they are semiamorphus, extending tentacle-like pseudopods whenever they feel like it.
Suffice it to say that a man-sized mass of tentacle-y facerape is descending towards Sean, and it does not look friendly.
If we didn't need Sean to operate the radar, I'd say to leave him here. However, the more aliens we kill now, the less moaning the repair crews will do when the topic of unfucking the Widow comes up.
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Sean, however, gives zero fucks. Before you can even shout a warning, he's shoved blondie clear and turning to grapple with the alium plummeting towards him from above. It hits with less force then it should, given the distance, and Sean is immediately punching and grappling like a madman.
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Thus occupied, he doesn't notice when another alium emerges from the bushes on the shore-side. This one is actually dressed, and one delicate tentacle wields a big, nasty ray-gun of the most Buck Rogerian sort.
You turn, raise your M1911, and empty eight rounds into its rubbery hide in about 1.8 seconds, splattering green ichor all about and putting it down.
These should really count towards our ace-hood, or at least help in our efforts to get laid eventually. Also, this counts as some good pistol-work, as those 1911s kick like mules and are also LOUD.
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At this point the blonde, still wearing nothing but her underwear, lights up like a roman candle, the purple glow of magic outlining her brightly. She winds up with one dainty fist, and swings hard at the Martian grappling with Sean. She manages to put a dainty little hole right in the Martians' blubbery "head," and it rolls of Sean limply, dripping ichor and twitching oddly.
"Nice timing," she says, panting. Despite everything, you find her panting oddly distracting until Miyafuji kicks you in the shin.
Oh, right. Aliums.
"Miyafuji, the hangar!" the other girl says, and all three of you limp towards it.
You get close enough to almost have your head taken off by the Martian crew-served Maser that's been erected in the small courtyard. All three of you yank your heads back in time before your skulls are melted off.
FYI, because I had to check, the blonde in question was the one who got bedroom-yanked in the OP. -1 Author Points, Deme.
More importantly, what happened to "GET TO THE GUNS!!!" which would really help. Machine gunners and grenades mix very well when you throw the grenade, after all.
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"We go around," Erica says immediately. "This is our turf, we know it better."
She's got a point, and none of you are ready to argue with a Maser emplacement. Masers are nasty motherfuckers; because radiation of any sort has a nasty way of leeching through a Witches shields. It can be blocked entirely with special effort, and is rarely immediately lethal, but with so few Witches in the air, an eventual kill is just as good for the Martians. The masers are relatively new; before that they were trying to bake Witches through their shields with heat-rays.
Which is exactly what the Martian you just shot was wielding. The sally port Erica leads you to is right near where the first shots were fired. You gingerly pluck the heat-ray from the Martian's dead tentacle.
"Are you fucking MAD?" Sean breathes, tensing as if he's ready to either punch you out or dive for cover. "You know what they do with those things!"
"Fucking EXACTLY," you state. Sean catches your meaning after a second, and gives you a look that says 'not when I'm anywhere near you, you crazy fucker.'
Well, actually he says it out loud, but there's also a look. To enforce the matter.
So... Blondie turned into Erica. Ok. (-2 Author Points.) I can handle this. Also, is something up with that heatray? I smell IED from here, and that is a disaster, as MC is American and therefore takes a stiff -20 racial penalty to handling Improvised Explosives.
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Entering the castle again, Erica leads you through a series of dusty, under-used corridors. In the distance, you hear the muted barks of sporadic rifle fire.
"The engineers," Erica guesses grimly.
"Pinned down," Sean says. "They'll be fine. Hold'em by the nose, rape 'em in the-"
"How can you say such things so casually!?" Miyafuji squealyowls.
"It's easy, I open my mouth and fucking say it!" Sean says, irritated.
Ahead... Erica? Her name comes back to you from the early afternoon, when you were introduced in the lounge. Anyway, she jerks to a sudden halt at an intersection, turns to one side, and hollers. "MINNA!"
Poking your head around the corner, you see Minna, back to the double-doors of the briefing room, still dressed in her shirt and... well, her shirt, holding up an impressive shield against three Martians armed with... pokey stick things and one is, unbelievably, wielding a fucking sap.
That's when Sean shoves past you at a dead run, hands open and eager and ready.
There's an old pic I dearly wish I have which has a member of the Minesota Vikings going for a tackle with Manowar lyrics superimposed. Instead, have a song about badass vikings.
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Sean charges for a huge glass display case hung on the wall near the doors of the briefing room, not ten feet away from the Martians menacing Minna. You have no fucking idea why, but the goddamn thing is filled with a wide assortment of bladed massacre and mayhem. Sean presses both palms against the glass and shoves sideways with a grunt of brute strength, breaking the flimsy lock.
A Martian spins in a pinwheel of tentacles and is almost upon him when Sean himself spins, a basket-hilted broadsword in his hands. The steel flashes, and the alium retreats minus two tentacles.
Something barks from the hallway behind you and you go down hard as Erica hits you from behind, pancaking you to the floor. You squirm forward desperately as something fires at you again from the hallway behind you.
Miyafuji is pressed against the wall, shaking like a leaf, the Walther wandering about aimlessly. Erica is eyeing the display case and the chaos further down the hall near Minna, deciding her move.
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How many behind us!?" you ask Erica.
"Fucktons!" she exclaims, then says something extremely colorful in German by way of commentary.
Witches can beat the shit out of nearly anybody barehanded, with enough expenditure of magic, but there's not a damn thing you can do about the melee by the briefing room with a pistol and a heat-ray.
That leaves the imminent aliumrush from behind. "Miyafuji, cover me!"
"Wh-what?"
"COVER me, you fuckwit!"
"O-okay," she says uncertainly, readying the PPK.
"As fucking IF," you say, eyeing the tiny pistol. With no time to explain, you seize the tiny girl and sling her under one arm, then charge into the hallway, high wide and handsome.
DAMN THE TORPEDOES, FULL SPEED AHEAD.
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"What the why you son of a duck!" Miyafuji howls at you, pounding her hands on your leg until you drop her on the window-seat.
"Sorry," you say. "Now shut the fuck up and cover your ears." You jerk the alien heat-ray out of your belt, and prepare for your ploy.
"ARE YOU CRAZY!?" Miyafuji says, seeing you draw the ray. "THEY EXPLODE!"
Remember the bit where I mentioned the hand grenades and machine gunners? Peperage Farm Remembers The Author knows it too, and three guesses where that IED is going?
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Martian weapons are as strange, varied, and incomprehensible as everything else about the miserable bastards. Their weapons operate on mostly-identifiable physical properties, but their power sources are a mystery, as well as their safe operation. At first it was assumed that exploding alium heat-rays were a booby-trap, but now they think the aliens regulate the power sources with psionics or some shit like that.
You don't know and don't care. All you know is, their weapons explode with impressive force when humans fuck with them.
Just like this one does.
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The area down the hall simply ceases to exist. The blast blows down the hall, leaving you and Miyafuji mostly unmolested in the recessed window alcove. After a few seconds, you poke your head out and verify that the aliens are dead as shit.
You whoop like a red injun. "SPIN ON IT, XENOS!" Latching onto Miyafuji's shoulder, you drag her back down the hallway at a dead run, hoping all your friends are still alive.
They are, though not in the best of shape. Minna is sitting on the floor, dazed, and you see she's had the shit kicked out of her, with a lump on her skull and blood trickling from her mouth. Erica is kneeling by her, and Sean stands over them, the basket-hilted broadsword held ready in one hand.
You pull Sean aside. "Now?"
"Witches in the air," he says.
"Before all else," you agree. You share a dark look between yourselves, an understanding as to what "all else" entails, and clap each other on the shoulder briefly before continuing on. Minna, though staggered and bleeding, insists on coming along, and her voice still carries command presence. She does not, however, try to command - probably understanding that there's little to be done at the moment besides get back into the struggle.
For all the people in the audiance who care, that should technically be two quotes, but I'm not afraid to abridge some shit to make things work better.
This isn't going to set a dangerous precedent and lead to issues later on down the line, no sir...
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They take you right inside the hangar.
As you step into the shadowed recesses of the cavernous hangar, a Martian sweeps your legs from under you with one tentacle and brings a heavy club whistling towards your head. A swift jerk of your skull is the only thing that saves it from being split open like a melon, but the tentacle soon winds about your legs and drags you across the cold concrete floor. From the screams and shouts you know the Witches are similarly grappled and helpless.
And then you hear someone singing, deep and strong.
Your 1911 is lost in the darkness, but you can still feel the PPK bruising your appendix. The alien hauls you closer, its club - clubs - raised and poised, waiting till it can pin you down and stop playing whack-a-human. You were waiting till you had a target. The PPK flashes from your waistband and the gun empties itself into the Martians head with a single squeeze of the trigger.
Well, that's a fucking PPK for you.
This is why we like big guns and cannot lie. When in doubt, big and slow bullets do more damage than small and fast. This is also why we make sure we have extra magazines for the good gun next time. Also, seeing as I have room for once in the pic budget, have a look at the Alien's plan.
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You scoot under a nearby table, hoping to buy time to reorient. The strong baritone singing grows louder, and you see Sean standing in front of Erica, who's picking herself up off the floor. A few severed tentacles and a discarded club lie nearby, and before Sean stand two taught, tense Martians, hovering at about torso height on most of their tentacles. They each wield two long double-pronged pokey things, held out before them menacingly.
Behind them, you see Minna twitching senselessly on the ground, and with sudden, awful horror you put a few things together.
They're using cattle prods, which means Sean's in trouble.
It also means they're here to capture.
Both Martians lunge for Sean at the same time, and then you see something you never, ever expected from Sean.
Grace.
Did our RIO suddenly figure out how to activate Angry Crusader Modo? I really want an excuse to throw out some big angry Templar pics.
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You can't find your gun, Sean is outnumbered and overmatched, and oh FUCK IT. You snatch the dead Martian's club off the floor and rush the enemy. Sean might have some cool war song or whatever, but you're less erudite.
"BADGERFUCKER SHITLICKEERRRzzaaZZASHahahalwkrrrrr" you scream incoherently as your headlong madman charge is met with the end of one of the stun prods.
Everything goes hazy after that, but you hear somebody bellow "FAUGH A BALLAUGH MOTHERFUCKERS!" and then, for as much of it as you're aware, there's nothing but horrid, alien screams, green ichor, and some blood. You cach glimpses of Sean, roaring and raging, lashing out with his fist and his blade, wading through the tentacles and the flailing stun-prods, moving like a furious hurricane.
You come around in a minute or two to find Sean slumped against an engineer's workbench, breathing raggedly, soaked in green ichor and a little of his own blood. The aliens lay all around him, hacked into pieces. Miyafuji and Erica are slipping into their Striker Units and slinging their weaponry.
...
Well, Alex, I'll take Angry Crusader Modo for 200. Meanwhile, Young proves to be an absolute retard. COME ON MAN, EVEN THE FRENCH CAN PARRY. At least Erica and Miyafuji have had enough time to suit up and get airborne. Meanwhile, there's probably a landed UFO or some shit that they're chucking all the loot in or somesuch.
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You find your 1911 on the floor, and then stagger over to Minna. She manages to focus her eyes on you, even though her limbs are still twitching a bit.
"Be right back," you tell her, and go in search of heavier firepower.
You find it. "Come to PAPA," you breathe, finding a heavy rifle near a racked Striker with the name "Merlin" painted on the side. You cradle the Browning Automatic Rifle tenderly, like a father with his firstborn. And on the table nearby, you find a pistol belt with two more 1911 magazines, which you swiftly steal.
Sean seems spent, and Minna can barely move. You, on the other hand, are now at the peak of your meager infantryman potential.
And apparently Young wants to Viking it. Goddamnit, Young, I can't even quote Conrad yet because we're not there yet!
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You spin on your heel to head out and do... what, again? You're terrified, furious, weary and trembling with battle rage all at the same time. This isn't your turf, literally or metaphorically, and it's not even your command.
You kneel near Minna. "Commander," you say, snapping your fingers over her eyes. She blinks, dazedly focusing on you. "Miyafuji and Erica are airborne. We're in the hangar."
"The others?" she says, dazed.
"They were ambushed in their beds. Dragged out."
She gasps, eyes widening, and manages to struggle into a sitting position. "They've been captured. They're taking them away. Away!"
You grab her hand and try to pull her upright, but her feet slip clumsily on the concrete and she just dangles. Slinging the BAR, you use both arms to sling her to her feet. "Orders?" you ask her.
"Smash and grab," she says. She's speaking a bit disjointedly, but you take the meaning. The Martians will be leaving with their prizes, and soon.
"Breasts bike," Minna slurs.
"The fuck?"
"Big breasted BITCH, the bike, you fuck," she slurs drunkenly, leaning against you. She whimpers clutching at her head. "Charlotte. Merlin. Motorbike."
You glance back at the Striker bay you just looted, and sure enough, there's a motorcycle. Supporting Minna, you both rush to it.
"You know how?" Minna says, nodding at the bike. You shoot her a sardonic look - as if fighter pilots drive *cars.* Indeed. You hand her your 1911 and secure the BAR across your chest before slinging onto the motorcycle and kickstarting it, gunning the engine with pure primal glee...
Ok, aside from the PILOT MUST MOTORCYCLE thing, this isn't a bad plan. Sure, it reeks of the old Civ V thing where you have to chance your Workers for a thousand years, but hey! that's Civ V. Time to ramp up the cheese and get our girls back!
...
I just realized that's the plot of half the old stories, starting with the Aenid and up.
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"Hold on tight, Minna," you say, completely serious. Like everything mechanical, loud, fast and hated by conscientious mothers, you immediately love the motorcycle, and feel an instant kinship with it. Twisting the throttle viciously, you pop a wheelie leaving the hangar, roaring past the pureed remains of the Martian maser crew. When your front wheel comes down again you lean into a steep turn to circle the castle and approach the dormitory wing, gunning the engine for even more power to keep the rear wheel digging for traction. Straightening, you unleash the obviously modified engine, reveling in the deep, mean, throaty roar. Minna hangs on for dear life, her arms tight around your waist and her face pressed into your back.
You don't mind that, not one bit.
Rounding the side of the building, you find the entire eastern side of the island engulfed in the flames of war. Men with rifles and submachine guns lurk behind bushes or crouch behind rocks, popping up to fire now and then. From the shore-side of the island come Martian fire, screeching rockets and and the occasional maser or heat-ray beam lighting up the sky.
"Ten O'Clock!" Minna shouts, and looking, you see Sakamoto crouching behind a low stone wall near the area you saw the Witches using for outdoor training the day previous. Roaring towards it, you turn the bike sideways and halt yourself with a completely unnecessary, showy skid.
God DAMN you love fast stuff.
"Sakamoto, you magnificent thieving bitch hot DAMN!" you exclaim. "What now?"
Sakamoto shoves on Minna's back, forcing you up onto the fuel tank a bit, then sits on the scant seat thus cleared. "NO TIME!" she bellows. "THE SHIP, DRIVE!"
"No rush, they're not going anywhere," you say. As if on cue, you hear the chatter of automatic fire from the sky as Miyafuji and Erica begin their strafing runs.
"Oh," she says, mollified. "Well, they're pinned, then. What now?"
My personal plan would be RAMMING SPEED BITCHES, but I wasn't around for this the first time. And as this bit's a two-parter, this is the end of this update.
TECHNICALLY, the pilot of a multi-person plane has to be an officer, and all pilots must be at least Warrant Officers. Note that doesn't mean not-officer's can't get flying approval, they just can't be in charge.
TECHNICALLY, the pilot of a multi-person plane has to be an officer, and all pilots must be at least Warrant Officers. Note that doesn't mean not-officer's can't get flying approval, they just can't be in charge.
This is WWII that took a hard right turn when Martians kicked our door in and asked who left the hookers and blow. There is no sanity here- and if you want proof, wait until... think it's Thread 16-ish when Patton shows up.
"Okay, I'll get you to your Striker unit," you tell Sakamoto, preparing to gun the motorcycle.
"Ffffuck no," she says, her single visible eye flashing with eager light. She thrust her katana past your head, pointing at the beach. "TO THE MARTIAN SHIP! BANZAI!"
You blink.
"If they can't steal them, they'll kill them," Minna says. "Do it!"
Girl's got a point. You turn the motorcycle towards the Martian positions, gun the engine for all its worth, and drive straight into a huge concentrated barrage of heat-rays, rockets and bullets.
Good job. You're dead. BAD END.
Asshole railroading DM's and their stupid "muh plot"...
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Except when you open your eyes, you're bathed in the searingly bright light of Minna's active shield. "DRIVE!" she screams, clutching you with an iron grip, and you do what you do best.
You drive.
The terrain is broken and cluttered, with a seeming abundance of waist-high obstacles strewn about for no fucking reason - typical English landscaping, you suppose. The machine handles beautifully, and even with two girls who've no idea how to lean into turns, you eat up the distance between you and the Martians with incredible speed. You feel your skin drying out, and with horror realize the Martians are training their heat-rays on you, which Minna's shield can't entirely stop.
Or not! Welcome to 7734's Got Midterms and content production desire! This is gonna be interesting in all the bad ways today!
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Behind you, Sakamoto is laughing that same strong belly laugh, but this time it isn't stopping, and there's a new, feral quality to it. "THAT'S THE WAY, PILOT!" she roars with unholy glee. "SHOW THEM YOUR SKILL!"
The Martians are now plainly visible, and you actually VRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOM past their advanced line before they can react. The bike's suspension lurches, and you see Sakamoto FLYING THROUGH THE FUCKING AIR, her kanana glowing with battle-magic as she roars with primal fury, her shield active as she hurtles towards the hapless Martians.
Meanwhile, as Sakabroto goes full Samurai on those poor, helpless Martians, Young must make an important choice: How can he nail enough Martians to make this count?
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Minna's eyes dart from the dark landing craft, then back up the low bluff. The sounds of gunfire and men's shouting are growing louder by the second, and you can tell the engineers and male support staff are making a headlong charge, probably taking advantage of your distraction. Minna's face twists in pain, and you're watching as her eyes go cold and flat.
"Support the advance," she says, nodding at your BAR. "I'm entering the ship."
Well, this won't do! Young obviously has more self-scrafice and a cast-iron sack, so this pansy ground order must be circumvented!
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Minna shoves your pistol into your abdomen, her eyes blazing with fury.
"Those men are being butchered up there, you selfish fuck! I'm the Commander! ME! You fucking... arrogant, selfish, pigheaded egotistical... PILOT!" She spits the last as if it's the nastiest word she could possibly use.
So you do the only thing you can think of, which is to slam the strongest part of your skull into the weakest part of hers. You're not the biggest guy in the world - pilots rarely are - but Minna weights all of a hundred pounds soaking wet, and she's already been battered a-plenty tonight. She topples onto her ass, stunned.
"SIR, FUCK YOU VERY MUCH SIR," you declare, shoving the BAR into her arms and taking your 1911 back. It'll be more useful in the close quarters in the alien ship.
Not how I'd do it, but hey, the resulting stun from blunt-force impact can always be blamed on explosives or some shit. Either way, time to enter this thing.
Well, time to go where no man has gone before- waitaminute, isn't that Frank's gig or something?
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Before Minna can get up and rip your anus out and feed it to you, you haul ass for the Martian vessel. It's like nothing you've ever seen before, and every pilot has seen just about everything they've cooked up, on recognition flashcards if nothing else. It looks like a flattened spheroid, and is strangely sleek for a Martian vessel - they've no seeming care or worry about concepts like aerodynamics. Just one more oddity, all told.
An entrance is easy to find - there's several hexagon-shaped openings all over the sides. You grab onto a protrusion near the edge and sling your way in, 1911 up and ready.
The inside is a tubular nightmare. The construction is neither wholly mechanical nor organic, with strange, flowing shapes molding into stark geometric bulkheads and boxy equipment with no seeming rhyme or reason. It's obviously designed for the tentacle-ball Martians, as there's no clear pathways and the ship seems laid out like a honeycomb - you'd have to be a monkey to navigate it easily.
>Insert Minna calling Young a vaugely monkey-based insult here.
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Before Minna can get up and rip your anus out and feed it to you, you haul ass for the Martian vessel. It's like nothing you've ever seen before, and every pilot has seen just about everything they've cooked up, on recognition flashcards if nothing else. It looks like a flattened spheroid, and is strangely sleek for a Martian vessel - they've no seeming care or worry about concepts like aerodynamics. Just one more oddity, all told.
An entrance is easy to find - there's several hexagon-shaped openings all over the sides. You grab onto a protrusion near the edge and sling your way in, 1911 up and ready.
The inside is a tubular nightmare. The construction is neither wholly mechanical nor organic, with strange, flowing shapes molding into stark geometric bulkheads and boxy equipment with no seeming rhyme or reason. It's obviously designed for the tentacle-ball Martians, as there's no clear pathways and the ship seems laid out like a honeycomb - you'd have to be a monkey to navigate it easily.
Alright, time to find the big Elerium stick and start spraying it with bullets. Can;t be that hard if regular Army can knock these things out.
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From above you, a scream: "LOOK OUT!"
You don't bother trying to figure out which of the six dimensions the Martian is coming from, so you just dive through the nearest honeycomb-like set of girders and roll on the ground a bit. Something big and Alien-like goes FLHAMPHULAMPALAUMP as it lands near you in a big ball of tentacles. One thing a fighter pilot is good at is spatial awareness, so you've no trouble locating the enemy. Thrusting the 1911 at it, you jerk the trigger three times, the mighty concussions of the hefty .45 caliber pistol kicking your eardrums hard in the enclosed space. The Martian isn't dead, however, and adroitly snatches your pistol away from you, tearing it from your hand with such force your trigger finger is wrenched out of the trigger guard with terrible pain.
A tentacle latches around your throat, crushing your windpipe, and you feel the cold circle of the muzzle pressed against your forehead.
Uh-oh. See what I mean about railroading? We didn't even roll initiative!
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*click*
A meaty, alien trill.
*clickclickclick*
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BANG!
You shit so hard it blows clean through the side of the Martian ship and propels you out the other door. Your bowels convulse with the force of ten thousand gorillas on PCP as your brain warps into a tube to evade the path of the bullet. You scream so loudly the bullet shatters in midair as you go hurtling towards a dark tube with a bright light at the end.
This all happens the instant you hear that huge, horribly loud BANG! and none of it happens because for some insane fucking reason you're still alive.
There's another horridly loud BANG! and then two more in quick succession. Since you're not dead, you figure, hey, may as well take a breath. Then another. Then you open your eyes, and you find yourself staring at Francesca Luuchini.
"HA!" she hollers. "YOUR FACE! YOUR FACE! OH MY GOD, YOUR FACE!"
You clutch at your face in horror, expecting to find it blown off, but it's perfectly intact.
"THE LOOK ON YOUR FACE!" she yodels, and then she breaks into desperate, hysterical laughter.
Stupid frikkin Spaghetti spies always stealing my ship plans- waitaminute, this isn't Rule The Waves. Still just as annoying. I swear they sectretly took all the guns off a few pre-dreadnoughts and just turned them into floating computers to irritate me. Just like this. Even across universes, the Itallians plague us!
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"HEY!" you growl-screech at the ceiling. "FUCK YOU, ZUCCHINI!"
Her laughter comes to a sudden, strangled halt.
"I'VE TAKEN SHITS BIGGER THEN YOU, YOU LITTLE TWERP!" you howl, flailing about like mad. "AHRGH OFF, OFF, OFF ME!" you almost scream, tearing at the stiff, rubbery tentacle still wrapped around your throat. Staggering upright, you kick the dead Martian as hard as you can, lifting it an inch off the floor. "FUCK, YOU, I BARBECUE OCTOUPUZZ!"
From behind you comes the sounds of strangled, helpless laughter. Turning, you see Ian, slumped against one of the honeycomb-like girders, absolutely helpless with laughter. His chest is heaving, but he barely has breath to wheeze more laughter.
"What?" you ask incoherently.
Ian raises his right hand a little, drawing your eyes to his sidearm - a big, heavy Colt 1909 revolver chambered in .45 ACP, which he held onto even after 1911s were issued in their stead. He fumbles a half-moon clip out of his pocket, and makes a weak motion to reload his pistol, but the laughter takes him again and he slumps, unable to move.
Above you, that fucking Italian bint starts laughing again. "Ya look like you were trying to shit and scream at the same tiiiIIIIIIIEAAAAAAAH!" she exclaims, plummeting from orbit. You look up in time to see her snag a honeycomb girder before she drops too far.
From the roof of the odd vessel, other Witches come tumbling down, all of them managing to catch themselves with some amount of grace - except Gertrude, who just bounces off a few girders. You lunge to catch her in your arms, except 110 pounds of falling girl aren't easily stopped. Instead of catching her, you cushion her fall.
"T-th-thanks," she stammers, scrambling off you. You groan with pain. At least the hum is gone.
Ok, looks like instead of blowing the whole thing to kingdom come we just slaughtered Aliens. Now, sombody find Vahlen or Tygan and tell them to throw this shit in the lab and set it to "Spit out body armor"
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Hum? Yes, the hum. You weren't even aware of it till it ceased. Trude pulls you off your ass in time to see Sakamoto emerge from some separate compartment near the center of the odd vessel, her katana still glowing.
"I, Sakamoto Mio, declare this ship impounded and immobile," she says with satisfaction.
"Translate from blowhard, please," Ian says, irked.
Sakamoto flips up her eyepatch to reveal an eye glowing with magic. "I saw a glowy thing, and I sworded it. Now the ship is broke."
That works too.
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"The xeno scum... have been purged," she says, wiping her blade off on her sleeve carelessly. For the first time, you notice she's wearing a big, fluffy pink bathrobe, and you don't think she's got anything on underneath.
"Nice timing," Ian says. "They were sniffing for me, and I thought I was boned before you came charging in."
"I've been playing bait all night," you bitch. You look down at the dead Martian, one tentacle still clutching your .45. "How the fuck did I live?"
"You put it out of battery," Ian says.
"I... what?"
"Out of battery. With your forehead. You pressed your skull against the gun as much as possible. It was out-of-battery." Ian almost giggles again, but manages to catch himself before the mad laughter takes hold again. "Should've seen the fucker. Cocked it four, five times, couldn't figure out what was wrong."
You shake your head. If you'd intended to do that, you have no recollection of it.
TECHNICAL MOMENT! Young made it so that this gun went from this
To this
which makes sure everything doesn't line up and the gun not shoot. Budding dictators, this is why you don't put a pistol on the head when you shoot them, you put it near the head.
Anyway, fight's over. Time to go get patched up and handle things with your crew. After all, you need souvenirs! More importantly, you need to make sure all your stories line up for when the medals start getting passed out. Also, Sean is upset because this happened at Parliment he now has competition in the "Number of aliens killed with sword to face" department.
Anyway, time to mend fences with Minna!
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You find her in the cellar.
All your worries about the engineering staff of the 501st being pinned down proved baseless - the engineers killed the Martians trying to pin them down all on their own, and were already engaging the alien rearguard when Sakamoto and Ian showed up. Five of their number were killed; since they weren't near any Strike Witches the Martians wanted to capture, the aliens didn't "fuck around," as your crewmate put it. The dead were moved to the cellar until they could be properly buried, and a passing medic told you Minna was down there.
You stomp down the stone corridor firmly, limping a bit, aching from your injuries, your head throbbing like a fucking tomtom drum, but resolute. You have to back up Minna and back her up now, before she digs in her heels and battens down the hatches on whatever bullshit story she tries to cook up.
You come upon the sagging, rotten wooden door of the long-neglected storeroom used to house the bodies, and are about to kick the damn thing in when you hear something soft and uneven coming from inside.
No. No.
Yes.
Yes, that is definitely sobbing.
Not daring to risk the ancient hinges, you drop to the floor and peer through the crack under the door. You see Minna, kneeling against the wall and sobbing inconsolably into her arms.
... what the shit.
Um? Minna has settings other than "Full Bitch" and "Fuck You Too"?
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You stand by the door, torn. Rushing in and kicking an eighteen-year old girl when she's down - no, assaulting a Wing Commander in a moment of vulnerability you would have sworn on a stack of bibles she was incapable of - is fucking bastardry of the highest order.
On the other hand, Minna has made it her business to be your enemy, and shown you nothing but hostility since before you even put your wheels down on the bitch's miserable, retarded excuse for a runway. She also has a hell of a lot of rank on you, and the political club of Witch-dom, and you're in no mood to have it wielded against you. And, horrible or not, her current state is an advantage you can exploit.
You split the difference, leaning against the wall outside. You wait, for at least a half-hour by your estimation, as the sobs inside subside into sniffles and eventually quiet whimpers. Eventually you hear footsteps approaching the door, and Minna staggers out, wiping at her eyes and slouching miserably.
She sees you immediately and stiffens, coming to a sort of attention, her eyes flaring with rage and embarrassment.
You stiffen as well, glaring her down. "Do it."
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She blinks.
"Do it, bitch. Court-martial me, shoot me, whatever, just get on with it. I don't have all night."
Minna's cheeks quiver, and she seems about to fly into a rage, but then the tension seeps from her body, and she just looks tired. She points through the open door.
"There's your punishment, you fuck. They're dead because of you."
"What a load of horse shit," you retort. "You covered them with the BAR. I heard you shooting."
"And I didn't do SHIT," she snarls. "You were in better shape, more familiar with it - American gun, isn't it? You would've HIT what you aimed at." Her chest heaving, Minna leans closer to you, eyes brimming with fresh tears, a frantic, trapped fury in her eyes. "AND WHY? WHY?" She's challenging you, daring you. "WHY!?" she screams, grabbing you by your lapels and shaking you with her meager remaining strength. You feel a tingle as she tries to put some magic into it, but she's spent.
"You're the COMMANDING FUCKING OFFICER!" you roar, knocking her arms off your shirt lapels. You shove her roughly, sending her stumbling into the corner where the corridor turns. "You've got responsibilities. Why do you think I was asking for your orders in the hangar in the first place, bitch? I don't like you. I fucking HATE you! But you know this shit better then me, you can LEAD better then me, that's just the way it fucking is!" You're pissed now, but you can't summon much heat to put behind it - you're too weary. But you still find a little. "Just like being a Witch! You were born into the power, so you're more val-"
The word isn't halfway out of your mouth before Minna slaps it, hard enough to snap your face around. Apparently she found a little more heat, as well, because it staggers you enough that you stagger when Minna shoves you back. "FUCK YOU!" she howls. "HOW MANY LIVES AM I WORTH? HOW MANY MEN?" Her fingers scrabble for the rank chevrons stitched on her uniform shirt, and she rips them off violently. "Always the same fucking b-b-b-bULLSHIT!" she stammers, tears sliding down her face. "Fuck you! Fuck all you butchers! I'm a soldier! I can die, it's my DUTY to die, just like anyone else! You coddling fucks!" She shoves you again, and this time you fall on your ass, painfully. "NOT A FUCKING TOY!" she howls, kicking you in the shoulder. Her bare foot doesn't do any damage, however. " 'You're worth a hundred of us,' they say, then they shield me like a knight in shining armor AND THEN THEY FUCKING DIE!" she screams, her teary eyes huge and full of torment. "STOP! STOP! FUCKING STOP!"
Yeah, deep-seated issues. Meanwhile, I'm trawling through this and am happy this thread is very dead or I might as well be an elephant in Laos.
Elephants don't live in Laos anymore, by the way. They detonate too many UXOs, which is a wee bit of a problem.
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Some dim, exhausted part of your mind recognizes this moment - the second when the hero says something clever, insightful, and amazing, something that heals a wounded soul and reveals their delusions and probably makes angels fart unicorns or some shit like that.
You're no hero. You're just a twenty-year old fighter pilot, a man chosen for his aggressive instincts, with more balls then brains, nine yards of ammo and two inches of patience. You've never been eloquent, or diplomatic, or even insightful.
So you do the one thing you always do when you're in a corner - you tell the truth.
Welp, we're neck deep in it now.
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"Self-centered bint, it's got absofuckinglutely nothing to do with you," you mutter from the ground.
"The fu-"
"NOTHING!" you yell, clawing your way up the wall as you stand. "You stupid bitch, four men in my training flight died in accidents. Two from disorientation - just flew right into the fucking ground. One in a landing accident. One walked into a propeller. Was that your fault too? Were they trying to PROTECT you, little Miss Special!?"
Minna does a double take. "That's-"
"Bitch," you growl, "you ate a whole bowl of stupid-o's this morning. WHAT DO PILOTS DO?"
"Buh-"
"WHAT DO PILOTS DO?" you bellow, the pain in your throbbing head threatening to kill you.
"Fly!"
"WRONG!" you snarl. "We fly PLANES! They're seats bolted to a huge fuel tank hooked to a machine that operates by making thousands of explosions a minute blasting through the sky at four-hundred fucking miles per hour! Does that sound SAFE?"
Minna's mouth works, but no words come out.
And later this gets upgraded to "They're seats bolted to a huge fuel tank hooked to a machine that operates by making one big-ass fire tied to a couple of giant fans blasting through the sky at four-thousand fucking miles per hour!" because jets are awesome.
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"My father flew for the Postal Service before the war. He landed in fields half the time, and half the pilots he knew are dead! Know who shot them down!?"
"Uh..."
"FUCKING NOBODY!" you snarl, poking Minna in the chest. "Engine trouble, disorientation, cloud bank over a mountain, negative space wedgies, accidental spins, ground-loops, you name it, it'll kill you. We slap the face of God and tell physics to piss off every time we go wheels-up, you think that comes easy? Or cheap?"
Minna stares at you, completely shocked, tears drying on her face.
"Go suck bogwater," you say miserably, and limp away from her, up the steps and out of the cellar, clutching your miserable, aching, pounding head. The pain is almost intolerable now, and you want nothing more then to lie down somewhere and sleep forever, perhaps longer. The hallways of this goddamn castle seem to go on forever, and you idly wonder why you ever thought combat would be so great. Boring patrols flying circles in the night was fine, you think, just fine. If only you could lie down, for just a minute...
The annoying part is, this kind of shit still kills pilots today. One little thing out of place, and Newton nails your ass to the wall.
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You stumble into a room. You're not sure whose. You wouldn't give a shit anyways. Stumbling, feet dragging, you stagger towards something shaped like a bed. Heaven. Valhalla. The reward for great warriors, wearied of earth.
You dimly see the bed has occupants.
NO.
YOUR BED.
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You know how to handle Witches. You bounce them! You strike from above, in a steep dive, hammering them with your cannons and then blasting past them into the deeper atmosphere, safe from their compatriots before they even realize they've been attacked!
ATTACK! You leap airborne, and plummet towards the cushiony oblivion like a hawk, a dark hunter, a black comedian!
Wait, what? Who cares, your tired. You impact the bedsprings with force, and two young, light girls are bounced clear off the bed and onto the floor.
Your victory thus secured, you roll over and promptly pass out.
Good plan.
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You wake up and stare Beauty in the face.
Pert nose, delicate, sculpted features, smooth, unblemished skin, deep, limpid eyes full of bloodlust and hate -
WAIT WHAT -
"Touch Sakamato-san and die," the girl sitting on you whispers, her hands dug into your shirt and her nose almost touching yours.
Somebody knocks on the door.
"Ah, hello?" You hear Gertrude's voice. "Uh, General Patton is here and he wants to know where you hid Minna's body."
Is my basic reaction to all of this. followed by "that came out of nowhere," and "this guy is a fucking assholes and why should I give a fuck about him?"
There is none. It's one of those stories where you have to get onboard quick or you won't understand diddly squat. Such is our QM's writing style (that, and he's vastly better at crack than something supposed to be a serious deconstruction of the mecha musume genre).
There is none. It's one of those stories where you have to get onboard quick or you won't understand diddly squat. Such is our QM's writing style (that, and he's vastly better at crack than something supposed to be a serious deconstruction of the mecha musume genre).
Is my basic reaction to all of this. followed by "that came out of nowhere," and "this guy is a fucking assholes and why should I give a fuck about him?"
That is basically the point, considering the intense dislike the author has for a lot of the writing. The idea is that the the Strike Witches are not an effective force, and if they were used as one then they would undergo stresses that could easily destroy them- observe Minna over her appearances until Thread 80-ish where things even out.
I'd argue this is 50/50. Again, look at Minna as the obvious one, but they all show it to an extent- Perrine and Luchinni have their desperate nationalism, Sanya sings to try and keep in touch, Trude.... Yeah, that one is coming up fast so I won't mention it.
For starters, I'm just going to go ahead and personally interpret that strike-through as a violation of Sufficient Velocity Rule #3 (No Personal Attacks Against Other Members) since it serves absolutely zero purpose other than to antagonize and so I'd just like to make a personal request that you refrain from doing that. I'm not a mod so I can't do anything else about it, but I'm hoping you'll take such personal request into consideration.
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