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plane plane man :( :)

Summary:

Crimson 1 is the best fighter in the world.

it gets worse before it gets worse before it gets worse before it gets worse before it gets worse before it gets worse before it gets better

Chapter Text

  There wasn’t…

  He…?

 

  Nothing quite, quite, but everything was real. It was confusing because it didn’t make sense. He was aware of some concepts but they didn’t align with him or what he was pretty sure was him. He remembered such things as hands and legs and a mouth and seeing with eyes?, but none of him equated to those things. Feeling what he did, he wasn’t sure those memories could even be his, because they came from something he definitely was not.

  He wasn’t sure what he was, but he was probably not alive. He did not feel like he was alive. But he was aware, and that was odd. Frightening. He could see in a way that was more in the back of his head, he was extremely aware of his coordinates and orientation but not his surroundings, he could feel something beneath him and nothing else and something all around him and everything hurt in a dull kind of way that felt faraway like everything and nothing was damaged and painful. Except everything was limited to half of him. Which wasn’t everything.

  He could remember? if they were his memories or memories at all?, something that was alive. Someone. Someone he couldn’t relate to at all. Someone who knew where he was and what he was, who was smaller, who was a pilot.

  A pilot.

  Yes.

  He knew he was piloting a plane. The memories were probably some kind of data then. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if they were his or not so he couldn’t draw any lines or any conclusions of his own existence but he definitely was not human so he couldn’t have made a human’s memories.

  He could see a runway and he was piloting a plane but he had no orders so he remained. He waited.

  Something touched him. Something small, several things, climbing over him over some of the things that he couldn’t attribute a name to. Something on the side of him? Something moved from the side to the front to move towards the inside-outside of him and he felt the things walking. He felt them touch him, him, the other thing that was and was not and was him? And he felt something open. Something on the back, which was strange because they were in the front, and then something was touching the inside-inside of him and it hurt and it hurt and he was dying.

  He felt connections breaking. He barely knew what he was but he was pretty sure losing any of it was bad, painful, dying, and he didn’t want to die, and he was suddenly very, very afraid.

  Yes he wasn’t really a living thing but he didn’t want to die and he hadn’t agreed to this. That memory burned bright - he hadn't agreed to this, he hadn’t wanted this, whatever he was was not something he wanted, and he did not want to die at the hand of whoever had done this. He remembered some names. He remembered what they were. They were the ones who made machines and weapons, he was a machine and a weapon, he hadn’t agreed to this, he was going to die, he was piloting a plane or perhaps was a plane and he saw a runway.

  So he…

  He didn't know the verb for the motions he made. He relocated to the runway, fumbling blindly on steady parts that weren’t really limbs but something else he had no name for. More connections were severed. Some part of his interior-exterior was loosened. He accelerated. He knew with vibrant clarity his own orientation, which way was up, how fast he was moving, and that normal people could not survive what he was capable of surviving.

  He forced himself to close. He felt air. He felt the ground separate from him. He rolled. Violently. He felt things batter against the exterior of his interior and they were not touching the interior of his interior and there was no more movement from them when he leveled out.

  He felt like he was breathing. Some part of him was burning, inside, but not very painfully, maybe not painfully at all. He could feel around his exterior the cold wind he was rushing through, he could feel, he could feel, and it was excellent.

  He did not know where to go. He had only so much fuel. There was nothing around him that he could see.

  He flew high, aware that there were mountains that could reach up to certain altitudes and that he could crash into one if he was at those altitudes. He knew north and south and east and west but none of where he actually was or was going. It was not dark but utterly nothing but it was also dark.

  Parts of himself he could not equate to words moved responsively to his thoughts, but not thoughts, parts of the body did not need thoughts, they simply moved when that was the will. They moved responsively. It was good.

  He had only so much fuel, but he was dying anyway and he could move fast. He would probably encounter a runway and rest and…

  Wasn’t there a war? What was he doing? He remembered the Federation and undying loyalty. He also remembered a Monarch. An unaffiliated something he had seen and he did not remember much but there was something incredible about Monarch, a wild dog and a pilot and something that survived and thrived and was something that was perfect. Monarch was his enemy. But to his knowledge his affiliation was Federation / Icarus Armories and he hadn’t agreed to, and whatever life he remembered didn’t make any sense with what he was and probably wasn’t him anyway, so was it even him that was loyal? He had no way of knowing. He knew there was some war over peace, and he was a leader and a protector, and a killer, and he was a weapon and a plane. He was also afraid of dying.

  Suddenly, of all things, this was exhausting. He just wanted to go home(?) and be with his friends(dead)(he probably never had friends because he was a plane) and live, but that wasn’t an option, but at least flying felt like breathing and he liked the cold air, and he would like to keep doing this instead of dying. And for that he needed fuel. And a pilot, since he was a plane, even though he was also piloting a plane that was probably the plane that was him, none of this made sense, he wasn't any kind of being that should exist and he didn't feel like putting all of that together right now. He wasn’t an engineer. He was a pilot.

  A plane.

  Something. He didn't really know.

 

  He saw red. There were things out there. He knew where they were relative to himself. He had names for them. He knew how fast they were going.

  He heard something, loud.

  “Some kind of unknown pilot due south. AWACS, what is this?”

  “A lone fighter by the looks of it, but its identity is unclear.”

  “Hey! Flash your ID or we’ll shoot!”

  He didn’t know how to talk like that, since he didn’t have the apparatus that humans employed, or at least he couldn’t feel anything like it. He kept flying straight. Maybe there would be a runway nearby, one that wasn’t Federation or Icarus Armories, and something could be figured out. Maybe he could get by without any blood, without killing his countrymen (he was a plane, he didn’t have countrymen) and likely sabotaging any chance at surviving, because he was a plane and needed care from others and they wouldn’t give him care if he killed them.

  “Are you confused? Last warning!”

  He was confused. He couldn’t make the gesture of nodding, but he bobbed up and down in an attempt at conveying it.

  “The hell was that supposed to be? You taunting me?”

  At least something got through. This time he swayed side to side.

  “Are you mute? Transceiver damaged?” Said the voice of the AWACS.

  Sure. He bobbed again.

  “Well, they’re definitely trying,” she observed. “You a friendly?”

  He didn’t know if it was a lie or not, but he bobbed. Every time he did he felt little things rolling around.

  “What’s your business?” Said one of the patrol planes.

  “Yes or no questions,” the AWACS corrected.

  “Can we really be sure he’s being honest?”

  “Well, they haven’t engaged you in combat despite being well in range for it by now. Give me a sec to radio back to base.”

  “Fine, but I don’t like this.”

  “We were just issued a ceasefire.”

  Ceasefire?

  He waited in silence. The patrol began circling him as he flew past.

  “Escort them back to base,” the AWACS said. So he was escorted back to base, although he kept his momentum up and they couldn't hope to compare.

  “This way, stop going straight.”

  Fine. He slowed down and allowed himself to be guided.

  There was a runway. He lined himself up and landed- it hurt- and slowed himself down and stopped. He couldn’t see hangars. He only knew the runway and the altitude of the runway and red clusters of signatures and the altitude of those clusters and nothing else.

  “Unknown pilot, you are clear for hangar 4.” That would be great if he was remotely capable of identifying a hangar 4.

  Eventually a ground crew emerged to drag him to his destination, and he followed whatever tether they tied to him, which made someone grumble that he was fully capable of moving and yet he was being difficult. He wasn’t being difficult he was fucking blind.

  “Fucking stop moving,” someone said, as he crowded in amongst quiet signatures. He stopped. “Dust, you almost clipped a wing.”

  He was somewhere. He was also low on fuel so he had to hope this place would keep him alive, because he definitely couldn't run away again.

  “Hey, what even is this plane?” Someone commented. “Uh, you gonna get out any time soon?”

  Yeah, he’d just crawl out of his own skin(?), no big deal. He needed to ask for fuel so he wouldn’t die but he couldn't and everything was getting increasingly frustrating.

  “Woah.” It was a familiar voice this time, a woman’s, affiliated with Monarch, Monarch’s copilot. “Never seen anything like this… except… hold on, can I take a look at this?”

  If she was waiting for an answer from him, she wouldn’t get one.

  Far too much time passed. He waited. Maybe to prompt something, he wasn’t sure, he started fidgeting.

  “Okay, seriously, what are you doing in there?” Someone said. “I’ll drag you out myself-” And then something was climbing up his side towards his front and his interior exterior and there they stopped.

  “What the. What the hell. Prez. Command. Come look at this.”

  Something else climbed up his side and the woman (Prez) spoke again, something of a whisper. “God damn.”

  “Report,” said someone new.

  “There’s two bodies,” she said, “and no pilot.”