Vote Count - D1 - 12A, 7L
Espressojet (7) - Anatole Kuragin, Flubbernugget, MafiaSSK, vezokpiraka, Belisarius, xRECKONERx, mykonian,
T S O (2) - MattP, farside22,
Flubbernugget (1) - Espressojet,
vezokpiraka (1) - Csareo,
MafiaSSK (1) - T S O,
Not Voting (0) - Nobody!
Current Deadline
(expired on 2014-09-03 15:24:00)
↑ MattP wrote:
MOD: Can we get a minor extension just so I can have your response to my question? I mean, I'm obviously limited by when I wake up tomorrow, but just wanted to check.
Sorry, mate. While I understand you'd like to be as informed as possible, the question simply didn't validate an extension. For extensions I'm talking about: site outages, mass replacements, mod v/la, stuff like that. I'll also note that it wouldn't be fair to insert that extension this late.
"Think I'll do it then." Mykonian's voice crackles over the radio. It's uncertain whether the crackling is from the static, or in his throat. "It's Espressojet."
You count the numbers on your hand, and count again. And again. Espressojet whimpers his plea but...the sun sets over the distant horizon. Looking to your left you can see the darkness creeping along your wing. You swing into a lazy right hand turn to extend your time in the fading sunlight.
"Myko, you don't ha-"
"I said I'll do it!" He shouts through the static, and takes deep drawing breaths from his oxygen mask. The rushing of air across his microphone gives a whisper to each big pause. "I said....Locked Two-Seven-Five. Thirty eight. Twenty three thousand feet...Master arm...on."
Espressojet looks down at his radar warning receiver. Nothing. He looks down at his position readout. Bang on. "You are locked my position. Locked friendly. Hold fire, man."
Mykonian's left index finger flitters across the multiple-function screen in his cockpit, checking that everything is working within the missile. His right thumb brushes over the fire button and flinches as if the button were red hot and poison. He draws his hand back from the stick, the aircraft's trim keeping him level. Bunching his fist a few times until the blood fills his flying gloves. He rips the glove from his hand and pops his mask from his face. A red ring is the only evidence of how hard it was jammed to his jawline, but even that is temporary as his regular tan returns to his face, perhaps just a little whiter than usual.
A few deep breaths without the artificially produced oxygen start to make Mykonian lightheaded, and though he welcomes the almost drunk feeling of relaxation, he returns his mask and switches the oxygen back on. Inside your cockpit the dead air across your radio is making you worry. You start to press your transmit button to ask if everything is okay, but before you can, you hear the distinct click of the silence ending, and you await the transmission.
"Hostile hostile. Fox Three." His voice lacks the excitement and adrenaline that usually comes with such a notification. Instead it is flat. Uncertain, but not unsure. Defeated, but not disappointed.
The missile streaks through the sky. If you could hear it from your cockpit you would hear the rushing of the rocket booster. You would hear the soft blips of the radar processor. You would hear the small explosion in the warhead. You would hear the metal rods inside expand outwards and snap at their ends. You would hear those rods tear into the soft skin of the aircraft. You would hear them tear into the softer skin of a pilot.
Giving Mykonian time to collect himself, another jet flies over the wreckage in the dirt. At this low altitude it's already night time, but the fire gives ample lighting for the observer.
"Bad news, Flight. Looks Korean. Definitely an F-15."
Espressojet - F-15K STRIKE EAGLE -
Town Bus Driver
has been lynched.
Night one.
Ends in 72hrs.
(expired on 2014-09-06 06:34:13)