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Kant-O-Celle Quest [a Kantai Collection game, transcribed from 4chan]
Since people wanted an update on bat lead, here you go:
The scraping of your coffee mug as you turn it around and around in your hands is the only real sound in the room. The Officers sitting across from you continue to stare with cold eyes.
Waiting.
"... right," you say, testing the waters with that first word. It hits the atmosphere, slows rapidly and sinks sadly towards the table.
Well. Double the energy, then.
"So, I'm around twelve thousand feet, you know, hiding in the clouds, ducking down for a looksee peek every now and then, and - BAM!" you exclaim, slapping the table, "there he is, big black ugly and monsterous, not three thousand feet below. So I slip into the deck and sliiiiiiiiide up on him, then I come screaming down in a full power dive, all guns blazing!" You shake double fingerguns at them to demonstrate. "Entered a tight spiral for evasives and to keep from running over my do-not-exceed speed, rippled off my rockets first, then go to guns at around five, six hundred yards - and over five-fifty knots indicated -" not even a *blink* - "and lay into him good, beautiful burst, he blows to hell and gone and I haul on the stick to clear the bastard. Hard pullout, almost lost it, zoom-climbing for the clouds again in case he has friends aaaand that's when I look about and, like... I'm not missing a *lot* of wing? But it's not a *little* either, it's like-" you waggle your hand in air uncertainly, "like a moderate amount of wing. So. Naturally I misjudge my max climb rate aaaand she stalls, which becomes a spin, which becomes a *FLAT* spin. Meanwhile my port engine is on fire for some reason and it's making this like, spiral of flame in the air it was - right, nevermind, anyway I lay on the guns to try and empty the bins, change the CG, you know? And it works! Except then the engine fire, right, so I dive again, flaps in brakes in unloaded for speed, try to blow that bitch out. Then there's an explosion behind me -" you pause.
"Wait, right, forgot to say that a gun ran away on me second time I fired so it's still hammering away blam blam blam blam till it goes BANG! Must've overheated or jammed or a round cooked off before it went into battery because it blows right up through the cabin floor into the batteries behind the seat so now there's a fire back THERE. But, hey, I finally blow out the flames on engine one, so we're good, right, we're good, I've got an 02 mask, open the window to clear the smoke, we're awesome. Except now we're at like, 3,000 feet and I'm getting maybe 40 percent out of number one and number two's at maybe 80? Ish? But it's good, we've got power, and then like *half* the right wing just fucks off on its own, seeya mate, headin to the pub for a pint don't stay up for me."
So now I'm losing altitude fast but - ahead - I see the island! Except it's got that coastal wall thing. Which is bad. So I just lay on the power best I'm able and dive for the deck a bit, get that speed up, flare right before impact, shallow the angle and - it works. I skip the bitch, I skip that bitch UP, and we're OVER, and it's WORKING and I can just SKIP this bitch right over, but, uh, the impact, the blades, yeah. So the engines both over-rev and number TWO explodes, like, what was even its problem, it didn't even catch on fire before, and the loss of thrust, and the uneven wings - especially when the flaps got ripped off - and... she starts..." you twirl your finger in the air to indicate a frisbee rotation - and..."
There's no way around this - the most shameful of admissions. "And that's about when I lost control."
Silence.
"... and that's why there's three-quarters of a Beaufighter embedded in the side of your castle."
More silence.
"... don't look at me like that."
To the right of the red-head rises a face doing the Kilroy, peering at you intently.
"Can we keep him?" he asks.
The redhead drops her face into her hands with a sigh.
"I never win these arguments, anyways. Sure. Whatever. Do whatever the hell you want."
[ ] Sure, gimme the ten cent tour!
[ ] You're kind of hungry - you wanna see the kitchen, first.
[ ] Aahahaha yeah no make a break for it the first goddamned chance you get.
46401370 -
>>46401333
>[x] Sure, gimme the ten cent tour!
Wait, is this SWQ?
46401405 -
>>46401333
>[X] You're kind of hungry - you wanna see the kitchen, first.
THIS ISNT KCQ WHAT HERESY IS THIS
46401419 -
>>46401333
>Beaufighter
>Castle
>red-head
Did... did Batlead dimension jump to SWQ? I don't even.
[ ] Aahahaha yeah no make a break for it the first goddamned chance you get.
46401428 -
>>46401405
April fools.
46401517 -
What the fuck is going on in this thread? Castle? Beaufighter?
Do any modern fighters still go by Beaufighter?
46401547 -
>4chan finally got accounts
Man, this site looks so much better now. I'm glad Hiro let you guys (and a lot of gals, apparently) join Web 2.0.
46401561 -
>>46401517
SWQ.
The fucker's put Batlead in SWQ.
46401566 -
>>46401517
Apparently we're getting the very, very, very long awaited update to Strike Witches Quest tonight.
46401575 (demetrious) -
>>46401547
>Man, this site looks so much better now. I'm glad Hiro let you guys (and a lot of gals, apparently) join Web 2.0.
And SB lays down a SICK BURN
46401579 -
>>46401517
Welcome to Castle Barin, tovarisch!
46401587 -
>>46401517
Whispering Death.jpg
Nope. There's only been one beaufighter. The bristol beaufighter
[X] Sure, gimme the ten cent tour!
"Sure," you agree cheerfully - hey, if you like the looks of the place, you can always stay, and if not there'll be ample opportunities to run like hell. "Gimme the ten cent tour!"
"Awesome!" The newcomer ducks below and actually crawls under the table to surface by your side, grabbing your hand off your lap to shake it vigerously. "I'm Young, that's Minna, and -"
"AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" comes a terrifying, booming laugh from the other side of the room as the short-haired one slaps her irritated looking comrade on the back.
"- that's Death Incarnate," Young finishes. "Try not to piss her off."
"Duly noted," you note duly as he almost physically drags you out of the room. Emerging into a nicely appointed, wood-paneled hallway, he steers you down a sweeping grand staircase that leads to a spacious lobby before shoving you out the big double front doors into the huge courtyard. "Right, so -" he points to either side, "we're building hangars on each side of this square-y area because the Italians are too goddamn useless to do anything right beforehand. And that -" he points down the nearly half-mile long strip of stone leading out into the ocean "- is the runway, if you can call it that. We're trying to fix the broken bit at the end but it's a CULTURAL ICON or some shit and paperwork and blah blah, right, so... yeah."
He leads you to a small jeep parked in the wide courtyard area, and soon you're off, circling the small spit of land clockwise. "So you know about Athens, right?"
"Uh, the city? Full of Greeks?"
"Yeah. Back in ancient days apparently they built long walls that led from the city right down to their harbor, because their navy was so important. This place started out nigh identical, but the harbor was built onto this island, and then they built a castle to guard it, and, you know, blah blah - ah, here." He brings the jeep to a halt by a half-constructed hangar to the right of the square courtyard. Popping out of the jeep, he drags you along behind. "Over there, that's mine." He points to a twin-engined beast of an aircraft - for fucks sake, it's even got a top turret!
"What is that?"
"That is equipped for night fighting," he says primly. "A P-61 Black Widow. It's a *heavy fighter.*" You, a Beaufighter driver, understand exactly where he's coming from. You nod solemnly, sealing the pact. "I see." You see, indeed. Aside from the black paint and the nose art... "why is it covered in those little paper strips with Japanese scribblegrams on 'em?"
"Long story," he says breezily. "Oh, look!" He points at a sour-looking man in stained overalls. "My crew chief. HEY, MARV!" A few seconds later he ducks as a half-inch wrench whistles over his head. "Right cool hangers very big and hangary let's like you know get the fuck out of here," he says hastily as Marv reaches into his toolbox for something with better aerodynamics. "Where to?"
[ ] Recreation facilities. If they don't have a shuffleboard court, you're making a break for it.
[ ] Repair shops - engines, armory, and such. You HATE turning back from sorties with rough-running engines and losing kills to a gun jamming is the WORST.
[ ] RUB A DUB DUB IT'S ALL ABOUT THE GRUB
46402231 -
>>46402183
>[ ] Repair shops - engines, armory, and such. You HATE turning back from sorties with rough-running engines and losing kills to a gun jamming is the WORST.
Maybe we'll see Chuck and Shirley?
46402430 -
>>46402183
OF COURSE planefriend
OF COURSE YOU FUCKING POST MORE SWQ AS AN APRIL FOOLS JOKE. WHY DO YOU HURT MY LIKE THIS.
[X] Repair shops - engines, armory, and such. You HATE turning back from sorties with rough-running engines and losing kills to a gun jamming is the WORST.
You ask to see the repair facilities in more detail - machine shops, armory, engine shed, the works. You've always been partial to doing your own tuneups and that typically requires someplace other than an engine stand right in your own revetment to work. The rear echelon fuckers can be bribed cheap to look elsewhere as you bypass engine speed governers, but your own crew and chief will simply sodomize you to death with their wrenches for sticking your nose in their goddamned business. Young, driving like the typical American, executes a low-altitude suborbital transfer flight over the courtyard to the other side, where the machine shops and such lie. Parking the jeep with a squeal of tortured rubber, he bounces out and beckons you to follow. Strolling side by side, he starts pointing out areas of interest - a small ammo dump, a huge pile of sand for testing guns, even a strange metallic contraption built for tail-dragging fighters to be pushed against for testing of installed guns - like a pair of shot-traps that can swing out on articulated wheels to accommodate planes of different wingspans. He steers you sideways into a smaller hanger that's been subdivided into cubicles.
"Over there," he points, "is experimental. All sorts of crazy shit in there, lots of tools and gauges straight from the engine manufacturers, stuff you usually only see in their - uh - hello?" You're already trotting towards the stall, trying not to drool as you eye all the beautiful toys the nice manufacturing reps jealously guard and hide in their bags after they're done dealing with That One Thing that brought them out to Limey Land.
Two people are already occupying the stall - a young man with short-cropped hair and a rather buxom redhead wearing only cut-off jeans and a tank top. They're both standing near a wheeled engine stand; the big ones used for rolling Merlins around the shop floor. The wheels have been unlocked. Each stand hosts an engine - one looks like a standard V12 that's grown a shitload of funny tubing on it, and the other looks like... well, like two goddamn engines in one crankcase. Both have propellers on them, and they've both been chained to huge concrete blocks on the floor. A presumed finish line has been painted on the ground some twenty feet away, near the wall of the hangar.
The lad and lass exchange a narrow glance.
"It's time," he says.
"It is," she retorts. "Ready to pay up, asshole?"
[ ] Observe.
[ ] Place your own bet.
[ ] Just keep walkin.
46402887 -
>>46402864
>[ ] Place your own bet.
[enthusiasm intensifies].gif
OH YES, YEAGER SIBLINGS ARE BACKKKKKK
ALL PRAISE THE PATRON SAINT OF STONKING BIG FUEL TANKS
46402921 -
>>46402864
> place your own bet
> on big tits and her engine
46402983 -
>>46402864
>placing your own bet on a 2-person wager
fucking how
No, I'm serious deme. Tell me what the payouts are.
46403001 -
>>46402864
>[x] Observe.
Also Shirley is not rather buxom, she's very much buxom.
46403033 -
>>46402983
We'll probably make a wager with Young
46403196 -
Seriously though. What's BatLead?
46403235 -
>>46403196
Callsign for the commander of VMFA(AW)-242, who provided air cover for our task force during the Bonins engagement.
46403238 -
>>46403196
The pilot from Bonin that [Akagi] caught on her deck after his plane got damn near chopped in half.
46403376 -
>>46403238
And this applies to SWQ how?
46403425 -
>>46403376
It doesn't. At all.
Cry some more.
46403451 -
>>46403425
Then what are we reading? I'm hearing BatLead but reading SWQ.
46403794 -
>>46403451
BatLead is a character from planefriend's newest quest, Kant-o-Celle Quest.
This April Fool's Day thread is the character BatLead from KCQ being placed into the universe of SWQ.
That simple enough for you?
[X] Place your own bet.
Young sidles up beside you, observing the imminent race. "Oh. I see they're butting heads again."
"Who?"
"Shirley and Chuck. Brother, sister, you know how it is."
"Ah. What are those things?"
"That," Young points to the tubed engine near Chuck, "is an Allison V-1710-127. It uses some kind of crazy exhaust-ducting shit to return power to the crankshaft. And THAT one-" he points to the engine next to Shirley - "is a V-3420, which is basically two standard V-1710s mated to a single crankcase. They've been arguing over which one is the future of pursuit aviation powerplants, and tweaking the hell out of their Chosen Engine to edge the other out in raw horsepower."
"Ahhh," you say. As Chuck and Shirley fire up their respective engines with a great and terrible roar, you and Young exchange a Glance.
"Five bucks on the 127," you intone.
"Five bucks on the two-in-one!" he retorts. You both spit in your hands and shake on it. Over the din, Shirley and Chuck are both rooting for their respective engines. The machines drag their concrete blocks forward while you and Young both steal glances at Shirley's ass while Chuck is otherwise engaged, cheering his engine on. Shirley is pumping her fist in the air as she yells encouragement. The two-in-one seizes an initial advantage, having more torque, but once it gets rolling the lighter mod-127 gains quickly, threatening to pull past the competitor. They inch forward, heavy blocks scraping against the concrete floor as they suck gasoline hungrily from two fifty-five gallon drums placed atop their respective blocks, connected with flexible temporary tubing. The 127 seems to have more power, or at least better power-to-weight, but as it encounters a rougher section of the hastily-laid floor the 3420 gains a momentary reprieve, torque serving it well once again. The stakes are rising, the tension is thickening, and you're just beginning to really enjoy things -
- when the goddamn chains snap.
You and Young both duck with well-honed reflexes as broken links sail harmlessly overhead. Chuck and Shirley are left staring at the two holes in the wall. The gas drums are gone from atop the blocks, drawn along by their flexible fuel lines. Somewhere, in the distance, you can hear the faint and fading howl of both dueling engines as they scream towards the horizon, unchained and free.
"Well, shit," Chuck says dismally.
Shirley makes to comment, before squeaking and hugging her arms over her chest. You look to Young for comment, but he's busy peeling Shirley's tank-top off his face. You both exchange another Glance, and come to silent accord with a simple nod - time to move on. You beat feet before they can turn around and attempt to silence the witnesses to their opening of Pandora's crankcase.
"Ooohkay," Young says, balling up the tank-top and flicking it neatly into a trash can full of oil-stained rags. "Just... come along. Over there, that's an experimental Striker shop."
"Experimental?"
"Yeah," Young explains. "Like every six weeks or so someone digs up a 'super secret plan,'" he airquotes, "left by Dr MickyFoojie with a rad bitchin awesome utterly insane new striker that only Yoshika can use. Just, you know, dug up from somewhere. But nobody knows where, because the Good Doctor is totally still missing for reasons unexplained by spooks that get real shifty-eyed when you talk to them loudly."
You raise an eyebrow.
"NOOOOO SIIIIIIR, no, not bitter, not me, nope, never," he says with deep and emotionally-laden Conviction. "I am thankful that her prototypes never blow up on her or do strange things or decide to just up and quit or seize bearings or put her into a flat fucking spin, because she is a young girl and she wouldn't handle it like us professionals do."
"Of course," you concede graciously.
"Now over here-" he leads you towards the "stall" on the right size of the aisle - "is where the neat shit happens."
"Neat shit?"
"Yeah, from Germany. You know the Germans make good stuff!"
This stall is currently occupied by two blondes - identical blondes, in fact - and a brunette. The brunette is wearing some kind of rather fetching red outfit for some reason, and studying a truly massive cannon laid out on a big work-table.
"... this."
"... that," Young says under his breath. "Is... big?"
You squint. "That's a 50mm gun."
"It is?"
"Yeah. I used to fly Mosquitoes for a bit," you tell him. "Testse version. Had one of those in the nose for anti-shipping work. Only about thirty rounds, though."
The brunette's expression of dubious concern deepens when she rolls the big gun over a bit to discover a hand-grip under the breech block, as if it was meant for someone to hold.
"Erica?"
"Yes, Trude?"
Trude looks up, and points at the gun, her face asking the question for her.
Erica shrugs, and points at the other blonde. "Ask her."
The other one is leaning over something vaguely propulsionish looking that terminates in a nozzle. "Oh, hell yes," you exclaim, sneaking forward to take a look. Trude and Erica's eyes track you with twin expressions of foregone expectations as you and Young approach.
"Hey, Ursula," Young asks. "I'm showing our new guy here the lay of the land. What's this thing you've got here?"
"An engine," she says matter-of-factly as she dives into the guts of the device, face hidden by an access panel.
"Yeah, a jet engine," you say appreciatively as your fingers twitch to touch touch touch. You look back at Young - but he's retreated several steps. "Whatsamattayou?"
"Jet engine," he says suspiciously. "Or... a rocket." He raises his voice. "Hey, Ursula, where's the fuel for this thing?"
She surfaces from the guts of the machine, taking off her glasses and blowing some fine dark dust off of them. "Hold on, I'll show you - I'm about to fire it up."
Young has cautiously crept back to stand near you, though he's now eyeballing the mysterious engine darkly. Ursula ducks under her workbench and drags out a big tub of something - coolant? Protective packaging? You lean in, eager to see the latest invention of German wunderscience.
Ursula reaches down into the huge tub... and comes up with a coal scuttle.
You tip your head to one side, nonplussed.
She turns, and pours it into the open hatch. You and Young both leeeaaan over a bit, and get a good look at a wire mesh basket mounted to some sort of rotating drum - and it's filled with what look like uniformly-sized coal pellets.
"Yeah we're done here," you state, spinning on your heel and stalking away with Young close beside you.
"Young?"
"Yeah?"
"Why in the name of all that is holy," you query, "are the Germans building a jet that runs on fucking coal?"
"And I'm supposed to know this how?"
"You *are* fucking one," you point out.
He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He opens his mouth again. "Uh. Shut up. Look!" Sprinting past your elbow, you turn to find him cracking open a door on a stall that's been fully walled off for privacy. "BEHOLD! THE LABORATORY OF THE GREAT AND god dammit where did he go."
"I RISE!"
The voice echoes down to you from the ceiling. You both look up-
- and find an old white-haired man wearing a metal colander on his head, who is standing upside-down on the ceiling.
(Archivist's insert: Something like this, but inverted.)
46404356 -
>>46404333
TESLA CALLING IT NOW.
"BEHOLD!" he declares. "I, TESLA, HAVE DEFEATED GRAVITY ITSELF! THEY CALLED ME MAD! AH! HAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"... why is that man on the ceiling?" you ask.
Nikolai Tesla seems to deflate with a long sigh. He looks up at his own feet, and executes a little hop. He sinks towards the floor for a second, before falling and landing on the roof again. "Because I did not think this through. Bring me that ladder, would you?"
Young grabs the ladder and wedges the top beneath a rafter near the man before fairly sprinting out of his cell. You follow, still blinking.
"So yeah, that, uh... happened," Young says.
"That man was walking on the ceiling."
"Yeah, so? He'll do it again tomorrow, what's your point?"
"THAT MAN," you repeat slowly, reminding yourself that he is an American, and thusly exceptions must be made, "IS WALKING ON THE CEILING."
"What do you expect him to do, water skate!?" A faint cry of exultation sounds from behind the thin plywood wall, and Young slaps his hand to his face. "Fuck. Thanks." He stalks away down the aisle. "Uh that's the armory for the witches, because they're fucking insane and insist on using their personal slew of weapons sourced from whatever military they come from, so we need to maintain separate ammo and parts stocks for each goddamned one. Except for Zuuchini, because she intelligently lost her pile-of-shit eye-talian gun at the first opportunity and got a M1919 from Shirley, which we actually DO use in some aircraft." His expression darkens. "Until we didn't. And then we actually moved to fucking Italy, like ten miles from the factory that makes the gun she lost, and now we have to source lightweight aero barrels for the plane variant of the 1919, from across the goddamned Atlantic."
"Oh," you say, tone carefully neutral.
"And over there is -" he points to another walled-off stall. This one has a pentagram drawn in front of the door with white chalk and what looks like a bead-curtian for a door. "Y'know what? Nevermind."
You look to your left and find a mostly disused section filled with dust-covered crates. Some of them have been piled up like steps, and when you follow them upwards -
- you stop abruptly.
From the rafters above dangles a cow. A cow that is dangling by its *own tail,* carefully wrapped around the beam. It lets its head dangle to bring its wide, brown eyes to bear on you - and unleashes a quiet, steely *hissssssss* that slithers down your spine.
You turn to Young, and open your mouth.
"Justkeepwalkin," he says, flinging an arm around your shoulders and propelling you forward. "Right so yeah uh that's this whole... place, uh... what do you want to see next?"
[ ] Actually I have some questions first!
[ ] ... grub. I need grub right now. Right the fuck now.
[ ] Recreation. A shuffleboard court cures ALL ills. And polo, too. Who doesn't like polo? Fags and Welshmen, that's who.
46404368 -
>>46404333
wasn't the coal jet engine intended for the supersonic flying wing made of plywood?
46404374 -
>>46404333
TESLA, GOD OF THUNDAAAAAAA
46404375 -
>>46404333
>"I RISE!"
>The voice echoes down to you from the ceiling. You both look up-
>- and find an old white-haired man wearing a metal colander on his head, who is standing upside-down on the ceiling.
I didn't realize just how much I missed SWQ until now.
46404387 -
>>46404333
>You *are* fucking one,
ha
46404399 -
>>46404299
>The brunette's expression of dubious concern deepens when she rolls the big gun over a bit to discover a hand-grip under the breech block, as if it was meant for someone to hold.
Wait. Is that Hate's fucking frankengun?
46404444 -
>>46404397
>[ ] ... grub. I need grub right now. Right the fuck now.
"You have any steak?"
46404449 (demetrious) -
>>46404368
Wikipedia article on the coal-powered jet
As usual, it's too fucking insane to actually make up.
>>46404399
>Wait. Is that Hate's fucking frankengun?
You have no fucking idea how much I wish that was so. But it's not. That's right out of goddamn Strike Witches, Season 2.
They were on CRACK when they made this show.
46404450 -
>>46404399
No, it's from the Strike Witches OVA.
46404463 -
>>46404397
>[X] Recreation. A shuffleboard court cures ALL ills. And polo, too. Who doesn't like polo? Fags and Welshmen, that's who.
>From the rafters above dangles a cow. A cow that is dangling by its *own tail,* carefully wrapped around the beam. It lets its head dangle to bring its wide, brown eyes to bear on you - and unleashes a quiet, steely *hissssssss* that slithers down your spine.
okay the fuck is that thing
46404464 -
>>46404399
More like its spiritual ancestor
>>46404397
[x] ... grub. I need grub right now. Right the fuck now.
How did Shirley lose her top and how did the Glorious sight not be beheld?
I do have a theory on this: This is Batlead's ancestor at Barin.
46404486 -
>>46404397
>[x] Actually I have some questions first!
"Is Shirley single?"
46404507 -
>>46404397
>[ ] ... grub. I need grub right now. Right the fuck now.
I love how this turned into SWQ. The only question is if it's going to be archived with the SWQ threads or the KCQ threads.
That's if it's even archived of course.
46404514 -
>>46404449 (demetrious)
>
Lippisch P.13a - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
>The aircraft never made it past the drawing board, but testing of wind-tunnel models in the DVL high-speed wind tunnel showed that the design had extraordinary stability into the Mach 2.6 range.
what the fuuuuuuuck
46404515 -
>>46404463
flatstare.png
>not knowing hellcow
46404516 -
>>46404463
BEHOLD, GENTLEMEN, HELLCOW, SAVIOR OF THE UNIVERSE
46404523 -
>>46404463
>okay the fuck is that thing
So I just opened my mouth to try and actually describe HellCow for you, and discovered... there really is no god damned way to describe it. So just... appreciate the phenomena, as our viewpoint character England von Britbong the Third does. That... pretty much sums it up, I think.
46404538 -
>>46404463
Hellcow.
Just read SWQ:
suptg archive of Strike Witches Quest
>>46404464
>I do have a theory on this: This is Batlead's ancestor at Barin.
Different universes dude.
46404540 -
>>46404486
>"Is Shirley single?"
As per the last SWQ thread, she's got a harem of prep school boys now.
46404575 -
>>46404538
Doesn't mean there can't be an ancestor there; different universes can have the same person. Thus odds are there is a Settle in the SWQ89 verse.
[...]
46404656 -
>>46404540
WEW LAD
46404592 -
>>46404507
Why would this be archived with KCQ? This is obviously not Batlead and there's no connection between the two quests other then planefriend.
46404666 -
>>46404397
>[x] Actually I have some questions first!
>"Is Shirley single?"
If we're doin' this, then by god we'll go all the fucking way.
You chose this planefriend.
YOU CHOSE THIS.
46404681 -
>>46404656
What? It's true!
Didn't she call Minna to say she crashed into an all-boys boarding school?
46404719 -
>>46404540
>>46404656
despair.jpg
>tfw you'll never be a prep school boy in the school where Shirley ended up
>tfw you'll never be fucked half to death by a lusty American slutwitch
>tfw she'll never threaten your best friend with a wrench if he doesn't have sex with her
46404917 -
>planefriend's number of posts is already many times the number we get in MULTIPLE threads.
Goddamn why can't it be April 1st every day? You should just turn SWQ into a slice of life and write whatever bullshit you want whenever you're not feeling up to a KCQ.
[X] ... grub. I need grub right now. Right the fuck now.
"The mess," you say sternly.
Young nods. "Right. A man can put up with nearly anything if he's got good enough eats."
"Even the hissing demon cow?"
"Yes now shut up and keep walking," he grumbles. "So who are you with right now?"
"Beaufighter squadron based in Sardinia," you explain, "but they keep sending us on weekend trips to every damned ten-dollar grass strip on the coastline. You wouldn't believe the rocky little shit-spit islands they're building strips on."
"Kick the seagulls off and move in?"
"I fucking wish. The damn gulls just stick around - we have to fire a machine gun over the damned runway to clear them out before every take-off and landing." You follow Young outside, strolling between the big hangars on your way back to the jeep. "Oh. By the way."
"Yeah?"
"Is Shirley single?"
"Significant other, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, yeah," Young says. "And she's not the only one. Most of the witches in this loony-CATION are single," he says enthusiastically. "And of course they're cute, and they don't wear pants so it's nothing but long lovely legs all day long, and the food's great, so what's not to like?"
"The hissing demon cows," you guess.
"ARGH!"
"What?" you say with a shrug. "I'm curious. And the man literally walking on the ceiling -"
"NGHAAA!"
"I WANT TO KNOW!" you object.
"NO!" Young exclaims as he pops the hood of the Jeep. "YOU MUSN'T!"
"Why not?"
"Because this fantasyland of cute girls and endless awesome grub and the latest greatest toys the combined forces of humanity have to offer is sustained by secrets," he says sternly as he replaces the distributor cap and slams the hood closed. "Serious secrets! STATE secrets!" He starts the jeep as you plop into the passenger seat. "So constrain your curiosity and learn these things the way I did, one poor decision and physical assault at a god-damned TIME!" He pops the clutch and goes tearing away across the ground again, power-sliding across the courtyard just because he can. He lurches to a halt beside the double doors to the Castle, gives them a longing look, then reluctantly shuts off the jeep. "Come, come, I'll show you the kitchen."
He pumps you for information on your exploits as you traverse the wide, spacious hallways of... whatever goddamned place this is. You didn't even know the Italians *built* castles outside of Roman hill-forts. Maybe it's Arabian or something. Young is suitably impressed by your kill-count, and notes his is somewhat higher, which you know is bait to reel you into accepting a transfer to this lunatic asylum, just to one-up him. You nod noncommittally and reply cooly - you can shoot down Martians anywhere you go. But food? Food is the great equalizer. The quality of the grub - that's the thing. That is always THE thing. A good game of darts helps, a shuffleboard court is balm for the soul and a polo course is simply sublime, but food is first and foremost in any young fighter pilot's heart.
Young knows this. "We got everything," he says happily. "Land routes through the south of France opened up recently, but we've been getting supplies by ship from day one down here; the Martians don't dare poke their heads out of Iberia anymore since Saratoga was added to the escorts. You might fuck with a CVE, but not a CV."
"So the Navy fliers are doing okay, then?"
"Now that they've embraced their natural role as deliverymen? Of course."
You smirk. You'd have sympathy for his inter-service rivalries, if the Fleet Air Arm actually mattered at all. "Delivering bombs?"
"Oh, no," Young objects. "Have you SEEN how many cans of beer fit in a Corsair's gun bays?"
"... don't they need those for the, uh, guns?"
"Two Brownings," Young opines stuffily, "are enough for anyone. Anyways -" he points at the double doors ahead - "the kitchen! The home of culinary wonders the likes of which you haven't seen since you were last in America!"
"I've never been to America."
"THEN PREP YOUR FACE FOR THE REVELATION OF GODDAMNED NIRVANA, MY BONG BROTHER!" he declares, obviously confident in the Castle's kitchen. Why wouldn't he be? The place is posh as hell. He flings wide the doors and strides in triumphantly.
He pales instantly. "Oh no."
Two men in the resplendent and well-bedecked outfits of high-ranking officers are peering at a map. The one on the left you recognize as the American tanker, Patton, but the one in the dashing coat and hat is a stranger.
46405714 -
[...]
>>46405683
We're Limey? Dafuq?
46405725 -
>>46405714
Beaufighter pilot!
46405741 -
>>46405683
>Two men in the resplendent and well-bedecked outfits of high-ranking officers are peering at a map. The one on the left you recognize as the American tanker, Patton, but the one in the dashing coat and hat is a stranger.
ROMMEL VS PATTON
FIGHT
Patton picks up a small tank model and moves it somewhere on the north coast of Africa.
"Nein," his partner declines.
He moves it back.
"Nein."
He moves it closer to Egypt.
"Nein."
He moves it to western Libya.
"Nein."
Young is tiptoeing across the dining room towards the double doors of a large kitchen, hustling you along sideways as a human shield. Patton sighs, leans back in his seat with a sigh, and catches sight of you over his compatriots shoulder.
"Who the devil are you?" he demands, eyes growing sharp and piercing.
[ ] I planted half a burning Beaufighter into the side of the castle, so they're giving me lunch.
[ ] *Devil,* he says? Did he just say *devil?* Ask him to repeat the question.
[ ] WHAT SHIP!?
46405771 -
>>46405699
>[ ] I planted half a burning Beaufighter into the side of the castle, so they're giving me lunch.
Patton would be proud.
46405824 -
>>46405699
>>46405699
>[ ] I planted half a burning Beaufighter into the side of the castle, so they're giving me lunch.
"I'm pretty sure that's how most people get here though. So it's cool."
46405834 (Death by Chains) -
>>46405699
>[X] I planted half a burning Beaufighter into the side of the castle, so they're giving me lunch.
Might as well start trying to fit in, and proving how insane you are by mouthing off to a general and casually tossing off a display of your 1337 pilotan skillz will make you look like just another part of the resident madness.
46405852 -
>>46405699
>Patton picks up a small tank model and moves it somewhere on the north coast of Africa.
>"Nein," his partner declines.
Oh Rommel, if only you knew how Operation Torch would go in SWQ you wouldn't be protesting.
46406869 (demetrious) -
>>46406679
just finished update, may as well put it up in a new thread
46406918 -
>>46406869
Yay!
46406928 (demetrious) -
>>46406917
SHE UP
46407062 -
God I've missed this.
rofl:
