War Stories (Any)

[Crowley]

"Alright, so you want know how ist like?"
In a quiet bar in little moscow in Shangri-La, it's a loud night, with many groups of russian refugees singing folk songs and drinking, eating their zakuskis and staying warm and sheltered from the rainfall outside. Where you are situated you're seated, perhaps with others at a table with five very old looking recoms, looking to be near senior citizenship. All of them drinking vodka and eating their zakuskis from a communal lazy susan at the middle of the table. The woman speaks with her single blue eye with it's red pupil smiles.
"Do you? Odd question simply walk up and ask 'How is being Hunter'?" Her comrades smile and watch. She tilts her head, lopped ears with long white frills make her look something of a very well worn and skinny teddybear.
"Very well, I tell you. I do believe it has been near 40 years since I first become Hunter. And in good time, as opsec now lifted so I can tell story to you!" The others around the table chuckle. She rises up, filling a ring of shotglasses with vodka and speaking "We say toast in English for you tonight comrade!" And she raises her glass, the others following suit, leaving one left for you at the table. Do you raise it?
"For the evening of stories, truth and horribly filthy lies told by Fifth Hunter Squadron!" To which are shouts accompanying with cries of 'Da!' ring around the table. All shots downed, she sits and grabs a small pickle from the lazy susan, plucking it into her mouth.
"Hunter is less combative so much as symbol. Is why Confederates for most part cast us aside. That symbol is fear, comrade. A person will try to place face, 'head' or otherwise human, uh, features on things. Hunter, is none of that. No face, or head, or eyes to be seen. Is an unknown alien looking thing covered in red eyes and no mouth, just gun that flies. Is why refugees call Hunter 'Poschkа Letahea', or 'Flying Gun'. Reason why fly in groups of five is so nothink can hide." She says. One of her comrades, a old and withering looking siberian husky rises, pouring into shotglasses once more and raising his glass, others following suit.
"Mothers and Fathers of Flying Guns! Makers and pilots, we salute!" And down his shot. Again, others follow. The woman continues,
"My name is Cicero. Is what others call me. You call me too? Good. And now, I continue. Hunter is not with cockpit. Is simple as that." The others around her shrug and shake their heads in agreement and she continues.
"Hunter is with, ah, forget english word. We call 'Ootroba', which is like container fill with Perfluorocarbon liquid you breathe. Is connected to tubes that take care of all functions and needs, so pilot only need think of job. We use cybernetic interface that uses a 2d scanner to build virtual environment we navigate. Scans share with other hunters in multiple points and you get highly detailed virtual realtim reconstruction of world you see. And thus, nothink sneak up. Is...old technology. Pilots consider inconvenient and inhumane. We prefer, because we no worry so much about physical flying as it like watching yourself fly around, like in dream. Pose is, ah, lying down. So no cockpit, and less of identifiable shape. So to be Hunter pilot is like out of body experience. As where you are is warm and comfortable, is like dreaming and floating above the world and seeing everything. Ist why Hunter packs so effective in groups." Another person at the table speaks,
"Hunters still exist, new ones. It's the Mk II grenadier that was the forefather of the modern street hovercraft for civilians and police." More people nod, and Cicero nods herself.
"Da, ist truth. Hunters really everywhere, but Mk II is last hunter that actually hunts. Never needed upgrade, since it did job so well, even though technology is near 80 years old."
"Almost as old as you, dinamiskta!" One of the people in her group as old as she barks out, the rest erupting in laughter. She leans back, grinning and jabs the man with her bottle, smiling and yelling,
"Vzbeshivshayas' sobaka; beshenaya sobaka!" And the others laugh. The man hit with a bottle stands, pouring out more shots,
"Alright, alright. This is my turn for toasting." He raises his shotglass, others following suit,
"For Cicero. If not for foul women us foul men would be in jail for harassment!" To several cheers of others around them. The shots are downed, and the man sits. Cicero, smiling now, continues.
"When you fly, you have to in a way nudge yourself around." She reaches up into the tousled fur of her long ears, removing a chained earring from within and setting it on the table. Placing her finger on the bent hook, she begins dragging it around,
"Just like this. Imaging like table is city you are seeing, and earring is your Hunter. You have to reach out and nudge it, and it will follow in chain motion like so. This is why so maneuverable in tight places. If caught, you simply change view angle and rise up and over and enter at another point, or other pilot intercept on other side." She says, watching the shiny metal. She picks it up, reaching to her ear and replacing it.
"Do you understand now? Is not like grabbing Khui and wriggling around and pushing button. Is more elegant. People do not like because is very invasive and claustrophobic. They say it inhumane to pilots. I say to them, kooshite govno ee oomeeite!" And more harsh laughter follows. She leans back, smiling and fishing a clove cigarette out of her front pocket.
"Any questions, comrade?"

[Fargo]

A young Talosian pilot was the one who sat down to the table. His flight coat was old and worn but did not display any squadron patches, though outlines of where they once were could still be seen etched into the jacket forever.

While he was older then one could consider a cadet, the Springer Spaniel was much younger then any of the other veteran pilots at the table and his face still showed a great expression of youth as he sat and listened to the story as it was told.

After the story, he gave the older female terrier recom across from him a curt nod as he unwrapped a cigar from a pouch in the left front pocket of his flight jacket, running it near his sensitive canine nose to smell its aroma, which was distinguishable even unlit.

“Ah….Terran Cigars…” he said as he took another sniff “From a place you call.. Cuba, yes?” He said as he rests it in his hand, waiting for one of the recoms in the group to offer him a light; having spent some time with confederate officers before he seems to have remembered some of their customs. “I haven’t had one of these since the end of the Great War…”

He then glances to Cicero, as he reflects on her story “Perhaps it is a bit odd of me to walk into a conversation, but I have some time to kill and I’ve heard from a few other pilots that this is a good place to tell stories, yes?” He simply smiles and nods as one of the older recom pilots as his cigar is lit and takes a few puffs, as he considers where he is.

“During the great war, we were all Allies… uh… “Commrades” as I’ve heard you say? Fighting against a common enemy which threatened to destroy us all.” He paused, as he glanced around to see a mixed reaction from the table from the comment.

“Talosian fighter craft themselves are all brought out of the same “mold” as it were. There are very few varations of one until the Navy decides to upgrade or improve a model, and when that happens entire wings are produced at once and replaced almost “overnight”.

“We had nothing like your uh… “Hunters” in our fleet. The pilot of a Talosian fighter was what made it count and made one interceptor different then the next. There were rumors towards the end of the war of a new stealth fighter that was top secret, but if it did, ah exist and the rumors were true it was more of a 3-4 crew scout vessel then what you may call a Hunter”

“The term “Hunter” when referring to the type of craft used as recon craft and fighters was very vague to us. Most Talosian pilots had never and would never get to see one up close. So our squadrons had many rumors of what a hunter may be. Anything from automated drones, which seemed to be the popular “official” classification from the CAGs who believed that anything that small had to be unmanned, to the more, what would you say…. “superstitious” pilots who claimed they were flown by ghosts…”

The young pilot simply then leaned back into his chair, taking a few more puffs on the cigar with a toothy, confident grin, glancing around to gauge a reaction before continuing.

“I was one of the very few who got to see a Hunter pack. Breifly. One second they were outside my port window and flying in too tight of a formation to be manned by drones or even “ghosts” if you will, then the next moment, gone..”

“But enough of that, eh? I think you covered fairly well what a hunter is; and that your not “ghosts” afterall. Or maybe you still are, in a sense?” The young canine said with a slight grin.

He then watches calmly as a few of the larger recoms in the group stand, not seeming to get an indication of the suspicion that was likely being drawn to him right now “I know what your thinking. Why would a Talosian pilot come out this far to mingle with war stories if he weren’t…. what you call a “spy?” His carefree grin on his long muzzle now gone, he had now a much more serious look strewn on his face.

“I am… how you say, “retired” from the Talosian Navy. My reasons are my own but mostly lets just say I no longer agree with a lot of their… policies… on things since the Great War. Much like you my friends, yes?” he says as he takes a pickle out of the lazy susan, eating half of it with one bite.

“I still fly; mostly for myself but also for those who are in need of some help. My name, be what most people address me by atleast is “Eddie” and I am not here to talk about how our both mutual friend turned into what you may call a “monster”, but just to share stories to pass the time… and that we seem to both have plenty of, yes?”

Eddie just relaxed as he finished and reclined in his chair at the table, waiting for the group of officer’s next move. Whether they would all move to another spot, or try to subdue him he would find out soon. But if the rebellion was to expect any help from confederate pilots; one would have to learn to be able to associate with them first.