Post by Killian King on Mar 18, 2017 21:31:50 GMT -5
The Piercing Media Network presents
NEWS FROM THE WAR ROOM!
Edited by: Travis Pierce
A black and white film with an upbeat, hopeful tempo begins to play as an unseen speaker narrates, scenes being described playing out before the eyes of the viewers.
“March 17, 1945: The Allies are making their final push in the European theater. Battle-hardened Army commander Cypress Morgan is leading his battalion of Sherman tanks known as 'The Devil's Most Wanted' on a deadly mission behind enemy lines. We wish him well!”
“Fourth-place American league the New York Yankees blame the loss of star-hitter Zane Scott for their shortcomings. Zane Scott has recently put down his bat and joined the war effort. What a patriot!”
“The Axis Powers' terror of the skies known as 'The Engine of Chaos' strike again! Who can stop their terrifying reign of anarchy?”
As the screen changes with audible popping, a different upbeat, sort of jingly ditty starts to play with pin-up model and screen queen Eden Morgan reminding everyone to do their part in the war effort by buying war bonds.
“Another goddamned Eden Morgan war bond commercial? The broad sells them faster than Bugs Bunny.”
These words are uttered by a stocky man bearing an eye patch over one eye and carrying a small, black baseball bat. He turns away from the running film reel in the darkened area of the dank room beneath the Chicago Command Center, looking back to his two other compatriots who currently have their heads together reading over a slip of paper that had just been delivered from one of the upstairs rooms and perusing a map that covers the entire surface of a large table.
“The hell's got your panties in a twist?” he asks, coming to stand across the table, the bat tapping against his left hand. One of the men looks over to him, passing the slip of paper.
“We've got trouble, big trouble. Engine trouble.”
The man squints his one good eye at the words written on the paper.
“And what the hell does 'Steigen oder Fallen' mean?”
One of the other men, a slight man who normally doesn't say much, draws the glasses from his face and cleans them on his shirt.
“It means we've intercepted the Axis powers, and specifically the Engine of Chaos' next target. That place you hold in your hand is where they intend to spread more of their brand of anarchy.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Days.”
The other man shakes his head as he stands looking down over the map.
“That goddamned Engine has done nothing but create problem after problem for us. We've sent our best against them and all they've been able to do is buy us a little time. We have to take them out, now!” he drives his fist down onto the table, the one-eyed man leaning in, his glare calculating.
“But just in case it doesn't work out, we should send someone expendable.”
A dawning comprehension spreads across the face of the other man.
“I know exactly who we send. They'll get the job done or die trying,” he says firmly, the one-eyed man raising an eyebrow.
“Who... no... No! Not them! Anyone but those two assholes!”
The other man, still cleaning his glasses absently, frowns.
“Who are we talking about, exactly?”
The one-eyed man growls.
The 431st Army Air Force Base Unit in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania lay on the outskirts of the hustle an bustle of the inner city. Hangars dot the scenery amid strips of green as well as asphalt, servicemen going about their business, some with a swagger to their step, some with a melancholy look as they reread letters from home already wrinkled and faded from their hands. A group of men surround two “Warhawks”, some from each group moving from one to the other, men with clipboards, men with tools, all checking over each plane methodically and carefully. One man stands to the tail of one of the fighter planes, his upper torso bare to the elements, military-style pants and boots covering his lower half. He steps back, turning his head way this way and that as he studies the fresh painting applied to the tail of the plane. A beautiful brunette done in pin-up style with haunting light blue eyes blows a kiss out to him and anyone viewing his Warhawk.
“What do you think, Alan?” he asks of a blonde man seated in a lawn chair in back of him. The blonde raises his chin and shields his eyes from the glare of the sun as he peruses his friend's work.
“I think you've done a fair job, Killian, though of course it hardly compares to mine,” he grins, taking a drink of water from a canteen as he looks to the other Warhawk being checked over, his own visage giving a thumbs up salute from the tail end with “You're Welcome” emblazoned beneath it.
Killian snorts in response and returns to his work.
“As many years as I've been in Her Majesty's service, I've never flown with anyone who adorned the side of their plane with their own likeness.”
“Well, I'm just that pretty, and I'd like the enemy to know who hit them. It's a calling card,” he says with a smile. “However, if you'd like to talk oddities, let's talk about how the face calling for duty to America is dating a British pilot.”
“It means she's got damned good taste,” Killian observes.
“It's the accent, isn't it?” Alan queries thoughtfully. Killian sighs in response and then shakes his head.
“Yes, it's the accent,” he admits before putting the finishing touches on the likeness of Eden Morgan. One of the group who have been working steadily between the two planes steps forward, wiping grease from his hands, his hair constantly falling in his face and grease smudge on his forehead from where he has to push it back.
“Yeah, the 'Hawks look good guys, ready to give em' hell,” he assures the pilots before them. “So Hugs and Fisticuffs fly again, huh? Thought they grounded you two after that last bout you got into. Where you guys off to this time?”
“Well we'd tell you, Ingalls, but we'd have to kill you,” Alan offers conversationally, Ingalls laughing.
“Watchin' you two, I'm thinkin' maybe I wanna switch from the mechanics to workin' inside the belly of the beast. Really make a difference,” he says, staring at the Warhawks beside him. Killian and Alan exchange a look and roll their eyes together. “Where'd your call names come from anyway, Hugs and Fisticuffs?”
“I know it's hard to believe, but Alan and I were considered ne'er-do-wells as we didn't quite play well with others,” Killian begins, Alan nodding.
“Yes, and as that was the case, we were frequently the victims of a rotating cast of partners, that is, until a program was agreed upon between the British and our wonderful country to start trading pilots. As Killian had similar issues, we were placed together and we've been a team ever since.”
Ingalls crosses his arms over his chest.
“So which one of you is 'Hugs' and which one is 'Fisticuffs'?” he asks, Killian and Alan exchanging a grin.
“Depends on who's asking,” Killian answers, Ingalls laughing until he realizes they're serious.
“You just make sure those planes are fueled and ready to go, Ingalls. We have little time to waste,” Alan says with a nod toward his own Warhawk, his expression suddenly grim. Ingalls' eyes widen as Alan gets to his feet, he and Killian moving away from the planes.
“Hey, King?” Ingalls calls out, Killian stopping and turning as Ingalls moves up beside him, a joking grin on his face. “Hey, if something happens to you out there, don't worry, I'll take care of that little honey you got painted on the back of your...” Ingalls never gets to finish his sentence as Killian's fist is suddenly planted in his face, the mechanic down on the ground with blood sprayed in a haphazard pattern on the concrete from a busted nose.
A loud laugh sounds from Alan.
“Today, he's 'Fisticuffs'.”
The two lone Warhawks cross the open sea, flying perfectly alongside one another, the pilot of each keeping a watchful eye on the skies around them. They were aware they were in Engine territory, and they were aware of their tactics. First it was four, then they split off randomly. Sometimes it was two, sometimes three, sometimes one, and any combination of their numbers, but it was always understood that while the current battle was fought, the others were near, watching and waiting. They didn't engage in the usual rules of war, but then, neither did the duo known as Hugs and Fisticuffs. The two of them, together and separately, were two of the most decorated war heroes and pilots, regardless of their unorthodox methods.
“So you and that bird,” Killian's voice crackles over the radio, Alan interrupting him before he can even get started.
“I'd rather not discuss it.”
“What are you going to do if I keep asking? Are you going to pull over on a cloud and beat my arse? Hmm? Air brakes, is that what you have equipped, Alan?”
“I can turn communications off, Killian, though that would be inadvisable considering our mission. Now get your head out of the clouds and back in the game.”
“I'm always in the clouds, I'm a fucking pilot, man,” Killian responds cheekily. Killian glances to the side, watching as Wallace's Warhawk moves up more evenly with his, a middle finger pressed to the glass in his direction. Killian utter a sharp bark of laughter.
“I see that, Wallace,” he responds cheerily.
“Good, because I'm doing it as hard as I can,” Alan jokes, falling back just a bit.
“I never saw you as the type to settle down anyway, why, everytime I've seen you on land you've been surrounded by a harem of nurses and secretary types,” Killian says, refusing to let the earlier comment go.
Alan doesn't respond.
“Fine, subject change...”
“Swell idea, Killian.”
“Would anyone like to discuss how we've been placed on a mission to take out the Engine of Chaos, and that mission has filtered down from a Kraut?” Killian muses.
“Lieberjosch? I believe he's Dutch,” Alan offers.
“Funny, he doesn't look Dutch,” Killian deadpans.
“I would really appreciate it if you would stop with that sort of talk around him. Your Illuminati conspiracy theories are going to end up with us being tossed in a padded room, the key thrown away.”
“Will there be conjugal visits, do you suppose?” Killian ponders.
“I highly doubt it,” Alan answers. “Keep your eyes peeled, we're entering Engine territory.”
“We're the only two up here, Alan, I think I'll notice when four other assclowns show up.”
“Other assclowns?” Alan questions.
Killian looks back to the other plane briefly.
“Well there's two of us in the air, and I know it isn't me. I was afraid to give you the terrible news, however that is irrelevant, Alan. If anyone shows up and starts shooting at us, I would assume that would be them.”
“What was it that waitress at the Wylde Bar told you the other night?” Alan asks.
“Ah, she said I should kindly go fuck myself. How was I to know that the owner's wife and not his daughter. And I'm not the one who tipped her with a picture and an autograph.”
“She seemed to appreciate it,” Alan responds.
“Are we even sure they're really out here? How reliable is this intel?”
“They must be in the area, they've been spotted attacking vessels near here. They seem to be haunting this region. From what I've heard, they attack suddenly and without warning. They come from all sides and move in unpredictable patterns,” Alan offers.
“Greeeeeeeat,” Killian responds sarcastically.
“The description I've been given of them is that one is an Italian, he's a cold, calculating, remorseless killer; there's an English bastard...”
“I'll have you know, I'm an English bastard. That man is a turncoat and nowhere near as good as he claims to be.”
“So it's a theme with you guys, is it?” Alan asks before continuing. “After the English bastard, you have the Mick, and the kamikaze.”
“A goddamned kamikaze with them? Is it a different kamikaze every time, or the same one?”
“As far as I know, it's the same guy. Poor bastard flies around trying to find opportunities to off himself,” Alan answers derisively.
“So he's not a good kamikaze,” Killian says slowly. “Well today's the day.”
“You were handed the same file I was, why are you not acquainted with our enemies?” Alan wonders.
“It was written in American English, so of course I couldn't understand a thing. My stomach everytime I tried...” Killian responds, laughing.
“You bastard, we speak the same language,” Alan admonishes over the radio.
“No, I speak the Queen's own English. You attempt it and then murder it in its sleep. The point is, Alan, despite the 'Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse' recognition they get, they're still men. Tell me, does the Mick have 'Famine' painted on the side of his plane?”
“We'll find out soon enough, the Allies have engaged in several skirmishes with them, but this one is for all the marbles. This one, is for the big V, victory or death,” Alan's tone turns serious.
“Of those options, I must say that I do have a fondness for the first.”
“I as well, Killian. What does victory mean for you?”
“A proper cup of tea when all of this is over and America's Sweetheart seated on my lap, of course,” Killian responds without hesitation.
“You enjoy that far too much,” Alan says with a chuckle.
“I do, I do.”
“The Allied powers are making their power play and are pushing hard on the Axis, but that means us grounding these four bastards once and for all, and taking these cogs out of the machine,” Alan returns to business.
“It really doesn't matter if it's one, two, multiple variations of the four, or all fucking four at once...”
“Watch the potty mouth, son,” Alan admonishes.
“My apologies, but my point still stands. Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time that I took out the Baron of Bullshivitz, Klaus vonKnorre?”
“I'm afraid it will have to wait, Killian, we have company...”
Both pilots are instantly on alert as a fighter plane moves out of the clouds, barreling between them, the two Warhawks veering to either side as the other plane spirals off into the distance.
“Was that that goddamned kamikaze?” Killian questions.
“I believe it was,” Alan answers.
“I would still like to know if it's a different one each time or if he's just that bad...”
Killian and Alan's Warhawks move back into formation.
“Here's your opportunity, go ask,” Alan says, the two of them flying head on into the three other waiting planes.
“Love to,” Killian says with relish.
And the war was waged.
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2013, '18, '23 
2013 
