Might want to cut back on the role play chatter, guys.
Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]
- Thread starter theJMPer
- Start date
- Location
- Nowhere
Jealous... got it.
owlmessenger
Parts Guy Extraordinaire
- Location
- New York
Speak for yourself, I'll cop to wanting more smols as much as Ari needs her fix.
First: Even going to imgur and zooming I couldn't make out any writing
Second: I can't read, write, or speak Moon Rune as Jersey puts it, still curious as to the configuration though
7734
Trust and verify.
- Location
- Philmont
I know what I'm doing tomorrow, thanks to @MagnusVictor reminding me about it: them RFI on what an Alaska-derivative would look like, as well as potential Atago-derivative ships.
Think they'd be up for AN/SPY-1 sets
Think they'd be up for AN/SPY-1 sets
- Location
- Canada
Might what to cut back on the buzz killing.
- Location
- San Diego
we have to keep Jerjer happy with new ideas and a challange not to let herself become a 2 tiddy hack.
Skywalker_T-65
Writer with too many ideas.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- Plural/They/He/Her
That's not really buzz killing. JMP himself has said to not get excessive on roleplaying.
- Location
- Vancouver WA United States
Iku: Iku approves~!
Mo: Well if the lewdmarine approves then it must be lewd!
*cue angry prudeboat noises*
Yeah, I'm just gonna hide in a hole for a while until Arizona calms down...
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- Location
- San Diego
direct her to the nearest krispy kreme. she will calm down.
- Location
- Nowhere
Oops just found this reading back over. No, there were, literally, no holes drilled for the stuff on deck. All the little pieces that go on deck need holes and I had to make them. The two halves of the hull don't quite go together well either. Gonna have to glue more when I put the deck on.
SeaSirocco
Formerly 'Sanae Aran' / Aspiring Artist
- Location
- The Seaside
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Or you guys for updates
Started on Dessbote. And guess what? They didn't drill any holes in the stern deck. So I spent a couple hours punching them out with a nail cuz they don't make bits that small. I guess you could say I was... pounding away at her stern.
Also, if you can find it, and read Japanese, in the upper mid-right there's an option to drill holes for a specific configuration. Cookie to whoever gets it.
Curious as to what configuration you're talking about.
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- Location
- Nowhere
I'll give a hint: it's basically adding more triple 25s.
Nah it's fine.
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Burning Baron
This position needs more entrenching.
- Location
- In here, not out there.
So, late war? That's about the only time I can think of when the IJN added way more guns to everything.
- Location
- Nowhere
Yes, very late War. One of my favorite (and Jersey's least~ hint) battles.
Do to the hint JMPer is automatically disqualified.
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Dirtnap
Kanmusu Affecionado
'Scuse you, Jarheads actually have to know how to swim too.
@konnigvanmessen Leyte Gulf. Not that hard to figure out, she was sunk while retiring from the battle.
- Location
- Nowhere
I'll chalk that up to you not being on then. :cookie:
For bonus points what naval rank ensign was she flying?
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ijnfleetadmiral
CinC Rengo Kanmusutai
- Location
- Admiral's Bridge, HIJMS Kongo
Kongo was flying a VADM's flag when she was sunk due to being flagship of ComBatDiv 3 VADM Suzuki Yoshio (40), who commanded Kongo himself from 15 November 1938 - 20 October 1939.
VADM Suzuki Yoshio (40) (ComBatDiv 3)
CAPT Sugi Toma (50) (Chief-of-Staff, BatDiv 3; RADM posthumously)
CDR Toshima Shigeo (58) (Staff Communications Officer, BatDiv 3; (CAPT posthumously)
RADM Shimazaki Toshio (44) (Kongo Commanding Officer; VADM posthumously)
CDR Watanabe Michio (52) (Kongo Operations Officer; CAPT posthumously)
CDR Noguchi Yutaka (53) (Kongo Gunnery Officer; CAPT posthumously)
CAPT Yoshimatsu Hiroshi (51) (Kongo Navigator; RADM posthumously; previous posting was Navigator of Kirishima, whose sinking he survived)
CAPT Maruyama Misao (Eng. 31) (Kongo Chief Engineer; RADM posthumously)
CDR (Med.) Noma Minoru (Kongo Surgeon; CAPT (Med.) posthumously)
LCDR (Pay.) Sudo Hiroshi (Kongo Paymaster; CDR (Pay.) posthumously)
CDR Ito Shigeru (52) (Kongo Communications Officer; CAPT posthumously)
Senior survivor was Secondary Gunnery Officer LCDR Takahata Yutaka (61).
- Location
- Nowhere
Good job. Your Google-fu is strong. :cookie:Kongo was flying a VADM's flag when she was sunk due to being flagship of ComBatDiv 3 VADM Suzuki Yoshio (40), who commanded Kongo himself from 15 November 1938 - 20 October 1939.
List of Notable Kongo Casualties
VADM Suzuki Yoshio (40) (ComBatDiv 3)
CAPT Sugi Toma (50) (Chief-of-Staff, BatDiv 3; RADM posthumously)
CDR Toshima Shigeo (58) (Staff Communications Officer, BatDiv 3; (CAPT posthumously)
RADM Shimazaki Toshio (44) (Kongo Commanding Officer; VADM posthumously)
CDR Watanabe Michio (52) (Kongo Operations Officer; CAPT posthumously)
CDR Noguchi Yutaka (53) (Kongo Gunnery Officer; CAPT posthumously)
CAPT Yoshimatsu Hiroshi (51) (Kongo Navigator; RADM posthumously; previous posting was Navigator of Kirishima, whose sinking he survived)
CAPT Maruyama Misao (Eng. 31) (Kongo Chief Engineer; RADM posthumously)
CDR (Med.) Noma Minoru (Kongo Surgeon; CAPT (Med.) posthumously)
LCDR (Pay.) Sudo Hiroshi (Kongo Paymaster; CDR (Pay.) posthumously)
CDR Ito Shigeru (52) (Kongo Communications Officer; CAPT posthumously)
Senior survivor was Secondary Gunnery Officer LCDR Takahata Yutaka (61).
Besieged
- Location
- 'Murica
The parade ground was drenched in blood. Cracks between shattered concrete slabs were filled with a beautiful mosaic of the finest crimson. The air was thick with the sweet perfume of scared, dying men moaning with their last breath for someone—anyone—to come and save them.
The princess let it wash over her, her chest gently rising and falling as she drank in every last drop. Even the furious battle in her womb stilled, her unborn demons falling into an uneasy truce for this rarest of delicacies. The princess was a raider, she subsisted on the fear and horror of merchants, fishermen… their blood was not a tenth so rich as this. "Thank you," she breathed.
"Of course," The Snow Queen smiled, idly letting her talons glide through her sister's hair. It'd been hard restraining herself all these months, the ever-present hunger that gnawed at her stomach had cried out for blood whenever she steamed past the prison camp. She'd sated herself on the scraps her demons brought in, the blood they spilled into the briny sea. But… that was not nearly as fine a vintage as the men she kept in captivity.
But sharing this finest meal with her sister made all the agonizing hunger pangs worth it. "You are my sister." She dropped to her knee, caressing her sister's swollen middle with her talons. She could feel demons stirring within, already turning on each other as the fleeting truce collapsed into a flurry of steel and fire. "And you've many mouths to feed."
The princess nodded, grunting at she hauled herself to her feet. There were barely dozens within her now. The frantic feeding frenzy of before had turned into a brutal grudge match within her belly. Soon there would be even fewer. Two, perhaps three demons each not quite powerful enough to devour the other without risking mortal injuries to themselves. Not long after that, it would be time to give birth.
She had very little say in the matter. The Princess had experienced it before. The demons within would tear their way free whether she wanted them to or not. If she was in the soothing waters of a birthing dock or fighting the mighty swells of a Pacific typhoon, her demons would come when they wished.
"Sister." The princess cradled her aching middle, her talons carving angry red scratches in her taut, pallid skin. "Have you prepared a dock for me?"
"No," the snow queen shook her head. "No, sister. This…" She waved her hand around the island fortress. "This rocky atoll is too mean an outpost for you."
The princess shook her head. "It will do—"
"No!" The queen silenced her sister with a talon to the lips. "No… sister… you are my sister. You deserve better. Only the Pacific's greatest pearl is fit to be your throne."
Admiral Kinsey was a thin man. He'd been a thin man when he assumed command of NAVSTA Pearl Harbor, and two years of war against an enemy so supernatural mortal minds could barely comprehend had only made him thinner. A very small part of him longed for the days when annihilation at the hands of North Korean nukes was the worst thing he had to worry about. But most of him…
Most of him was just tired. Hawaii was, in a word, besieged. The whole damn world was. Every beach that wasn't drenched in blood was only so because heroes had fought and died holding the monsters back. Even then, the coastlines mankind still held were perilously thin. It was the bronze age all over again. Every trip out of sight of land brought with it a very real fear of vanishing without a trace. Even the stoutest sailor's heart watched the setting sun with trepidation, not knowing if he'd see it rise again.
Kinsey scowled, sipping at the tepid coffee festering in his ancient academy mug. It was not good brew, but it was strong. That, at least, was enough for now. Enough to power through for one more day. That was all he thought about now. Getting through this war one day at a time.
It was hard. Hard on him, hard on his men, hard on his machines. He'd lost two destroyers already, not to hostile fire but… collisions. Accidents. Sailors worked beyond the limits of human endurance falling asleep at their posts with no one to relive them but the dead and the dying.
His jets were no better. They flew all day every day, and flew hard. The Raptors were taking the brunt of it. They could fight on even terms with the best the Abyssals could throw at them, but constant fighting strained their airframes to the limit. The entire fleet—what was left of it—at Pearl was grounded. Their engines ruined and their wings fatigued to crippled wrecks.
The precious P-8s at least were still flying. Their endless patrols weren't nearly as abusive as dogfighting, and every airline in the country had sent every mechanic they could spare to help. But they were still machines. Machines break, and these machined were needed desperately in every theater—and in greater numbers.
"Sir?" A petty officer, a sweet young girl named Katie Summers with her hair up in a bun, snapped the Admiral out of his brooding with a word. "Message from the North Carolina, sir."
Kinsey hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. North Carolina was a Virginia-class, Captain… Masterson's boat if he wasn't mistaken. In another life, they'd be apex predators of the sea. Now, all but the slowest abyssal forces slipped through their fingers like smoke. At least they made good pickets. "What's up?"
"She spotted something," Summers tapped her screen, pointing out a mark roughly three-hundred miles south-west of Pearl. "Only for a moment before they lost it in the fog, but… it was big, sir. Report says as big as a CVN. Maybe bigger."
"Damn," Kinsey cursed under his breath. "He get a course and speed?"
"Uh…" Summers bit her lip. "Twenty, maybe twenty-five knots, heading right for us. Maybe, sir."
"Maybe?" Kinsey shot her a look.
"Captain Masterson…" Summers pressed her hands against her desk. "Cautioned that his estimate was based on an instant's observation. The target could be zigging, his observation could be incorrect… or it could be nothing. Sir."
Kinsey sucked on his teeth for a moment. "No. Ship a size of a CVN? That's not nothing. Who do we have in the air?"
"Uh," Summers tapped a few keys. "That'd be Warlock flight, sir."
"Commander Knight?"
"Yes, sir."
"They have the gas?"
"Let's hope they don't." Said Admiral Kinsey. The old man sounded… well old. Dash prayed he didn't sound that ragged to his wingmen. "Give me information, not heroics."
"Understood sir." Dash dropped a wing and gently aimed his Hornet—a Charlie model, the increasingly rare Rhinos were reserved for night patrols and quick reaction—down the search bearing. "I see so much as a yellow nose and we're outta here."
"Godspeed, Warlock."
"Thank you, sir," said Dash with conviction that surprised even himself.
The four Hornets tore over the pacific at max-conserve, clawing for altitude all the while with only the roar of low-bypass turbofans to break the early-morning silence. As the jets passed over Missouri on her constant patrol, Dash dipped a wing and snapped off a brief salute to the ancient ship.
He didn't know why, not really. But… watching that ancient old warhorse stand guard over the island… a salute was the least she deserved.
"Dash, two o'clock on the deck," his wingman, an impossibly tiny woman from LA by the call sign 'Booster' spoke up for the first time this morning. "You seeing that?"
Dash shifted in his seat, ejection harness biting against his shoulder. "Yeah, I… is that ice?"
"No way that's ice." said Booster with rather less confidence than Dash was used to hearing from her.
"That's ice." Said Sponge, a Bostonian nearly as wide as he was tall.
"I gotta call this in." Dash glanced at his instruments for a moment. "Pearl/Warlock flight how copy?"
"Solid copy, Warlock. What's up?"
"We are seeing, uh, ice. Ice floes in the water. About… one-seventy miles south-east of Pearl, over."
"Warlock, that's impossible."
"Yeah, I know," said Dash. "But we're seeing it."
There was a very long, very frightening silence on the line. "Confirm. Proceed with mission, over."
Dash scowled under his oxygen mask. "Copy that, Warlock out."
"This is some fucked-up shit, man," groused Sponge.
Admiral Kinsey clenched his hands together, staring over white knuckles at the CIC display. His muscles were tense, he hoped none of the staff noticed. Every breath was a prayer nowadays. "Come on, Warlock," he breathed.
"There!" Dash's voice crackled over the feed. "Ten— eleven o'clock. Right on the horizon."
"Goddamn she's big!" gasped Sponge.
"Okay, making my run now," said Dash. "Looks like… two large battleships and two—three, three smaller ones, plus escorts."
"Bismarks and Scharnorsts?" asked Booster.
"I'll buy it," Dash grunted. "We'll see what the spooks think. You getting this?"
An ONI officer glanced up from his huddle of monitors long enough to flash a thumbs-up.
"We're getting you Warlock," said a radioman.
"Alright, Booster, go."
"On it. Okay… there's… looks like another ship—two ships in the middle of the formation."
"Smaller—"
"Yeah, smaller."
"You think a cruiser or—"
"Sir," the ONI spook spoke up, his words relayed almost instantly to the pilots, "We have positive ID on Bismark."
"Copy that," said Dash. "You were right, Booster, big one's Bisko."
"No!" The ONI officer shook his head. "No! The small one. The-the smallest of the three."
"Aw, shit," said Dash with the level of understated horror only an astronaut or naval aviator could muster. "You got what you needed, Pearl?"
"That's affirm, Warlock."
*"Then we are outta—"
"Dash! Go Defensive!"
"SHIT!" Dash cursed as brilliant tracers tore past his cockpit, stitching the plot of air he'd occupied instants before with a hail of lead. Moments later a blur of camouflage gray tore through, already clawing back altitude for another pass. "Where the fuck did he come from!"
"High in the sun," Booster's voice was even higher than usual. She kicked her Hornet on its wingtip and punched the blowers. Fuel be dammed, they'd tank when they died. "I didn't see 'em."
"None of us did," said Dash, spitting every word against the g-forces crushing him into his seat. His head was on a swivel, muscles screaming against the acceleration piling on his helmet. "Three o-clock high!"
The abyssal fighters were already forming up for another pass. Square wings, backs like razors, and round-squat noses. Fw-190s. The American Hornets should out-match them in every way, but the past few months had proven just the opposite.
"On me!" Dash pushed his Hornet to the deck and shoved the throttles through the firewall. Knots poured on as the jet's afterburners roared with primal fury. The Hornet was not a a particularly fast aircraft. But dear lord could it turn. You could ask it to stick its nose up its own tailpipe if you wanted.
"Come on, come on, come on," Dash muttered to his jet, craning his neck to check his six. The air frame shuddered as it muscled past the sound barrier, engines roaring in his ears. "come on, girl."
The butcher birds should've been falling behind, but nobody told them that. One after another they tore from the heavens in furious dives, closing with the hornets like the jets were standing still.
"Break!" Dash gasped as his Hornet slammed him against his harness. Ships were girls, and planes were too. But this plane… oh, she liked it rough. For a moment he held then turn. Then… "Reverse!"
He and Booster flipped, crossing each others' paths in a Thatch weave. Sidewinders howled in his ear, hungry and desperate for the kill. With a squeeze of his finger he obliged them, firing first one than the other into the Focke-Wulf chasing his wingman.
"Good kill! Good Kill!" barked Sponge.
Dash glanced back in time to see the fighter crash into the ocean with a billowing fireball.
"Looks like they're going for home," said Booster.
"Yeah," Dash glanced at his fuel gauge. "We are too."
The princess let it wash over her, her chest gently rising and falling as she drank in every last drop. Even the furious battle in her womb stilled, her unborn demons falling into an uneasy truce for this rarest of delicacies. The princess was a raider, she subsisted on the fear and horror of merchants, fishermen… their blood was not a tenth so rich as this. "Thank you," she breathed.
"Of course," The Snow Queen smiled, idly letting her talons glide through her sister's hair. It'd been hard restraining herself all these months, the ever-present hunger that gnawed at her stomach had cried out for blood whenever she steamed past the prison camp. She'd sated herself on the scraps her demons brought in, the blood they spilled into the briny sea. But… that was not nearly as fine a vintage as the men she kept in captivity.
But sharing this finest meal with her sister made all the agonizing hunger pangs worth it. "You are my sister." She dropped to her knee, caressing her sister's swollen middle with her talons. She could feel demons stirring within, already turning on each other as the fleeting truce collapsed into a flurry of steel and fire. "And you've many mouths to feed."
The princess nodded, grunting at she hauled herself to her feet. There were barely dozens within her now. The frantic feeding frenzy of before had turned into a brutal grudge match within her belly. Soon there would be even fewer. Two, perhaps three demons each not quite powerful enough to devour the other without risking mortal injuries to themselves. Not long after that, it would be time to give birth.
She had very little say in the matter. The Princess had experienced it before. The demons within would tear their way free whether she wanted them to or not. If she was in the soothing waters of a birthing dock or fighting the mighty swells of a Pacific typhoon, her demons would come when they wished.
"Sister." The princess cradled her aching middle, her talons carving angry red scratches in her taut, pallid skin. "Have you prepared a dock for me?"
"No," the snow queen shook her head. "No, sister. This…" She waved her hand around the island fortress. "This rocky atoll is too mean an outpost for you."
The princess shook her head. "It will do—"
"No!" The queen silenced her sister with a talon to the lips. "No… sister… you are my sister. You deserve better. Only the Pacific's greatest pearl is fit to be your throne."
—|—|—
Admiral Kinsey was a thin man. He'd been a thin man when he assumed command of NAVSTA Pearl Harbor, and two years of war against an enemy so supernatural mortal minds could barely comprehend had only made him thinner. A very small part of him longed for the days when annihilation at the hands of North Korean nukes was the worst thing he had to worry about. But most of him…
Most of him was just tired. Hawaii was, in a word, besieged. The whole damn world was. Every beach that wasn't drenched in blood was only so because heroes had fought and died holding the monsters back. Even then, the coastlines mankind still held were perilously thin. It was the bronze age all over again. Every trip out of sight of land brought with it a very real fear of vanishing without a trace. Even the stoutest sailor's heart watched the setting sun with trepidation, not knowing if he'd see it rise again.
Kinsey scowled, sipping at the tepid coffee festering in his ancient academy mug. It was not good brew, but it was strong. That, at least, was enough for now. Enough to power through for one more day. That was all he thought about now. Getting through this war one day at a time.
It was hard. Hard on him, hard on his men, hard on his machines. He'd lost two destroyers already, not to hostile fire but… collisions. Accidents. Sailors worked beyond the limits of human endurance falling asleep at their posts with no one to relive them but the dead and the dying.
His jets were no better. They flew all day every day, and flew hard. The Raptors were taking the brunt of it. They could fight on even terms with the best the Abyssals could throw at them, but constant fighting strained their airframes to the limit. The entire fleet—what was left of it—at Pearl was grounded. Their engines ruined and their wings fatigued to crippled wrecks.
The precious P-8s at least were still flying. Their endless patrols weren't nearly as abusive as dogfighting, and every airline in the country had sent every mechanic they could spare to help. But they were still machines. Machines break, and these machined were needed desperately in every theater—and in greater numbers.
"Sir?" A petty officer, a sweet young girl named Katie Summers with her hair up in a bun, snapped the Admiral out of his brooding with a word. "Message from the North Carolina, sir."
Kinsey hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. North Carolina was a Virginia-class, Captain… Masterson's boat if he wasn't mistaken. In another life, they'd be apex predators of the sea. Now, all but the slowest abyssal forces slipped through their fingers like smoke. At least they made good pickets. "What's up?"
"She spotted something," Summers tapped her screen, pointing out a mark roughly three-hundred miles south-west of Pearl. "Only for a moment before they lost it in the fog, but… it was big, sir. Report says as big as a CVN. Maybe bigger."
"Damn," Kinsey cursed under his breath. "He get a course and speed?"
"Uh…" Summers bit her lip. "Twenty, maybe twenty-five knots, heading right for us. Maybe, sir."
"Maybe?" Kinsey shot her a look.
"Captain Masterson…" Summers pressed her hands against her desk. "Cautioned that his estimate was based on an instant's observation. The target could be zigging, his observation could be incorrect… or it could be nothing. Sir."
Kinsey sucked on his teeth for a moment. "No. Ship a size of a CVN? That's not nothing. Who do we have in the air?"
"Uh," Summers tapped a few keys. "That'd be Warlock flight, sir."
"Commander Knight?"
"Yes, sir."
"They have the gas?"
—|—|—
High above the placid—but unseasonably cold, tower report said it was barely fifty at Hickam—Hawaiian coast, Lieutenant Commander Dave "Dash" Knight gave his arithmetic one final check. It was a vast, unfriendly ocean, and nobody wanted to find out what happened to an aviator who ditched in Abyssal waters. "Yeah, we can do it," he said at last. "Might need to tank on the way back if things get hairy."
"Let's hope they don't." Said Admiral Kinsey. The old man sounded… well old. Dash prayed he didn't sound that ragged to his wingmen. "Give me information, not heroics."
"Understood sir." Dash dropped a wing and gently aimed his Hornet—a Charlie model, the increasingly rare Rhinos were reserved for night patrols and quick reaction—down the search bearing. "I see so much as a yellow nose and we're outta here."
"Godspeed, Warlock."
"Thank you, sir," said Dash with conviction that surprised even himself.
The four Hornets tore over the pacific at max-conserve, clawing for altitude all the while with only the roar of low-bypass turbofans to break the early-morning silence. As the jets passed over Missouri on her constant patrol, Dash dipped a wing and snapped off a brief salute to the ancient ship.
He didn't know why, not really. But… watching that ancient old warhorse stand guard over the island… a salute was the least she deserved.
"Dash, two o'clock on the deck," his wingman, an impossibly tiny woman from LA by the call sign 'Booster' spoke up for the first time this morning. "You seeing that?"
Dash shifted in his seat, ejection harness biting against his shoulder. "Yeah, I… is that ice?"
"No way that's ice." said Booster with rather less confidence than Dash was used to hearing from her.
"That's ice." Said Sponge, a Bostonian nearly as wide as he was tall.
"I gotta call this in." Dash glanced at his instruments for a moment. "Pearl/Warlock flight how copy?"
"Solid copy, Warlock. What's up?"
"We are seeing, uh, ice. Ice floes in the water. About… one-seventy miles south-east of Pearl, over."
"Warlock, that's impossible."
"Yeah, I know," said Dash. "But we're seeing it."
There was a very long, very frightening silence on the line. "Confirm. Proceed with mission, over."
Dash scowled under his oxygen mask. "Copy that, Warlock out."
"This is some fucked-up shit, man," groused Sponge.
—|—|—
Admiral Kinsey clenched his hands together, staring over white knuckles at the CIC display. His muscles were tense, he hoped none of the staff noticed. Every breath was a prayer nowadays. "Come on, Warlock," he breathed.
"There!" Dash's voice crackled over the feed. "Ten— eleven o'clock. Right on the horizon."
"Goddamn she's big!" gasped Sponge.
"Okay, making my run now," said Dash. "Looks like… two large battleships and two—three, three smaller ones, plus escorts."
"Bismarks and Scharnorsts?" asked Booster.
"I'll buy it," Dash grunted. "We'll see what the spooks think. You getting this?"
An ONI officer glanced up from his huddle of monitors long enough to flash a thumbs-up.
"We're getting you Warlock," said a radioman.
"Alright, Booster, go."
"On it. Okay… there's… looks like another ship—two ships in the middle of the formation."
"Smaller—"
"Yeah, smaller."
"You think a cruiser or—"
"Sir," the ONI spook spoke up, his words relayed almost instantly to the pilots, "We have positive ID on Bismark."
"Copy that," said Dash. "You were right, Booster, big one's Bisko."
"No!" The ONI officer shook his head. "No! The small one. The-the smallest of the three."
"Aw, shit," said Dash with the level of understated horror only an astronaut or naval aviator could muster. "You got what you needed, Pearl?"
"That's affirm, Warlock."
*"Then we are outta—"
"Dash! Go Defensive!"
—|—|—
"SHIT!" Dash cursed as brilliant tracers tore past his cockpit, stitching the plot of air he'd occupied instants before with a hail of lead. Moments later a blur of camouflage gray tore through, already clawing back altitude for another pass. "Where the fuck did he come from!"
"High in the sun," Booster's voice was even higher than usual. She kicked her Hornet on its wingtip and punched the blowers. Fuel be dammed, they'd tank when they died. "I didn't see 'em."
"None of us did," said Dash, spitting every word against the g-forces crushing him into his seat. His head was on a swivel, muscles screaming against the acceleration piling on his helmet. "Three o-clock high!"
The abyssal fighters were already forming up for another pass. Square wings, backs like razors, and round-squat noses. Fw-190s. The American Hornets should out-match them in every way, but the past few months had proven just the opposite.
"On me!" Dash pushed his Hornet to the deck and shoved the throttles through the firewall. Knots poured on as the jet's afterburners roared with primal fury. The Hornet was not a a particularly fast aircraft. But dear lord could it turn. You could ask it to stick its nose up its own tailpipe if you wanted.
"Come on, come on, come on," Dash muttered to his jet, craning his neck to check his six. The air frame shuddered as it muscled past the sound barrier, engines roaring in his ears. "come on, girl."
The butcher birds should've been falling behind, but nobody told them that. One after another they tore from the heavens in furious dives, closing with the hornets like the jets were standing still.
"Break!" Dash gasped as his Hornet slammed him against his harness. Ships were girls, and planes were too. But this plane… oh, she liked it rough. For a moment he held then turn. Then… "Reverse!"
He and Booster flipped, crossing each others' paths in a Thatch weave. Sidewinders howled in his ear, hungry and desperate for the kill. With a squeeze of his finger he obliged them, firing first one than the other into the Focke-Wulf chasing his wingman.
"Good kill! Good Kill!" barked Sponge.
Dash glanced back in time to see the fighter crash into the ocean with a billowing fireball.
"Looks like they're going for home," said Booster.
"Yeah," Dash glanced at his fuel gauge. "We are too."
- Location
- San Diego
well. shit has gotten real. Pearl is gonna have one hell of a fight. Missouri, now would be a good time to self summon. come on girl, show the world what The Greatest Battleship ever put to sea can do. show your enemies why Amercian Battleships still captures the imagination of the people of the world. show ur enemies the superiority of The Iowa class. let them hear your rifles, and let death come in the form of your 2700 pound armor piercing shells.
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
If Bisko's the small one...
then we're dealing with Wundewaffe battleships.
Harry Leferts
Suave Shadow Cabal Kaiju
I'll be honest... I fully expect for Pearl to be taken with massive amounts of death and Mo sunk. Just to ratchet up drama and such. Because that is how the fic has been going recently.
SeaSirocco
Formerly 'Sanae Aran' / Aspiring Artist
- Location
- The Seaside
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Mo can't self summon, she's not 100 years old yet.
- Location
- Nowhere
It has begun. Good luck, Pearl. o7
- Location
- Pacific NW
Yep. Seen this rodeo before. Not going on it again.