Verdaux

Fantasy:Lantern Dancer

I'd like to join. PM or in the 1x1 threads?

Sky Warriors

@Dynamo Frokane

Boom, you got it now.

Should really make a fart joke, but eh...next post.

Scarlet Academy (A School for Magic Knights) NOT ACCEPTING ANYMORE FOR THE TIME BEING!

Whoops, wrong place!

Sky Warriors

@Dynamo Frokane

Alphonse, by then, was slowly leveling the plane just above the Albatross's altitude. Fast as the Albatross was, the Old Fart's maneuverability was considerably higher than the short-ranged bomber's, so within seconds, it was tailing the Albatross by making a sharp 45-degree turn.

"You have four options with any bomber : hit the bomb bay with some heavy-caliber rounds, hit either wings and make it veer off course, go for the engines from the front, or blast the cockpit. I'll leave the fastest option to you. Just be careful; in case you guys can't get the job done fast enough, I'll be lighting up our bird here from the rear. Try not to cross the main body from above or below the target, unless you wanna get caught. You've got less than four minutes."

With that said, the Vulcans got fixing to scream again, and so Alphonse opened fire on the Albatross's tail.

"Here's for the holes you put in my wings, asshole!"

Given, the holes were more just on the side of the the main body, but hey, it sounded cool. The bullets began to fly out again, this time with much greater volume.

Sky Warriors

Alright, edited.

Sky Warriors

If one were to think an Albatross was huge, it was likely that that one had yet to seen the Old Fart. With the roar of hundreds of lawnmowers, the massive bomber took to the skies at a very gentle glide...

...then a high-pitched whine began to scream from the turbines.

In this world, many planes were unable to compete against the latest fighter jets of the old world without a few crutches. Sure, even a 20mm cannon could punch a hole through their wings, but without the speed and handling to match, many of the jets just flew by.

The B-52s, by then, were mostly just left in the hangars by then. After the fighting, they were refurbished with new, better turbines, the leftovers rebuilt from the wreckage of the War.

Though only the lightest of these planes could ever hope to match the fighter jets, they were still faster, still tougher.

The Old Fart had just reached a high pitch as it shot straight out the hangar's front, and was now releasing two streams of nasty 20 mm rounds at the Albatross's belly, perpendicular to the cockpit. The B-52 began to stink of gunpowder...

Sky Warriors

As the alarms sounded, Alphonse hopped off of Nishizawa's MSO-6, and at a brisk pace, made his way towards the back end of the hangar. There, at the back-end reserved just for air shuttles and other massive planes, sat his B-52 bomber. Without much fighting in the recent weeks, the only problems the old behemoth would face would be a minor cough in the engines...hopefully.

These things were made long before the war; hell, the exact blueprint of the plane was probably already lost. While the design was straightforward, the risk of disassembling War-era planes with perfect re-assembly was beyond Alphonse's paycheck. If there was a fatal engine flaw waiting to happen, most tinkerers wouldn't see it coming.

It stood to reason, then, that the man had held his breath as he flipped on the turbines. He'd be out in the air within seconds...as soon as the engines were up to speed.

Blood in Their Wake (First application, first serve!)

Well? I'm doing a thing for Kryosky's app.

Sky Warriors

Alphonse had started his morning in a blind tumult of routines. First, as per usual, came the bumbling and mumbling he made as he re-tightened his bandages. They always came loose when he was at rest, be it at the dining table or in the bed, but by the work of God...well, they weren't in the way when he didn't need them to be. As the mummy in the morning, Alphonse had to go over and avoid getting his wrappings caught on the peeling wood shavings and cracks in the bathroom tiles, and with a rough scrub, his teeth were just as white as the next baron's pearls.

Granted, when your teeth's been stained with more motor oil than a lawnmower can go through in a lifetime, anything lighter than a stale sooty grey seems sterling.

Next came on the sweater, then the trousers, and then the socks and coat. As usual, the shoes and gloves always came last; one time, he had the pleasure of almost tearing his shin apart when he tried to tuck his trouser's ends in the boots. Shit, he had to dress more and more like a Texan by the day.

".. | .-.. --- ...- . | -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-," rang the telegraph, precisely at 5:05.

And back, he sent his own telegraph :

"--. --- | -... .- -.-. -.- | - --- | ... .-.. . . .--. .-.-.- | .. | .-.. --- ...- . | -.-- --- ..- | - --- --- .-.-.-"

If the caller was stubborn, he'd get more, but today wasn't one of those days. No wars to fight, no rare, legendary B-52 being sighted...yet. So, after a good 30 seconds, he left the telegraph machine and sauntered out. Hopefully, London would be kind today, as it had been for the past two weeks.

Then there came the perilous task of starting of the coffee machines. Each bag was a mix of roasts, so the end product was usually a hit-or-miss. On occasion, he could get a real smooth, rich serving that could be drunken black, or (like today) he'd come up with some sour, root taste. Cream couldn't fix the batch, and the farther he got with it, the stronger the sour taste became. 3 filters, all filled up with the same nasty beans, tragically went into the trash as another set replaced them.

The result was acceptable. It tasted like coffee, at least.

And so, with a cup of café in hand, Alphonse waited in the common room. The hour flew by with him wolfing down two servings of gruel (as of late, the only food he could be comfortable eating without feeling like he could break his jaw), and as soon as the decisions were made, he raised two fingers in favor of the trans-Atlantic option.

Sure, he might've gotten a glare by a few others, but all things considered, the stakes were higher for every opponent they met, not just themselves. They could dust a flock and that would be the end of the matter; not many, unless they were flying a fleet of the last B-17s in the world, would have enough guts to brave the trip as retribution. With the northern route, the crew could be hassled at every stop and flight in-between the check points; that was a sure-fire way to get tangled in some annoying affairs.

Once he stated his choice, he strode out alongside the other pilots, and made his way to not his plane, that Old Fart that sat way in the back like an elephant in a room full of hippos, but rather towards the "Seishin Gado". He needed a wingman to handle things, and the plane looked just about large and armed enough to cover those blind spots he had above and below him.

But did she agree with his plans? His knuckles beat the sheet metal like a drumstick.

First, Alphonse procured a map, and drew his fingertip along the trans-Atlantic route, before following up with a thumbs up and a thumbs down. Good, or bad?

@ClocktowerEchos

Sky Warriors

PILOTS

Alphonse D'Aramitz

Name:

Alphonse D'Aramitz

Age:

33

Height:

5'10

Weight:

155 lb.

Pilot Class:

Hunter

Nationality:

French Canadian

Appearance:

With his bandages off, Alphonse would appall many with his face; they'd see, even in the dimmest of places, the greasy, stretched skin over the rounded contours of leprotic flesh. Though his skull structure suggests he is of gaunt stature, his high, pronounced cheekbones are held hidden under the folds of his once-infected flesh. For this reason, he has grown out a short beard to have at least some facial symmetry with the bandages on. His eyes, though, are still as warm and comforting as any old bear's - brown, oval, and almost always on the verge of tears. Too bad he can't sport the scalp to make himself just as grizzly.

Bio:

Nova Scotia, in the year 2116, became a hotbed of criminal activity as the closest (and subsequently largest) trading post to Las Vegas. Nicknamed "Nova Levia" (New Leviathan) for its incredibly difficult waters and rugged weather, the small province proved difficult to access by sea or air, and so was a haven for some more clandestine enterprises and, if you could steal your way to a plane or boat, some of the most damnably insane pilots in the world.

To even get to that position, though, one had to grind through the shithole that was the hierarchy of Nova Levia by credit and loyalty to some very disloyal bosses, or, if one was insane enough, mug a pilot. Alphonse did just that when he was 16, and stole his plane : an Antonov An-2. He barely managed to land on what was now Iceland, where he contracted his leprosy by working the fields in exchange for fuel.

In a panic, he was able to fly to Ireland, and was immediately met with the people's ire for foreigners. Fortunately, when his face was smashed by a molotov cocktail, most of his leprosy was burned off. So, he flew to the south of UK, towards the little island of Corsica, where he received the rest of his treatment by the significantly kindlier townspeople. Old habits, especially vices, died hard, and soon he found himself on the way to the bastion of Zugspitze for rape. His victim was later found to also have been infected with leprosy, and was subsequently exiled to Zugspitze to testify against him.

Alphonse survived the first 5 years raising a daughter with a woman who was too weak to even walk outside. At the time, few could be trusted with the girl, so Alphonse raised his daughter, Theresa, to stick by him and him only. His sentence to capital punishment was averted by his merit of fatherhood, and so the two waited for the right moment...in Rikers. Apparently, having a daughter doesn't mean shit if you broke 25 noses in defense of a child, so in reality, he had to thank Chavez and Sparks for the opportunity, even if they didn't really know him.

Theme Song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58HBTJF5mHA

PLANE

Old Fart

Name: EB-52 "Old Fart" (Nicknamed so because of its age and silent, deadly capabilities).
Description:

Recently refurbished B-52 Bomber; matte-black paint job...that's staining.

Plane Type: Strategic Bomber
Extra Aircraft Notes:
Characteristics :

• Length: 159 ft 4 in (48.5 m)
• Wingspan: 185 ft 0 in (56.4 m)
• Height: 40 ft 8 in (12.4 m)
• Wing area: 4,000 sq ft (370 m²)
• Empty weight: 185,000 lb (83,250 kg)
• Loaded weight: 265,000 lb (120,000 kg)
• Max. takeoff weight: 488,000 lb (220,000 kg)
• Powerplant: 8 × Pratt & Whitney TF33-P-3/103 turbofans, 17,000 lbf (76 kN) each
• Fuel capacity: 47,975 U.S. gal (39,948 imp gal; 181,610 L)

Weapons Descriptions:

• 2 x 20mm M61 Vulcans, Forward-Facing.
• 1 x 20mm M61 Vulcan, Flexile Tail Compartment
• EB-52 Custom Jammer System
• JDAM Remote Systems
• 2x ADR-8 Chaff Missiles
• 5x AGM-158 JASSM Missiles - Air to Ground
• 5x "Harpoon" Missiles - Air to Sea
• Payload Bay - Empty as of now. Maximum weight : 488000 lb.

Weaknesses: Weight is always an issue, as heavier loads allow for more damage in a single run, but requires more time and energy to get to place to place. Too heavy, and the craft may not be suitable at all to engage fighter or even other bombers. Too light, and the craft will have no more payloads to bring...

Past Encounter:

It was interesting, to say the least, that just prior to its hijacking by Alphonse, its entire crew had disappeared on a routine patrol flight across the Bermuda Triangle from Panama. Thinking the craft was haunted now, most people never bothered to touch the heavily armed bomber, and so it remained as sort of a relic of an old world. Alphonse notes the presence of suspicious shadows as merely his paranoia and distrust of others, so it doesn't really affect him. His daughter is the one driving him nuts, because they drive her nuts.