The Last Sentinel
by Flamekin

I was hardly aware of myself as I walked up those long steps, only saw the center of this long spiral inwards still far above me. The grey stone steps which had once looked almost mirror-like in their sharp-edged perfection now hung crumbling and ragged high in the air. The last I had seen them, they had stood lofty above the heathen earth as a sign to those below of the power their creators held, now they seem an extension of it. A blasphemous root curling out of the ground to the heavens, to the palace at its center. That diadem of the world, the palace of my Master, stood just as derelict, just as empty.

When I, in a haze was finally able to make it to the door, I found it ajar. Not that it being closed would have mattered, as the intricately carved arching doorway was the only section of the wall still standing. I ran my hands along the carving, the gently falling rain masking the tear streaks that I would have left on those beloved stones.

As I walk farther into the palace, each step became harder against the fear of what I would find in that holiest of sanctums. I stumbled into the throne room and my knees gave way as I crossed the threshold. At the end of that long corridor, the once mighty and glorious place where I had lived my life at the feet of my beloved Master, His throne lay strewn and broken in pieces. I crawled closer, but only until I glimpsed that too familiar corpse slumped against the wall, the killing blade still embedded.

I can feel the fire that burned within my soul dying. My purpose dead, wasted, and there is nothing left for me here. Everything that had kept me tied to this world, everything that had given it meaning, has been destroyed.

Is there enough to call me human?

Is there even enough left to call me alive?

No More
By Fvn:)

“All things have a cost, child.” A mechanical hum vibrated throughout the shop, filling it with an unceasing sense of motion. Ardno could feel his body tremor as he lay in the chair anticipating what the Mechan priest would say next. “We all must be ready to pay, when our time comes.”

The gag left Ardno was left without room to speak and he could only grumble and whine as the mechan looked down on him through its cold dead eyes. He had trouble believing something so monstrous could have been flesh and bone once, that it used to be human. Now it was trapped in a prison of cold, living steel, devoid of anything vaguely human.

“Be not afraid, soon fear will be beneath you.” The mechan’s voice chriped in its electric tone. “You shall soon ascend as we did before you.” Ardno felt a needle pierce his skin and soon his body grew numb. The feeling of ice crept through his veins, heart and then his brain. Last thing he saw was the mechan’s cold eyes staring down at him as he slowly lost consciousness and the process of transformation began.

A jolt of sensation stirred Ardno awake, drawing forth all of his senses at once and causing him to lash out wildly on the table. His mind steadied and he began to feel a humming and shaking about his body. He peered down and could make out the metallic contours of his body, made anew in cold, living steel. He could still feel the stagnant air through his metallic skin and deep in his head a voice reached out towards his thoughts.

“Made anew, you are now free from the prison of your own flesh.” Ardno mind races, braced with a new level of sensation he could not comprehend and in his blistering thoughts he felt the voice come over him once more. He could feel others move around him, their thoughts breeching deeper into his mind. “Now you are free.” Ardno rose from the table and turned toward his fellow mechan a human no more.

Human in my mind
By Vera

“As a human, I have the right to refuse military service based on religious or moral grounds”

“The law you’re citing doesn’t apply to AI powered weapons”

Abigail, or Valkyrie, as the military insisted on calling her, didn’t know what to answer. Her whole life, she never considered the possibility of being anything but a human. No one questioned her humanity, the topic simply never came up.

She breathed the air like everyone around her. How was she supposed to notice, that I instead of the oxygen, she used nitrogen?

She ate and drank, and her body disposed of unused material in the toilet. No one had ever considered the possibility, that her waste was perfectly edible for humans, lacking some of the more toxic and dangerous components of human waste.

Then came the military. They discovered that her cells were nanotechnology created in a secret lab and stolen decades prior. Abigail didn’t have a single organic cell in her body. How her cells managed to generate power and matter from her human diet was a mystery that didn’t interest the military in the slightest.

All they were interested was Abigail’s ability to go to one of their many conflict areas and kill as many enemy soldiers, as possible. If she killed a civilian or two, no one would care. If it couldn’t be proven, it didn’t happen. If it could, it was a regrettable error.

Abigail was hiding alone in an abandoned building. She couldn’t expect anyone to help her. Humans have an intrinsic sense of humanity. They somehow know, their human. So logically, Abigail should know that she isn’t. Not telling her human friends was seen as a betrayal.

Except, she lacked this feeling. Instead, she had an assumption mistaken for her sense of humanity, that made her see herself as human. How could she explain this, without feeling more removed from who she thought she was?

She couldn’t even convince herself that nothing changed, that she hasn’t been a human for a single day in her life.

For in her mind, she was still human. In a way

A Demon’s Sense of Humor
by Aracnarquista

Call me inhuman. I won’t argue with that, but I do take issue with the reasoning behind it. Don’t worry, though. I won’t blame you.

It is just how things are, really. I should know.

In fact, I do know.

I have absolute causal knowledge, after all. The whole universe unveils itself to me in all its intricacies. I can follow how phenomena develop through time in either direction. Past and future are just addresses, frozen in a perfect still picture… or rather, a perfect still choreography. With sufficient knowledge of past or future conditions, I’d be able to calculate your current opinions.

Well, putting things like that is imprecise. I’d not be able to. I’d be compelled to. You see, absolute causal knowledge does not allow me to sidestep the deterministic dance, after all.

But back to the matter of my inhumanity, as you so eloquently put it. If I’m not mistaken – and trust me, I am not (I wouldn’t be able to) -, you call me inhuman due to the pact I’ve made with that demon, and the supposed subsequent loss of my soul. But here’s the funny thing: when I traded my soul for absolute causal knowledge, the first thing I noticed was that there was never such a thing as a soul. So logically, it is not on the grounds of its lack that you are right to call me inhuman.

That, of course, leaves us with a question: if souls were never legal tender to begin with, what has that demon gained from the exchange? The deterministic reasoning says the demon was as compelled to participate in that commerce as I was. But I can’t help but wonder – know – that humor is not lost on those bound by the rules of the inexorable march of necessity.

Anyway, due to my particular relation with causality, I may be considered inhuman. The way I see it, humanity is an emerging property that can only sustain itself due to a sense of indeterminacy – even if an illusory one.

Not that it changes anything, really.

The First Night Is Always The Worst (Nyx’s Story)
By Calliope Rannis

BA-DUM.

The noise was enough to throw me from a shallow slumber. I opened my mouth, trying to gasp for air, but my chest caught instead. I tried and tried, until I finally forced my lungs to inflate, and air flowed into my body with a ragged wheeze.

Gods, had I really just…stopped breathing in my sleep? And I didn’t even notice?

I clutched my hands to my chest, trying to focus on getting my breathing back to normal. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. In-

BA-DUM.

I flinched at the noise. A pang of pain spiked from my chest.

Now I was beginning to hear the sluggish flow of liquid churning through my ears. This room was too damn quiet. And my chest hurt a lot, and my hands felt…wet?

Oh. I forgot. About my hands.

I keep trying to forget about their nails. How long and thick they are. How sharp and painful they look.

I forgot about them, right until I squeezed them a little too hard against my chest, and – fuck, there’s blood all over my hands.

The sickeningly strong smell reached my nose, and a furious sensation immediately clawed at my throat and stomach. Because that’s the stupid fucking thing. You’d think a – a vam – whatever the hell I am, you’d think, if they want to drink blood – if they need it – they wouldn’t feel hungry looking at their OWN blood, at least?

But no. They do. I do. I just can’t actually drink it. I can’t let myself give into it. I can’t-

BA-DUM.

I want to rip my ears off. Everything is too loud. And while I am at it, why not my eyes, which feel like burning coals in my head whenever I look at anything bright? Why not my nose, which swamps my senses with the smell of blood and sweat and dirt? Why not my tongue, which told them that I WANTED this?

Just take them all away. Leave me as a stupid smiling skull, in the dark and the quiet.

Maybe then I’ll get some sleep.

Creeping stone
By Blinky

Alice played her game silently while her therapist, Dr. Summers, scribbled on his notepad. Using only her right hand, she touched her thumb to her fingertips. She started with her pointer finger to her pinky and back. 1234321. The doctor said it would help her get used to her new hand. Mostly it just helped pass the time.

His office was quaint. Eggshell walls and some potted plants littered the room. On his desk was a small water fountain and a few weird art pieces. She sat on a cool green sofa while he sat opposite her on a thin brown chair.

“Any outbursts this week, Alice?” Dr. Summers finally asked.

“No.” Alice lied.

“Alice.” Dr. Summers said disapprovingly.

“Why ask when you already know?” Her fingers clicked as she focused on the game she played with her right hand. 1234321. She glanced at the door to her left and the clock above it.

“What caused the incident?” The doctor asked.

“She wouldn’t shut up.” 1234321.

“Why do you think that bothered you?”

“Do you like it when people bug you?” She asked and rolled her eyes. 1234321

“What did she say in particular that ‘bugged’ you?” The doctor asked.

The same thing they always say. Alice stared at her right hand. The stone went up to her elbow now. It was at her wrist a month ago. She closed her hand, and the sound of scraping rocks almost cracked her. She felt her eyes well and used her good hand to wipe away her tears. She never liked her right hand anyway. She could learn everything with her left again. They wouldn’t let her cut it. Said it would just grow faster somewhere else.

“What are you afraid of, Alice?” The doctor asked.

She was terrified of becoming a monster.

“Nothing.” She lied. 1234321.

Dr. Summer rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back into his chair. The clicking of her fingers and the sound of running water were the only noise that filled the office until she opened the door to leave.

Words of Life
By Weiss

Far away from the concrete mountains with glades of glass, with rivers of money and neon streetlights, on the periphery of the small town of Lakewood, there stands a Chapel of The Word. Little round building with doors of dark pine wood long-rotten, with picturesque stained windows, so bright and cheerful yet colourless, their dye fading into the distant past, with it’s parget once clear-white stripped by the ruthless springs of time, revealing antique masonry.

No one comes here to pray to the silent faces of saints, staring judgmentally into decades of air, dirty and dusty, still and stale, undisturbed for centuries. Should you enter with a fresh gale, you will see only decay and rot, and broken stone slabs, overgrown with the greenery, and a little lectern in the middle, carved out of marble, burdened by a book with pages yellow and cover of leather, dried and worn-out, although never in use. And when you come closer, the wind will gladly turn a page for you, and you will see, that each of them contains a word, only one word, in gold and in silver, glowing mysteriously. Here – “Righteous”. Then – “Ignoble”. On the next page – “Forgiving”, with “Sly” coming after.

But when a blank page appears, nothing written yet on it, it will spark suddenly, and out of nowhere glimmering ink starts curling around, with flourishes of a new word, like a last of the breaths, like a snap of a rope, ending chord of a song that winds sing in the night.

And when your life comes to an epilogue, when you are human no more, your spirit will wander away, like a pearl without a clam, like a mannequin without clothing, like a book with only one word on it’s page – which one will you be? What will glowing letters spell on your page?

Written in the Rain

By Norman Gray

Gandrian walked into Ravenscrest, and the storm followed. He treaded the muddy street, his boots wading through rainwater. An hour, he thought. Just an hour, no more. . .

He was tired. All he wanted was to rest.

“’S’cuse me, sir!” a man called out, from the front door of a tavern. “I carry word from Ironwell.”

Gandrian stopped. “Ironwell doesn’t exist anymore. Flood took it.”

The stranger nodded. “That, it did. A few folks survived.” He pulled from his pocket a leather envelope. “Claira Dawson sends her regards.”

Claira. How he’d both hoped for and feared this moment. Gandrian approached, reaching for the letter with trembling hands.

The stranger pulled back. “I know what you are. I was in Tsusslebee when you passed through. The mines are still underwater.”

Gandrian closed his eyes. “Did. . . Did everyone-”

“Everyone got out in time.”

He opened his eyes, and stared at the letter. “I can’t return to her. I’m the reason. . .” He choked on his words. “I’m not the man she knew.” Gandrian wondered if he was a man at all, anymore. He had become a plague, bringing death and destruction wherever he went. He’d stayed in Ironwell, tried to help people escape. . . Not knowing that if he’d simply left, the storm would follow. The guilt of it still haunted him.

“She asks that you write back.” He patted his jacket. “I have paper and ink.”

The street was already ankle-deep underwater. “There’s no time, now.”

“Won’t take long, I reckon. I’d imagine you’ve thought long and hard about what you’d like to tell her.”

He had. . . But there was too much. “Ravenscrest will be another Atlantis when I’m finished.”

The stranger placed a hand on Gandrian’s shoulder. “There’s a drought in Innisby, I could meet you there next. Then maybe into the Barrens, we can write what’s left.”

Gandrian hardly knew what to say. “Who are you?”

“Someone she didn’t love.” He handed over Claira’s letter, and held open the tavern door. “I wrote her poetry, but it was your words she wanted.”

A Curious Specimen
By Karl Aegnor

Xaraxx had traversed every habitable world from the prime sector to the epsilon; he and SCR1VNR had recorded enough creatures and natural phenomena to fill their own server of the supreme repository. And yet, he had no idea what he was looking at.

‘SCR1VNR, analysis?’ he said in his typical to-the-point fashion. The droid beeped and chirped as it ran its routines before replying: ‘It seems to be hominid… in origin at least.’

Xaraxx suppressed a chuckle. He had never known the droid to sound confused. Pacing along, he began to muse. ‘SCR1VNR, please note: specimen appears human, though abnormal. Crawling along the ground, its length approaches three metric units, with epidermis sagging near the middle, as if its bone structure were-’

‘You know I can hear you.’

Xaraxx could hardly contain his shock. While an, apparently, human creature speaking was hardly abnormal, the surprises of this encounter had left him unsure what to expect. As Xaraxx regained his composure, SCR1VNR piped up. ‘Apologies, sir. My master tends to get quite absorbed in his work, and often forgets manners.’ First confusion, and now sass. That droid would need a tune-up once they got back to the lab. ‘This unit’s designation is SCR1VNR, and my master is the great planetologist Xaraxx. Would you mind providing us with a statement?’

The human groaned. ‘Look, I’ve been having a rough day, if you could drop me off at a medical facility equipped to deal with this,’ he cocked his head towards his body, ‘situation I’ve got, I’ll tell you all about it.’

Xaraxx and SCR1VNR did as the human asked, careful not to damage any of the organs in its abnormally fragile mid-section, and eagerly listened to its tale as they embarked. Apparently, it had been the victim of a failed experiment concerning the usage of wormholes for interplanetary travel. As this case was an aberration, SCR1VNR felt no need to record it. Xaraxx, however, always remembered it with special distinction. There was no longer human than the one he had met that day.

The mirror is broken

By Tamela Redfin

After Feldspar left, I couldn’t control myself. I went over my board and tore it apart. What kind of leader was I? Then again, I my made my own clone in a murder bot. How was I better than my parents?

I wasn’t. I was just as cruel and that’s why Henry left me and my own daughter hated me. Henry, where was my most loyal bodyguard these days?

I looked down at my stomach and sighed. I wasn’t visible yet, but soon I’d have to tell Western Rolt the truth. I shouldn’t bring a second child into this world. The first one was enough.

I was a monster on the inside. I looked up at my reflection. A whip was on my right hip, and bloodied jackboots on my feet. How did it end up like this? I was ready to throw something to break the dreadful reflection, but then the door opened.

I froze before seeing Helen smooth her skirt. “Cora, it’s okay, it’s me. Goodness, what happened!”

I looked around and buried my face in my hands and backed away, “I’m a monster, Helen. You should stay away.”

“No, you aren’t, but I do think your boyfriend is corrupt. But that’s not here nor there. Cora, what’s wrong?”

“This isn’t what I wanted. I never was. I’m not a leader.” I sobbed. “I’m barely holding it together. But I can’t let Maxwell and Augie down.”

Helen twitched. “But what about your dreams?”

“They don’t matter. I owe Augie everything though. When I was black and blue, he gave me a little slap and got me on my feet.”

“And you were sixteen then.” Helen muttered.

I ignored her though. If only she knew the good he did.

What Makes A Monster and What Makes a Man?

By Joe

“Again…what are you?” The Judge asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered as calmly as possible.

“Well, it’s clear you’re not human. But you say you used to be.”

“That’s correct.”

“Right.” The Judge seemed agitated. “How did this happen?”

I took a breath before I explained again. “I was kidnapped and experimented on by a monster who called himself a man and a scientist. After my transformation, I broke free and tried to force him to change me back. But he said there was no cure. Now he’s dead, I’m stuck in this body and proving my identity before the court.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe any of this.”

“I don’t know why,” I let the irritation seep a little. “I provided my accounts, address, and social security. I showed the location of the lab.”

“But you’re new!” The Judge expressed great concern. “You showed up out of nowhere, covered in blood, I guess was the scientist’s, and scared people! Then you started acting like us. Do you know how crazy this sounds?”

“Yes,” I gritted my teeth.

“And yet you think you’re entitled to human rights?”

“Yes,” I said less calmly.

“Why?” He challenged.

“BECAUSE THERE IS NO REASON TO KEEP THEM FROM ME!” I shouted, startling the courtroom. I calmed down, still simmering. “It’s been a year since my transformation. Since I came back, I’ve been unable to update my identity and enter my house. The stores reject me, even if I have money. People don’t just avoid me, they RUN from me.” I teared up. “I live out in the woods HUNTING like a wild animal! And this is the fifth time I had to stand before the court to fight this! I see no reason I shouldn’t have the same rights as before when I was human. But for me to get rights now, we have to decide what I am, and whether being human is the qualifier for human rights. Rights that wouldn’t mean anything to humans if you weren’t sentient and intelligent to make a society.”

My Own Worst Enemy
By VulpesRose

Alistair entered the abandoned warehouse and swore. Nearly every surface of the sprawling place was covered in wriggling red eggs. There was no choice. Either he dealt with the problem now, or he had to deal with them once they hatched. The count was going up either way.

He wasn’t really keeping count. It was honestly impossible to keep an exact count of his kills. Too often wounded demons had just enough strength to retreat to their own realm. Who knew if they survived long enough to die from their wounds or if they were picked off by the larger and stronger of their kind. Was delivering a mortal wound enough?

The rules weren’t exactly clear because there weren’t any rules. It was more of a rumor, a superstition, passed down for so long that not even the Elder Council could offer any clarity. No one else in Alistair’s position had lived long enough to kill a thousand demons.

He set fire to the warehouse but went further in, among the flames. The air was full of crackling and shrieks as the eggs began to pop in the heat.

Surely it was some sort of demonic propaganda, “Kill too many demons, and you’ll become one yourself!” A boogeyman to keep the mortals from getting too aggressive.

He counted pops.

He hadn’t even reached twenty when he doubled over and his vision swam in ways that had nothing to do with the heat. His heart felt like it would explode, beating with unfamiliar rhythm. There was a sense of movement inside him, as though he was made of tornados or oceans and not flesh and bones.

Fire didn’t always kill demons. He grabbed a bottle from his coat and choked down as many holy water filled pills as he could, hoping they would be enough to violently cleanse him from the inside.

Alistair was losing the boundary between himself and whatever he was becoming. While he was still sure his mind was his own, a final thought rose to the surface.

It’s possible to be too good at what you do.

Ascension
By MasaCur

Hoshi entered the school. Today was going to be different.

“Hey, midget, give me your money.” Hoshi felt a push at her back. “I didn’t have breakfast; I want to buy some melon bread.”

Hoshi turned, standing as straight as she could, which still left her looking up at the other girl. A smile broke out on her face. “Today you shall no longer torment me. I am no longer weak Hoshi Jishin. Today you address Genevieve Mercutia, templar of the Fairy Queen Aludina!” She gave a haughty laugh.

“Whatever. Nice eyepatch, loser. What did you do to your face?” the bigger girl asked.

“Be thankful that I am wearing it, mortal! For this patch holds back the fearful power of the Eye of the Twelve Gods…hey!”

The other girl pulled the eyepatch off Hoshi’s face.

“Give that back!” Hoshi yelled, desperation creeping into her voice. She steadied herself, keeping her one eye closed, and regained her composure. “I do not know how long my eyelid can contain this eldritch pow….owww!” She was cut off when the girl poked her in her open eye.

“I don’t have time for whatever fantasy you cooked up. Are you going to give me the money, or do I have to get nasty?”

Hoshi placed a hand over her eye, and stared at the girl. “I see you leave me no choice. I will now ascend to my final form.” She started spinning in place.

“Nasty it is.” The girl grabbed Hoshi by the shoulder and flung her to the ground.

“Leave her alone!” There was a flash as a third girl rushed in, knocking Hoshi’s tormentor to the ground.

Hoshi looked up to see Kagami standing over both of them.

“You want a fight, you can fight me!”

The bully girl scrambled away.

Hoshi got to her feet. “Humble thanks, Kagami. While I had the situation well in hand, your assistance will not go unnoticed or unrewarded.” She curtseyed to Kagami.

Kagami rolled her eyes. “Hoshi, you’re not a magical girl. Or whatever it is you think you are.”

Courtroom Folly
by Lee Strangely

The attorney sped down the aisle to his waiting colleague, “I know, I know. I’m sorry I’m late, but I was only notified a half-hour ago.”

“At least you came,” his colleague said as she arranged her papers.

“So, who are we defending?”

A disheveled man waved from the stand, “Hello Phillip!”

“Oh not again,” Phillip groaned.

Upon the thud of the gavel, the trial officially resumed.

The prosecutor began, “Mr. Folly, based on witness statements, was the last person to interact with the female escort Carly prior to her death.” He pointed to Folly, “Do you deny?”

“No.”

“Alright, can you state the nature of your visit with her?”

Folly leaned towards the microphone answering, “Physical therapy…” along with a dopey grin and nod as if he was agreeing with himself.

“Right,” the prosecutor continued, “So, how would you classify your relationship with your… ‘physical therapist?’”

“Strictly professional.”

The prosecutor faked a smile as he leaned against the stand, “How long have you known the victim?”

“Hourly,” Folly said with another nod.

As they talked, Phillip leaned over to his colleague, “Is he drunk?”

“Shockingly, he’s sober,” she responded in disappointment, “Personally I think he does this deliberately, just to waste as much time as humanly possible.”

“Considering how many times he has appeared here,” Phillip postulated, “maybe he has given up on the system seeing him as person, and this is his vengeance.”

She added, “I’ve heard that he’s the reason the judge has started drinking again.”

The prosecutor then addressed the court, “Mr. Folly, can you please tell the court why your DNA was found on the body in several places?”

“Only mine?” Folly blurted.

Muffled laughter permeated the room.
The prosecutor rolled his eyes, “According to witness testimony you could be heard shouting at her that she was going to die.”

“I didn’t say that… I asked if she wanted to die.”

Phillip’s head hit the table while his colleague facepalmed her head with a slap that echoed throughout the courtroom.

A Life Undone

By Thunder

Being summoned to the bedchamber I shared with my wife had never been pleasant, but these circumstances were the worst. I walked through the palace alone, the lump in my throat growing larger as I approached. I paused before the oaken doors, leaning against them to gather internal strength before pushing them open as quietly as I could.

My composure nearly broke seeing her lying there amidst the sheets. So much smaller than when we first met. Age had taken much from her, but the all-too recent loss of her vitality, the energy that had carried us through forty-seven years as monarchs, that had been the worst.

Fortunately, she was asleep, and the physician slipped away from her side to meet me by the door. “Well?” I demanded in a hushed whisper.

“It isn’t good,” he responded nervously. “Barring a miracle, she will not last the night. She might not wake again.” I let him go after that.

I sank down into his chair, simply holding her hand as she slept. She stirred only once, squeezing my hand before quieting. “Almost time,” I said quietly as the room began to grow dark. “We had a good run. The children will manage fine without us, regardless of what they think. Not that I was ever much use after the war.” I tried to laugh but only sobbed.

My wife passed shortly before midnight. I waited with her another hour before leaving, stopping only to tell the guards to inform the children. I took nothing but an old, tattered cloak with me when I left.

The old pond hadn’t changed much in fifty years. She was waiting for me, of course, perched on one of the rocks, eyes lighting up when she saw me. “Welcome back.”

“As agreed,” I said tiredly. A wave of her hand and it was over, my life undone as I hopped back into the water of my youth. The pain of old age melted away as I regained my original form. But as the sun began to rise, the memories began to flood in, and I wept.

My poor girl

By Sniperaxiom

My heart dropped at the noise of bullets biting through the metal skin of my P-47. Being 30,000 feet in the air a guys gotta trust his ship. My girl was working hard to keep us up.

Her oil line got hit, sending the greasy brown liquid onto the jammed plexiglass canopy. I couldn’t bail out, I couldn’t see.

“Hold on you beautiful doll!”

The bandit dumping bullets all over my girl suddenly stopped the barrage. I watched as his plane’s yellow nose pulled up beside me. He maneuvered his pristine FW-190 into close formation.

We made eye contact. Needless to say, I was dumbfounded. The smaller plane’s pilot waved to me then sent a military salute, confused, I returned with a timid wave.

Then the plane pulled away. It flew back the way it had come. I was amazed! This was my supposed enemy, sparing my poor girl who was already limping across the sky when he had found her.

A fellow knight of the air! Honor and all!

Those were my thoughts until that bloody devil lined up his accursed yellow-nosed plane on my six.

I looked out my window as well as I could considering the oil, to see this imp pumping led into my girl. “Thump, thump, thump!”

“Crap! Cmon girl! Stay up!”

She was gonna blow any second I know it. We would be sent careening to earth in a dramatic display of fire and metal.

Every maneuver I made was a miracle that her tail didn’t tear right off. The bullets still continued along with the thuds of them peppering the metal all around me.

He stopped the shots. Flying close beside me I saw the face of the other pilot once again. He gave me another salute. He was TAUNTING me!

I was going to WALK across the sky and ring his neck. Cursing out loud I couldn’t do anything. Who was this guy? To not only shoot at an already crippled aircraft but to also mock the pilot?

Now this was just some punk that needed to be downed.