The first week you were home you didn't do a lot of anything but lay in bed, listening to the old radio you dragged into the room while fending off the affection of your mother and grandmother. A few things had changed since you left, but not much: your books were still on the shelf where you left them, the model airplane still resting on your writing desk, and the quilts laid out on your bed, guarded valiantly by your childhood toy Myaoo, a little plush kitty cat with button eyes. You didn't have much energy for anything, and movement was such a hassle (you had a cast on one land and a brace on the opposite knee), so mostly you just listened to
All-Union Youth Radio and wrote some letters, to your friends and penpals. It was the first time in a long time you were more or less isolated, and you found yourself missing the constant human contact, even as you found it a relief.
Your mother and grandmother seemed to be in a not-entirely-friendly competition to pay the most attention to you, which did result in a lot of incredible food, but was also starting to get on your nerves. You had a bit of a complicated family history: when your mother was sixteen she ran off with a Belorussian soldier and married him in a fit of rebellion, a thing which does not go over well in most families even before you throw in the fact that she had been Jewish, decided to convert for him, and stayed Christian even after he died. To say there had been bad blood between her and her parents would be understating it: your grandmother insisted the shock of it had caused your grandfather's heart attack, and your mother had named her kids
Boris and
Kristina, as if to rub it in.
The war being what it was, it seemed impossible that the two would ever see each other again, but your grandmother eventually learned your mother's address, the apartment where she was struggling to raise to children alone while trying to maintain her position in the bureaucracy overseeing the city's seaports. They had exchanged some terse letters before your mother agreed to let her meet her grandchildren: you were seven at the time. The two promised to do their best to put aside their differences and raise you and your brother, and they'd mostly failed at the first and succeeded at the second. You'd manage to disappoint them both by growing up an atheist.
So everything was a competition. They asked you constantly if you were hungry, if you needed anything, if they could adjust the blinds or fetch you water or whatever. You were pretty sure they were recording points in the living room or something. It was in that spirit that you were a little short when somebody knocked on your door. You were enjoying a song (
AUYR played jazz between stories, and there was a referendum coming up as to if American music would be included in the lineup) and weren't particularly interested in yet another round of playing twenty questions regarding your needs, so you were a little short. Perhaps too short.
"Lieutenant, that isn't a way to speak to a political officer. Or family, for that matter." A masculine voice said from behind the door. "May I came in?"
"Oh, oh... uh. I'm really sorry, comrade. Come in." You said, adjusting yourself as best you could and hiding Myaoo under the bed. A man in a khaki uniform came in, holding his peaked cap in one hand and a file folder in the other. He looked maybe in his late thirties, thick stubble, hadn't slept in a week sort of look. His pins identified him as a Brigadier-Commissar of the 3rd Army, and the nametag on his shirt read
Kirigin.
Saluting didn't exist in the Red Army, and lying in your childhood bed in your pajamas and a cast was sort of outside the circumstances where you might in another army, but you still felt the impulse a little.
"Are you up to answering some questions, Lieutenant?" He asked, shuffling through the door. There wasn't a lot of space: your mother had been using your floor as storage for her paperwork. "I know you're on leave, but it's somewhat pressing."
"Of course." You said. Finally, somebody to talk to! He indicated to the chair of your writing desk, and with a nod he sat down, unwound the string on his folder, and started laying things out.
"Firstly, I have a few things for you. First is some paperwork for you from your former unit: there's some transfers happening. Due to the nature of the threat, we're forming the 1st Air Army to centralize our piloting assets, so you'll get your orders once you've recovered. I also have this for you..." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, handing it to you gingerly over your broken leg. You opened it and were surprised to find a medal inside. It was simple, just a dull silver star with a gold and black ribbon, embossed with a simple pattern of ridges and a border in red enamel. On the back was a number: 000001.
"Since when do we issue medals?" You asked. There was the Order of the Red Banner, but they stopped giving that in the mid-20s. The folks in Spain had turned down medals, if you recalled correctly.
"It was approved three days after the battle. I suppose you missed the referendum." He said. "It's the Order of Service. You wear it on the left side, I think." He explained. It was new to him, too.
You pinned it to your pajamas.
"There were a lot of zeroes on the back of that medal, comrade. I hope we're not planning on using them all?" You mused.
"Let's hope not." He said. He placed an envelope on your desk. "I also have these, they're your photos. I've been instructed to reassure you that only the developers saw them, and that I do not know the contents."
You clamped down on your embarrassment. "Good to hear."
"The photos you took in the battle are included, actually. They're going to be published publicly in the newspapers the day after tomorrow, so there's some quick affairs we need to get out of the way. Firstly, we would like your consent to publish your name and image in the papers and such. On posters, I imagine."
"... why would you want that?" You asked.
"Well, the Army aviator who took the fight to the enemy on their own territory, and the first woman to fly over an alien world... those are pretty inspiring acts, and we need all the inspiring we can get. Have you heard the news from South America?"
The Argentinians had been the most recent victim of the Invader's attention. Their American and French-built aircraft had tussled with them and apparently shot one of the down over the ocean, but they'd been unable to stop the two dozen juggernaut aircraft that had powered through and laid waste to a major military base, and much of Mar del Plata in the process. They still didn't know how many had died.
"If you say no, the papers will just read
an airwoman, and we'll use a generic portrait." Kirigin said.
[ ] "Sure. Just don't include the scar, will you?"
[ ] "I'd prefer to remain anonymous."
"Alright, that's done with. Next thing..."
"You said... alien world. Like, extraterrestrials? Martians?" You asked quickly. "Like
War of the Worlds?"
(Wells was a frequent visitor to Russia. You'd met him at a book signing when you were 14, and he'd signed your translation of
The Time Machine. Probably your proudest possession.)
"That's our best guess, yes. We surmise you flew over their home planet. The current theory is that the storms are part of some kind of door between worlds they use to travel here, and that it took them a few years to get it right. Judging by their formations, we're hoping that they can only form them over water, though we can't be sure of that yet. And as best as we can tell, you're the first human being to have gone through one." He explained. "The sample in the canteen was ingenious. How did you think of that?"
"I dunno. It seemed like what one of Well's heroes would do." You said. Mr. Cavor would do it to find out what the air was made of: Mr. Bedford would then try to see if he could sell it.
"Well, it was brilliant, in any case." He said. "Though we have many more questions, and you weren't properly debriefed, and that's why I'm here today." He laid out a blank piece of paper, produced a pencil, and beckoned to you. "So, let's start from the beginning..."
---
Eventually, you got out of the house; your cast was still on, but your other leg was mostly healed, so it was easier to get around on your crutches. The atmosphere of the city was different, worried, staring out over the bay as if looking for clouds, and any overcast day was cause for alarm. It being Petrograd in October, most days were overcast, and there was a lot of rain. You admit you spent a lot of time staring at the skies too.
It was difficult to think of what to do with yourself in this time. You'd gone straight from school to the military, and you'd never really had time without obligations. You were nominally attached to the Petrograd Army soviet for the duration of your leave, but you didn't know anyone here and weren't particularly bound to any of their decisions, so there was no real reason to attend their meetings unless you wanted to subject yourself to them. You were
bored.
===
In Storm Divers, pilots get a single downtime action, meant to be quickly resolved, showing what they focus on between missions. Your options are...
[ ] Decrease Stress (Removes 0-2 Stress)
[ ] Build Bonds (Create connections with other pilots)
[ ] War Games (Spend your XP)
[ ] Training Regime (Gain 0-2 bonus XP)
You currently have 1 XP: you gain 1 per Mission. All upgrades cost 5 XP. You have 3 Stress and break at 10, which will "eat" your downtime that routine as you are hospitalized.
You don't have any fellow Storm Diver pilots yet to build bonds to, but by selecting that open we can get that ball rolling earlier.
I want you to know that the snippets from last time are chambered and ready for the next update. Give me more!
