The sky was as blue as can be, and the sun shone down, reflecting on the tundra and keeping my eyes held thin. The snow was beautiful, but bright this day, unhindered by the sun, which did little to warm the air. Without the ReL-13’s onboard heating, I wouldn’t last an hour out here, not without cold-weather gear. Surveying the sky with a hand below my eyes to block the tundra, I scan for any planes to report. There are my three wingmates, but besides them, the skies remain clear.

This continued, as patrols usually do. I flew for at least an hour before I saw them. Four flecks in the sky, barely over the horizon. Immediately I reported them on the radio. “This is Mer-liv 1-1 calling Lexicon, request read on three northwest of grid reference 9G, over,” I called, awaiting the answer. 

“Lexicon to Mer-liv all, clear engagement. Three northwest of grid 9G are not ours, out.” And so it was confirmed, they were not our birds. They’d be going down. I raised my throttle from 70 to around 95; precision wasn’t necessary. 

“Mer-liv All, form on 1-1, guns hot,” I called to my wing, flicking the safety switch on to enable my guns.

The trip to close on the enemy wing took roughly 15 minutes. We had the element of surprise, the enemy pilots weren’t expecting a patrol and couldn’t hear our engines over their own. We approached their 4 o’clock low and got the jump. They were definitely Oskovian; I didn’t recognize the plane, and I had studied every Rostoran plane design in the air. But this wasn’t the time for learning. It was time to do what soldiers do best. “Mer-liv 1-1 to Mer-liv all, guns out in 3.” I rested my finger on the trigger, silently counting from three. Two. One. Guns! I squeezed the trigger, and at first, all that could be heard was the 7.05mm machine gun. Then, my 30mm kicked out a round, which punched straight through the wing of one of the Oskovian planes. The pilot bailed, and my wing moved on to new targets as the Oskies scattered. I released my trigger, moving my head about in the search for targets. I spotted one on my right wing, but thankfully, I looked closer at Mer-liv 1-3 before lighting them up. “Watch it 1-3, might get ripped up!” I called over the short-range. I heard her chuckle on the other end. 

My next target was a retreating Oskie. The plane was heading back to base, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. I threw my plane into WEP, keeping a close eye on the engine thermometer so I didn’t cook it. I seemed to match her speed, which was good, meant I could catch up and knock her down. I went a little faster with WEP, but as the thought crossed my mind, I noticed my engine was getting a little warm. 295° F. If it passed 300°, it would get dangerous. I lowered my throttle back to 100%. This meant I might be separated from the other members of Mer-liv, but if they pulled through they could come to help me if need be. How naive I was.

It took around three minutes to close on the Oskie, I was certainly separated from my wing, but I had the Oskie right where I wanted her. This was her end. I lit up her plane, punched right through her elevators and rudder, but immediately I felt something was wrong. I swung my head around in a frantic search, but the first thing that told me something was wrong was the gunshots behind me and the tracers. One punched through my left wing, but it wasn’t a heavy round; it went in the back and came out the front, leaving only a small hole in the canopy. But it wasn’t the only round. I swung my head back, and then I saw her. That damn red-striped plane, the feature of an Oskovian wing leader. 

I moved my head back forward. I figured I had three seconds. Her rounds had mostly flown over my head, and she’d need a moment to get them down and recenter them on me. I frantically aimed my plane at the retreating Oskie, launching three 33mm rounds and countless 7.05mm rounds right at her. I watched the rounds fly out and grinned as they ripped a wing off, lighting the engine aflame like a Christmas fireball. And then, my grin faded. I knew what was next. I yanked left on the stick and slammed my left foot forward on the pedal; I wouldn't be making this easy on her. But the rounds came all the same. I saw them come in, actually, though I didn't hear the gunshots. The bullets flew straight and true, and I watched my right wing as the canvas was torn, then the metal understructure. And then the whole wing tore away, slamming me into my seat as the plane began to spin uncontrollably. I felt my right leg light up, but I didn't notice the pain at the time, given the shock. I slammed the airbrake lever and prayed. Then, I opened my eyes, resting them on the red-striped leader for a split second.

She was burning. And she was still fighting. My two wingmates still in the air were maneuvering around her, and she stayed in the air, left wing burning away, seemingly dead set on going home. I wondered who she was fighting for. Then, a tree tore away my left wing and jolted my seat so hard my shoulder popped out of place for a moment. I screamed, but the pain passed. I examined myself. My leg, first of all. It was okay, though it needed bandaging desperately. I was bleeding quite badly, but if I stopped it, I’d live. So, I reached for the bandage in my cockpit and began tending to my leg. I looked to the sky while wrapping, in time to see the wing leader go down. I opened the canopy and stood, grabbing my flare gun from the side of my cockpit. And then the heating kicked out. I said several things my mother would not have been proud of, giving the instrument console a hefty clonk. Nothing. I was all alone, in the cold, with no coat or heating. This was how I died.

After around two minutes of observation, I noticed I wasn't completely alone. The second plane I shot down had crashed not a hundred feet from where I stood. I began the slow, limping trek to the Oskie’s plane. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a voice, in Rostoran, surprisingly. 

“Hello, Rostoran. Welcome to my humble abode.” The other pilot said. I couldn’t see her, but from her voice, she wasn’t joking. I pulled my handgun and circled around, and what I saw was enough to make me holster my gun. 

“How are you talking to me?” I asked.

 “There’s enough adrenaline and shock in my blood, I can't feel a thing.” She said. Her left leg was crushed, cauterized by her burning engine. Her arm was also clearly broken, and she was bleeding from the right thigh.

“Mirug, I did this?” I posed a pointless question to my lord.

“No, don’t feel bad. You got me fair and square. I got scared, tried to go home. Should have stayed and fought, like Martelia over there.” She raised her left arm to point toward the Oskie’s wing leader.

“For what? My plane’s heating kicked out and I'm stranded without anything to keep me warm. I’m going to die too without a jacket or something.” I said, sitting beside her and leaning against her still-warm plane.

“Take mine.” She said, looking up at me.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Do I look like I’ll be going home?”

“Good point,” I responded. 

“Just one condition. Grab your gun and make it quick.”

“I…” My breath caught in my throat. “I can do that,” I said, pulling the gun back out, pulling the bolt back, and looking it over.

“I’m already dead. You know that. I don’t… I don’t want to go home and try to live my life like this. It won’t be worth it.” She said, looking me in the eyes. “I may have a husband, but I… I don’t want to go back to him like this.” Her eyes began to water, and she looked away again. “Just do it.” 

“I understand,” I said, aiming the pistol at her. Finish what you started, Malia.