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Title: Unknown. ("All's Fair" is a strong possibility though)


1.

“Hey. Hey. You awake yet?”
That voice…what was that voice?…if only his head didn’t feel like it was split in two!
“Took quite a nasty fall back there, yup yup. Don’t worry though; I got you taken care of. Lemme get some ice for your head. Don’t try to stand up yet ‘cause you’re still pretty hurt.”
He didn’t feel like trying to stand up. He felt like taking out the steel rod that was lodged in the top of his skull. He just wanted to sleep. Sudden cold turned that notion into a distant dream, however.
“Didn’t have any icepacks for your head, sorry. Just put some ice from the freezer into a Ziploc, yup yup. Do you remember what happened?”
He tried to think. It hurt too much. The most he could remember was walking down the street; yeah, he had just finished his date with…Carolyn? Yeah, her name was Carolyn, and he was walking home. Then…nothing. He didn’t even remember falling. He shook his head.
“Huh. Guess that’s good.”
Why would his memory loss be a good thing? He finally realized that his eyes had been closed this whole time. He opened them, to see where he was. He saw nothing but blackness. Did I…did I go blind? Did I fall that hard? No…no. The blackness was unnatural. He could see light at the bottom edge of his vision. Something was covering his eyes. He tried speaking.
“Where…am I?”
“You’re here, silly. Where I’m taking care of you.”
“Who are you?” His voice was cracked and weak.
“You sure are slow! I’m the person taking care of you, yup yup.”
This was starting to get creepy. He was blindfolded with something, the guy who was “taking care of him” wouldn’t give a straight answer, and he had no idea where he was. He raised his hand to take off the blindfold. Or rather, he tried to. Both hands were tightly tied to something; he assumed it was the chair he sat on. He tried moving his legs; his ankles were in the same situation. This was not a good thing.

Zeppelin Marne: portion from roughdraft


Bathed by the warmth of the afternoon sun, the clouds glowed with a sense of promise. The sky was otherwise clear and fragrant of spring; a perfect day.
Below, the seaboard was marked by the port city of Kainridge. Littered with trade ships and recreational craft, it was Veshat’s second largest hub of import and export by both air and sea. Beyond were the flourishing forests, lakes, and rivers that stretched deeply into the valleys of the east.

The quietude of both land and air was suddenly startled. Three aircraft descended from the clouds. Two Veshat fighter planes were in close pursuit of an unmarked, silver spitfire. A semi-constant stream of ammunition hailed from both fighters toward their target. As their fire drew inward, the spitfire banked right, then left, weaving throughout the clouds above and below.
The pilot of the spitfire, David Montgomery, kept his eyes sharp in the limited safety of the fully-enclosed cockpit. His gunner, Ronald Knight, mounted at the center of the craft, was more vulnerable to incoming fire and even with the wind from the vents, it seemed as much sweat fell from his position as cases of spent ammunition.
“They‘re splitting up!” Ron held a stream of fire that trailed towards the fighters behind them. “I can’t get a hit!”
Using the clouds to provide additional cover had kept them alive, but it had also given the fighters the same advantage. They were going to have to try something bold.
Entering the partial sanctity of another cloud, the pilot prepared himself. “We’re on borrowed time. Once, we’re clear I’m turning around.”
“Roger.” Ron replied.
Breaking free from the cover of the cloud, the spitfire turned completely about. As expected, one of the two fighters emerged.
Ronald opened up, spewing a trail of rounds that fed into the face of the fighter. Instantly it banked left, but as the gunner followed its side it was shredded by a volley of rounds, exploding.
“Got the b*****d!” Ron’s excitement was suddenly washed by a sense of spine-tingling fear. The second plane had yet to appear.
Turning circuitously to avoid being hit, David checked his mirrors. “Where is he?”
“I don’t see him!” Ron traversed the turret, checking below, around and above. It was when he looked up that his sense of fear was suddenly confirmed.
The second fighter descended from above with a blanket of fire. Dozens of rounds chewed into the hull and pierced the turret.
The ringing of metal and the silence of the intercom alerted the pilot to what had transpired. He didn’t have to see it. Hearing the enemy craft descend in its pass, afforded him a brief opportunity. Holding course, he looked back to his gunner. “Ron!”
Ron, strapped into his chair, lay slumped. His body had been hit several times, but it was the pair of rounds that’d sank into his skull that told the pilot everything he needed to know: his gunner was dead. Without one, it was only a matter of time before he shared the same fate. The inability to fight back left little to chance. All he had left was the pair of twin guns directly to his front. He would have to turn and face his enemy.