A massive hanger, lit by the glare of hundreds of floodlights stretching into the distance. Fighters stretch into the distance, dozens of them, from all corners of the sector. Eagles, Titans, Spatials, Ravens Talons, and others of all shape and sizes, lined out as far as the eye could see. This was Fighter Bay One, SCRA Headquarters, Planet Gran Canaria. The last starfighters of the Coalition had launched from this bay, back in the dark, desperate days, before theyd gone underground, and let lie the secrets of the Coalition. Banners hung the walls, commemorative of the ancient fighter-squadrons; Valkries Vaporizers, The Thunderbolts, Rangoon #8, the pilots and stories long lost. Only the banners remain, faded, but proud nonetheless.
A Pride not felt, on this day.
Nearly seven hundred crewmen, pilots, techs, and officers were fallen-in, in pristine, silent rows. A small platform, with one man atop, a man dressed in the tattered remains of an SCRA Lieutenants uniform. Beside the platform, a small group of extremely senior officers, standing in a semicircle around a single man.
My Brothers!
Mcintoshs shout swept from one end of the massive hanger to the other, drowning in the sharp shadows of the floodlights.
My Brothers! Today were here to witness what happens to those who disobey the edicts of the SCRA!
A murmur swept the massed ranks, quieter than the lightest whisper, more than a shuffle. A few officers in the front rows stirred more then their fellows, one of them wearing Commanders rings, and a mask out of hell. Wide, dark eyes, a flat, non-existent mouth, and a grille through which issued his dry, rasping speech:
And not a second too soon
The man beside him, Lieutenant Commander Deiter Zehn, erupted into maniacal laughter, and the officers on either side lean away as Mcintoshs head swings like a falcon towards the interruption, eyes tracking, fingers beginning to twitch in a motion that would end with the offender splattered across the deck. As his gaze locked onto Totenkopt and Zehn, his glare softened, and a wide grin spread across his ragged face.
Aye! Mr. Tassadar, callsign Red Dragon, has been a disgrace to the Coalition, and a disgrace to himself, as soon as he entered the void. The only solution to this problem, is a short drop and a sudden stop.
With a swing of his arm, the man on the platform falls, like a meteor descending to its doom. With a sharp crack, the rope snapped taught, and the spine was shattered. He swung, a sack of dead meat, and there was silence.
Silence
Silence
Then, with a peal of long-suppressed laughter from Zehn, a cheer, a cry, a roar, raged through the assembled coalition, and the banners shook to the bellows.
Jack Handey Wrote:I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.
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