>You jerk the stick to the left and continue to scan the air frantically. >Inhale.... Exhale…. >Inhale…. Exhale…. >...You don't see that fucker. >You just had him! >This was not how you expected to kill time on your Christmas Eve scouting assignment. >Of course you drew the shortest straw and had to make a one-plane recon while everyone else was drinking vodka and having a gay time. >”This is Red One, do you copy! This is Red One! Enlistment Number two, two, five, slash, nineteen, ninety-five!” I have encountered and am engaging a single bogey over the Batanes! I think it's Avalonian! >........................ >The only thing you hear is the white noise of static. >You continue to check your surroundings for the enemy. You don't want him to catch you with your pants down. >”Anya! Do you-” >The ripping of metal and tracer rounds spitting past your canopy interrupt you as the enemy shreds your beloved plane. >Your co-pilot explodes in a myriad of swears. >”Mahtherfahker! I’m goink to fahkink kill those fahkink assholes the minute I fahkink lay my Gohd-damned hands ohn them!” >Her father's sailor genes really made some of the new recruits blush when she goes on an angry tangent, but you new better than to ask her stop. >Let her rage push you both to victory. >You notice that there are four separate lines of tracers that flickered past you. >Oh fuck. >This wasn't going to be some easy pickings. >That Avalonian cunt must be flying a new Nakajima Ki variant. >They are bigger, heavier, and had a better armament than your Yakovlev-9. >The only advantage you had was better mobility, but you don't need to do a whole lot of nimble dancing to shred someone when you have two nose-mounted Ho-103s and two Ho-5 wing cannons. >You jerk the stick and pull upwards. >”Thaht fahkink cunt pohpped our kahnohpy! The nerve!” >You glance over and see what she's talking about: the opfor must've shot at you from your seven o'clock at a slightly elevated position. >There's a round lodged in a part of your canopy, pointing directly at your face. >You quickly loop around and return fire on the enemy airplane. Your single twenty millimeter and twelve millimeter cannons peck at the metal beast. >After a few bursts, you see black smoke trail the plane as you nick one of the wings. >Ha. Teach that ungrateful bastard to mess with the Socialist State of Eurasia! God damned capitalist pig. >”Looks like you nicked him, Pyotr! Nohw finish the fahker!” >You let loose a torrent of hot lead and continue to pelt the wounded plane. >The enemy aircraft suddenly slows itself and lets you whiz past him. >You pay for your arrogance with more rounds returned into your torn-up war machine. >You try your radio again. >”This is Red One! I repeat, this is Sergeant Pyotr Safonov! I have made contact with one Avalon bogey above the Batanes. We have exchanged fire and am requesting back-up! I'm not sure if reinforces are on their way, but I can only assume so! Please respond!” >You let go of the receiver… >.................... >Only the agonizing clash of radio static fills your ears. >You're on your own. >”Anya! Do you trust me?” >”....With my life, Safonov.” >”I'm going to do something stupid, and I need you to bail, okay?” >”P-Pyotr, what are you-” >”Anya! Pilot's orders!” >”Y-yes sir…” >You peek back one more time and look at her. >Her dark chocolate eyes. >The mask of charcoal-colored fur that covers the top half of her face and ears. >The cute black nose on the end of her canine muzzle. >You always wondered how it would work if you kissed her. >”Anya…….? I love you. Now go!” >The East Siberian Laika says nothing as she opens the cockpit canopy and jumps. >The deafening sound of wind blocks out everything else as you decelerate the plane. >After a few seconds to confirm her bail, you duck your head down and start to loop the plane around in slow corkscrews. >You pray that if there is a God. That at least it will give Anya a safe landing. >You continue the corkscrews and begin to angle your plane down towards the island you both have been dogfighting over. >It looks like the bogey took the bait and thinks you're out of commission. It zips past your two o'clock. >”Gotcha, bitch.” >You quickly right your plane and mash the small red button on your flightstick, emptying your entire ammo payload on the plane. >More black oil spews from the enemy as you empty your last few rounds. >”I got you now you mother fuc-” >Your stomach feels like it's coated in ice as you hear the worst possible sound all day: nothing. Your V-12 engine must've lost a cooling line in the firefight because it's locked up tight. >Both you and the bogey slow to a crawl and as you peer out the windscreen, you see the enemy occupants of the plane: a human man and what appears to be a collie anthro. >You see them open up their canopy and jump from their wounded plane. >The enemy are parachuting out to the same tiny island as Anya dropped. Oh no. >You quickly follow suit and bail out into the cold Christmas air. >As the two dead planes fall out of the sky, you slowly try to maneuver your chute so you can at least try to get a pot-shot in them with your sidearm. >The collie woman shouts as you drop in about a hundred feet away from them. >”Cap'n! The commie's come up on us! Shoot ‘em, Cap!” >With practiced deft, you reach into your waistcoat and draw your C96, flick the safety off, and immediately throw a round of hot lead towards them. >”Give up, you Avalonian sons-of-bitches! My copilot is already bailed and down on the island. Don't make me shoot you assholes!” >A “zip” past your head and a reverberating crack denotes their reply. Cheeky bastards. >The pilot sneers at you. >”Sorry, man. We're not about to be some State prisoners. I'm not a big fan of getting shipped off to a gulag.” >You wildly toss rounds back and forth. Some missing by miles, and some coming dangerously close to finding their mark. >After emptying your second clip of ammo, you have to pull your chute strings and guide yourself away from them. >You're not about to kill yourself getting tangled up in the enemy's parachute lines. And a two-on-one fight is not something you think you'll win if they both hit the ground. >You need to find Anya before taking them head-on. >”When I find you two on that island, they'll give me a medal for bringing back your tags!” >”We'll be seein’ who gets off the island, Commie. Cap’n and me are gonna kick your ass!” >The carcass of your once-beautiful machine smacks into the beachhead with a solid “thunk”. >No explosion. Must've hit a fuel line, too. >You keep a careful eye on the hostile duo as the guide themselves towards the southwest end of the island. >As you touch down onto the white sand, you see an olive-clad figure immediately run towards you. Before you can react, your hit in the chest with a very floofy lady. >”Dear Lord, Pyotr! I thought I had lohst you! I heard you shooting at them in the air and I thohght that you had been wounded! You fahkink ass! Don't ever do that to me again!” >You begin to blush as she licks at your mouth and face unabashedly. Her long canine tongue coating your face with saliva. >”C-calm down, Anya! I, uh, I need to sit down…. And we need to scavenge what we can from the wreckage.” >You shakily walk over to your ruined Yak-9 and have a seat in the sand. The majority of your plane is scattered around the beach. Some bits and pieces of the plane were thrown into the surf. >”D-do you have your service pistol?” >Anya lifts her shirt slightly to show her Nagant revolver tucked away in her slacks. >”You fahkink bet your ass I do. This lady stays strapped, noh matter where she gohes!” >”That's my Anya…” >She let's out a little “woof” of embarrassment and looks away. >”H-hehe. Let's scrap this pile of shit and find those fakhs.” >After a few minutes of calming yourself down, you join her in finding anything useful. >Some long electrical wires and a torn peice of metal that has effectively become a small blade. Good enough. >At least you'll be able to split some coconuts or stab a fish while you wait for rescue. >Anya speaks up after you both inventory your scraps. >”Okay. We also each have our emergency kits. In a couple of hours the crews will realize that we didn't make it home. Hopefully they'll send out a search party as soon as possible.” >You hear a tearing of fabric and look over to see your companion shredding off her flight slacks above the knees. >”A-Anya! That is so much… fur! A, uh, proper lady should be fully dressed in-” >”Shut the fahk up, babe. Function over form. This is a survival situation.” >”Y-you're right.” >Your canine friend slugs you on the arm. A wicked grin on her face. >And if we make it home… I'm sure you’ll be seeing more fur than this.” >You blush madly, but don't pull away when she sniffs your neck. >You pull your waistcoat tight and load what remaining rounds you have into your sidearm. Time to get serious. >”Corporal Orlov!” >Your Siberian co-pilot snaps to attention and reflexively salutes. >”Yes, Sargeant-Comrade!” >”As acting officer, I want us to be ready to draw and fire if need be. Have your weapon ready, airman.” >”Yes, sir.” >Your basic survival instincts kick in as you both scan the coastline and draw your weapons. You landed near the northern tip of the island, and you're pretty sure that the enemy parachuted to the southwest beaches. There is a thickly forested patch of land between the two of your groups, and the island is basically one small green mountain. As soon as you trudge off the beach head, the land inclines sharply. The best thing you can do is keep a note at the crash site and move to the center of the island. >You tear a small page out of your pocket diary and write a letter of confirmation of your survival: “On this Christmas Eve of 1939, I, Sgt. Pyotr Safonov and Cpl. Anya Orlov of the 9th Fighter Aviation Regiment were engaged and downed by one Avalonian bogey. Let it be known that we survived the initial encounter and also forced the enemy pilot/co-pilot to bail to this same island. If I do not survive until rescue, I hereby declare that Cpl. Orlov [226/1995] be nominated for the Order of Glory. Without her assistance and acts of bravery, I would not be alive to write this letter of confirmation and recommendation.” >After writing a second letter of declaration and stuffing it into Anya's breast pocket, you rack a round into the chamber and hear the hammer click back on her revolver. >”What was that letter you gave to me?” >”Just a little something. In case I don't make it.” >Anya let's out a few short whines. >”P-Pyotr…” >You stand up straight and begin to walk southward. >”We must prepare ourselves for the worst, Anya. If I do not make it off this island, you give that slip of paper to the debriefing Commissar. Understand? Under no circumstances are you to read it, okay?’ >She nods and walks up the incline next to you. >”Okay. I understand… Just don't do anything too crazy. When we get back I'll need you to brush my fur…” >You give her a reassuring scritch on the back of the ears. >”So… Are these guys really Avalon? I saw a small Avalon emblem on the tail end of the plane…. I didn't see exactly whether it was a scout plane or some lost attacker.” >You shake your head. >”I can only think that they are. The tiny emblem on the tail looked Avalonian to me. But there was something off about them…” >”What do you mean, Pyotr?” >”Their uniforms… Or lack thereof… The co-pilot looked to be a collie anthro. She wore a flannel shirt and blue jeans. The pilot was a human man. He wore a leather jacket and jeans as well…” >”No matter what happens Sergeant, I'll be with you.” >”Thank you, Corporal. Let's keep moving.” >You slowly slink by the outskirts of the forest. The land on your left is rocky and dangerously steep. It seems that the east side of the island has been more eroded away and is subject to occasional small landslides. >Decently sized dirt patches dot the landscape. On your western side, the small forest thickens to something comparable to scenes you've seen in the talkies. >”Let's keep an eye over there.” You point towards the western forest. “I don't want them to get the jump on us.” >You hear a whispered “Yes sir.” as you both continue to warily walk. >Twenty minutes pass, and you both find yourself on the highest part of the island. You're still right next to the forest's edge. >”Okay. This looks like the best place to wait it out for a day or so. Our flight route had us loop from the Bashi Channel to the Babuyan Islands. I can only assume that the other two will hike up here as well. This is a pretty good place to send up a smoke signal for any incoming rescue.” >Anya nods in affirmation. >”Let's set up shohp where we can pin them down as soon as they come out of the forest. Keep a five meter interval between us and dig yourself a little fohks hohle.” >”Good thinking Corporal. We can catch them off-guard.” >She lets out another embarrassed “woof” as you scritch her ears again. Maybe when you get back to the airfields she'll let you pet that gloriously fluffy tail. >You both dig small holes, set up a small fire pit out in the open, and wait. >You also leave out the sharp price of fuselage that had sheared off your plane as well as the electrical wires that you had looted from your crash site. >It doesn't take too long before you hear leaves and brush rustling behind you. >................................... >”A-are you sure about this, Cap'n?” >”Of course, I'm sure, Whitney! They'll go to the highest point to flag down one of their buds and get off this dumpy island…. Look, they've already set up a small fire! Let's see what we can take from their little camp before they come back!” >You see the collie anthro woman step into view and rummage through what little loot you had left to bait them out. >The man quickly follows her into the clearing and quickly looks through the rubbish. >”They're either waiting for us, or are just plain dumb. Let's find a good camping spot and wait for them t-” >Before he finishes his sentence, you calmly speak. >”Freeze. Stop right where you are, and lay down onto the ground slowly.” >Anya also lets them know that you have the upper hand. >Drohp to the dirt, ya fahkink kuhnts.” >”C-Cap…. Dan…. Wh-what do we do…?” >You hear the man sigh and slowly lay on his stomach. >”You heard them. These are State military, at this point we might as well submit. The Avalon government will send someone for us if we're going back with them. >You step out into the clearing and frisk them of their weapons: the girl named Whitney has an old E.U. double action revolver, and the man that goes by Daniel is carrying an Avalon Tokarev copy. It almost looks like a tokarev and a ruby pistol had a miscarriage. Gross. >As you unload their firearms and set them aside, Anya sits down roughly. >”Ohkay, kahksuckers. Where are your tags?” >Whitney looks up at her with a genuine expression of confusion. >”Tags? What tags?” >”What do you think? Your service tags! Dog tags! We wahnt to know your rank and enlistment numbers. Wahnna know if we captured some powder-nohsed warrant ohfficers.” >Again both of the Avalon detainees look genuinely confused. >”What are you talking about, lady? We're not AAF. We're test pilots. Contractors.” >You sigh and rub your temples in a vain effort to ward off an impending headache. >Neither you nor Anya say a word while you both pace for a few minutes. >....................................... >“Mother… FAHKER! You know what this means, Pyotr!? We are fahkink fahked! We engaged an unauthorized target on a non-combat mission!” >You quickly grab Anya's chin and guide her in for a kiss. It's awkward and pretty weird feeling with her thin lips and canine snout, but it successfully calms her down. >”Look. This mistake falls on me. I was the one who made the decision to engage with the other plane as a potential aggressor. You are not going to be put in front of a firing squad…Here... Give them back their weapons and ammo.” >”A-are you sure, Comrade-Sergeant?” >”One hundred percent. Their not Avalonian military. Therefore they are not POW's as far as I'm concerned. Sure they could've been testing a new design for the military, but under State doctrine we cannot hold them accountable, based on my mistakes. I was the first one to shoot. Therefore it is my responsibility to bring them home to Avalon.” >Dan and Whitney brush the dirt off of their clothes and wipe the dust off their sidearms. >”My most sincere apologies, Mister Daniel and Miss Whitney. As a member of the 9th Fighter Aviation Regiment, my discipline should be held to high standards. Unfortunately today was not the case…” >Dan tucks his gun away and sits next to you at the fire. >”Part of the Red Nine, huh? Nice.” >You nervously scratch your neck. >”Eh, we're just glorified fighter pilots. Nothing too special.” >You and the man named Daniel continue to chat. Apparently he's contracted flight tests for the E.U. as well as Avalon. He's seen some serious shit and even piloted one of those big airships like the ones you've seen in the air docks. >Whitney sits next to Dan and puts her head in his lap. >Anya does the same to you. She absolutely melts into you after you start playing with her ears. >”So, uh, when do you think we'll be picked up? >You sigh and look at the setting sun. >Honestly, man? Probably just a day or two. You'll probably be back in Avalon before the second week of January.” >Daniel taps his co-pilot’s shoulder and she produces a small flask. >After a quick swig, he hands it to you. >Whiskey. Yuck. >He laughs as you cough from the taste of the foul-tasting drink. >”Ha! After a while you get used to it…. Oh, uh, I never caught your name.” >”Sofanov. Pyotr Sofanov.” >”Daniel.” >”Nice to meet you, Dan. And hey. Merry Christmas.”