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Have been working on some original fiction lately but felt like a break. Here's a little something i whipped up for a larf. It's a little rough round the edges and only an intro but i thoroughly enjoyed writing it. I will be adding more VERY soon (i know i always say this lol).

++FLUFF DISCLAIMER++ Forgeworld fluff is pretty boring, for this reason i have pretty much just winged it when it comes to details of the Imperial Navy. Instead of doing research .

Dogfighter

#Four minutes until splashdown#
#We are reading green across the board#
#AP 1 do you confirm?#
'Yes indeedy, sorry, that is.. Affirmative'
It was strange hearing his own voice in the darkened cockpit, even stranger when he heard it spat from his headphones a split second later. His voice transformed into a fuzzy robotic squeal. The pilot fumbled at his harness, he remembered basic, it's amazing how hard it is to use a push release buckle when it counts. Holding the thought, he carefully ran his fingers over the metal tongue of the fastener, warming the cold metal between his fingers before clicking it into it's housing with a satisfying chink and thunk. In a reflex he popped it loose once more, if it hadn't jammed the last twelve times chances are it won't the thirteenth. Or at least that's what he told his nagging doubts, dejectedly they slunk off to the back of his mind as he focused on the task at hand.

#I am reading 3 minutes AP 1#
#Synchronisation?#
'Affirmative, 2.58, 2.57, 2.56 you get the idea..'
#Please Keep the channel clear AP1#

Within his helmet Lt Moser 'Hawkwind' Alberta's face reddened, being slapped on the wrist was bad enough, having it done by what sounded like a simpleton tin-man was just garnish. He could just imagine the small minded tech on the other end of the TAC com. A portrait of a cliche, Denied flight school; probably because of poor eye sight or inability to handle G's, so now he would do his utmost to take what little revenge he can on the 'hotshot' pilots who left him behind.

Moser pulled his gloves on, he made a tight fist with each, watching as the creased leather flexed into a taut second skin then sagging down again when he un-tensed. The lieutenant then looked to the priming button, after whispering a brief prayer to the machine spirit he depressed it. The dull red of the ignition sputtered and flickered in time to the spooling and racheting of the engine units. With one final grunting effort they shook off their reticence and chugged into life. Expectedly a strobe and buzz signalled his cockpit fizzing into light, both the buttons on the dash and the stripping at the sides. Finally his most hated lights crept into illumination, each little beady orange glow a malevolent stirrer of his niggling doubts. They were rimmed by hazard stripping, yellow and black like a wasp. 'In case of emergency' they said, the words somehow didn't seem right for them, too calm, not to mention extraneous, though perhaps 'PANIC! PANIC! PANIC!' wouldn't help things. The canopy bolts, Emperor's grace please say they won't be needed today.'

The lights on his wing tips painted a murky picture of the metal coup he roosted in, the lander had twelve of these bays, they were usually used for Ground pounders but it was far from unusual to use them for naval ops. It seemed almost wasteful filling it with a lone thunderbolt. Last planetfall two Crassus' had nestled snuggly in the cold steel locker.

#1 minute AP1 check O2#

He pulled on his breather, he inhaled the cool oxygen deeply. It gave a feeling of intense well being, as if breathing was suddenly a pleasure rather than a ubiquity.
'A-OK control'

#Ok AP 1 opening hanger doors, Graviton insertion t-minus 30 seconds#

The light streamed in, the searing white left no clue as to what was outside but it did illuminate his full aircraft, Moser took in the faint heat haze rising of his engines and the white striping on his wings. Thunderbolt AP 1, Also known as Torregen's Vengeance. It was touted to be over 4000 years old, an antique or as the Adeptus Mechanicus would have it a 'Venerable Relic'. Moser knew the truth however, only the housing of the top left autocannon and a small piece of the hull could claim that provenance. Indeed said strip of hull actually depicted Torregen's revenge, a particularly lewd affair involving a female of some long extinct Xenos. It was ironic that this piece of sexualised grafitti was so carefully preserved by the mechanicus, after each mission the 4000 year old piece of hull was removed and placed in hypobaric stasis.

The pistons had laboured the door fully open now and Moser started to feel that familiar apprehension of imminent death, he was a pilot, wrestling with a machine too powerful for any one man and never too kind not to kill him at a moments notice. This mortal dread accompanied something else, excitement, and a clarification, he was wrestling with a machine too powerful for almost any man, but not him; he was a pilot, a wing leader a dogfighter Extradonaire!

With a grin he gunned the throttle in time with the graviton accelerator's spooling sequence, both bass drones harmonising as if warming up for their tandem effort. Moser couldn't even hear the countdown over the comms, only the last three registered, the important ones.

#3.2.1... Good hunting AP1#

And for a moment he no longer hated the jobsworth tech.

'I hope so...'
The tech never heard it, Moser's words were drowned out by the static and throttle rumble as the thunderbolt shot out of the Launch bay.

The scene that greeted him was one of ongoing conflict, the embattled landing craft and battling squadrons making him feel like he was late to the party. Flak blossoms and scrying tracer assaulted the watercolour vista below and in front. Wispy yellowed clouds hung nonchalant in the air, hoping to go unnoticed. Yellow light from an afternoon sunset bathed the city below and twinkled on the river that meandered to the horizon. The muffled silence within his headphones allowed, and perhaps even invited, such painterly fancies, the low thudd of the closest flak detonations and the vibration of the cockpit his only soundtrack. Moser increased the volume as he gunned the afterburners, accenting it with adjustments from his micro thrusters.

His wingman, a dull character by the name of Rufus; or 'Hell Fury' as he so Loved to be called, somewhat undeservedly added Moser in the afterthought, was taking a backseat on this op. Instead plotting a course to the east to intercept any reinforcements. He was not sad to see 'Hell Boring's' bird bank away from his own. They just didn't have the right chemistry; there was no friendly banter and there was no unashamedly unfriendly rivalry; the two opposite cornerstones of a good partnership in lieutenant Alberta's book.

Moser's target loomed large and larger as the horizon sped within his grasp, Bulk Lander MIVXX 'Steel totem'. It's ungainly mass filling more and more of his windscreen, It's obese fuselage was pockmarked with small fires and smoking remnants of them. A couple of it's megabolters coughed out a token volley but it could hardly be called a firing solution, more of a firing excuse, Moser permitted himself a smug grin. The other Vulcans stood decidedly silent, drooping guiltily in their gyroscopic mounts.

They had scrambled his wing for this very reason, steel totem had seen near total failure of her point defence grid, Thunderbolt wings AT through to AY were already running interference but they were losing.

To force the point the jagged swoop of a hell talon came between him and the great clumsy beast, it's screeching engines slicing through his noise cancelling headphones. The lieutenant to this day could not explain how something so noisy could always catch him by surprise. Behind it's jeering cackle it left fat black contrails and swirls of repulsed air. Moser grabbed at his stick as his plane lurched into the displacement, panicked, he pulled a right yaw, twisting free in a groan of friction. As his horizon shifted 45 degrees a tirade of Autocannon shells plodded across his bow, confusing himself with the target Moser took evasive action, plunging into full lock, spiralling his taciturn warmachine into a spirited roll. As the smudge of the flaming city became his sky he followed the bullets to their destination, the right airfoil of the impolite hell talon.

'Thought you were gunning for me Hotwings!' he said, after all Only one person would pull a move like that.
'Yeah looks like I missed..' She shot right back, didn't even sound like she was joking.
'And it's She-hawk, not Hot wings'.
Funny thing, you can always hear a smile in somebodies voice, much as they try to conceal it.

Need some advice. Should i include more radio chatter? I like minimal dialogue but i suppose these are pilots. Probably gonna wrap this one up within the week...........................

If anyone cares.. *self indulgent sob*...

Appreciate any input and indeed any views.

very good! wish I could read more. maybe a little more clarification on what is going one rather than descriptive words about what he is doing. I never knew exactly what was going on, It felt like I only figured it out after you had already finished describing it. hard to put into words but I hope that helps

I actually get what you are saying, Time for some editing poochery i think. Also a bit more research as i need to know a little more about planes to clarify certain things/describe them better.

Thanks for the comment though.

Wrote a little more as well. It will be probably be subject to some edits but i wanted to introduce something else to the story. Something Not common in 40k fiction (much less 40k fan fic).



She scythed overhead rocking his plane with her momentum, all she let was a clumsy sump of hot air and vapour. Eagerly Moser entered the gaping slipstream, it snapped the two birds together like a rubber band. Soon enough they were on the same heading, away from the bulk lifter away from the trappings of war, all that filled his vision was the ochre sunset. It was as If they were both hypnotised by it, lulled into it's fuzzy embrace. It could have been as long as a minute, dissonant vox chatter bouncing off deaf ears. She was the first to turn, banking recklessly hard. Moser felt his rudder flex and steering columns rattle with tension as he followed.

On course now, he sidled closer joining her in echelon, as the planes came closer more and more his thoughts strayed to her. Perri Khai-zan, she had been named Temperance but that was wishful thinking on her father's part. They had even bunked up together one time but unfortunately he didn't figure any more fraternising was forthcoming, not after what happened last wargame.

Just as the two planes were on the cusp of a maintained formation she pulled away, shrugging off the outstretched hand. Rather than play the game a wounded Moser set his sights on something else, the welcome distraction of his actual mission. It seemed that AY 1, Kingfisher if memory served, had been winged, and sure enough a great tail of smoke belched from her turbines, tantalised all comers, the perfect bait.
'Hawkwind, could use a hand, got a traitor right up my chuff'
'Solid copy Kingfisher' No one told a dirty joke better than Kingfisher, Moser couldn't let him go down.

The lieutenant snappily decided on a perpendicular course, throttle gunning a full burn. All the other conflict became meaningless, the edge of needless periphery, sweat beaded under his visor, moistening a furrowed brow, pooling in the few places it found to go. He had a plan and was sticking to it.

.

This has very much potential, I would love some more background info on what conflict they are involved in. But keep it up Man

Thanks for the comments. Greatly appreciated!

@Warork, Agreed, its tough, damned third dimension!

@Trondheim, i am gonna elaborate on it a bit more. Lets just say its the same one as my other fiction.

I reconed that but still. We need MOAR!