*There are two reasons for this story's existence. One is that it's Veronica-for-Cuba's (on deviantart) birthday and I wanted to write her a RoBul. The other is that there's a steampunk competition (also on deviantart) and since it's a favourite genre of mine, I was dying to enter. Somehow, the two ideas merged.

Tsvetan- Bulgaria

Stelios- Cyprus*

He'd piloted in storms before, but never quite like this one. This one was different; the sort of storm that dominated the entire sky. Lightning tore through the thin fabric of the clouds, followed by thunderclaps so loud they rang in his ears. Against the airship's surface, the pitter-patter of raindrops pummelled into the metal.

For the first time in his life, Tsvetan's hands shook as he managed the controls. He could hear his colleagues shout from behind- Sadik ordering Gupta to check the air pressure, Stelios yelling something about a jammed propeller- but he ignored them and focused on the sky ahead. It was so dark outside- much too dark for mid-afternoon. Aside from the jagged mountaintops miles below, he could barely see a thing.

Tsvetan gave his compass a quick glance and discovered that they were veering West. Completely the opposite direction to their destination. Cursing his own stupidity, he turned the ship around.

"Hey."

Tsvetan turned to see Heracles kneeling beside the control panel, looking up at him with doleful eyes.

"Are you… nervous?" Heracles asked, clearly noticing his disposition.

Tsvetan nodded. "A bit."

"Don't be." He clapped a supportive hand on his shoulder. "You're a good pilot… we'll see this through."

Again, Tsvetan nodded though he couldn't quite share Heracles' optimism. It was true that he was a good pilot- he'd graduated from Hepworth's top airman school with flying colours (literally)- but he wasn't this good. Nobody was this good.

"Captain?" Heracles held his hand, a small piece of metal resting in his palm, "Could you… look after this for me? Please?"

Tsvetan briefly looked away from the controls and took it from him. It was ring made of pure silver with a kind of bird welded on top. A robin or a swallow or something.

"It's Kiku's." Heracles said, "He said it would… bring us luck. But it won't fit on my fingers."

"Right. Well, I'll take it you want me to." Tsvetan reached under his shirt and tucked the ring away in a compartment of his shoulder strap. Bring us luck… great job it's done so far.

He was about to check the navigator again when there was a sudden flash of light and the soft sound of ripping material. The whole ship shuddered with the impact. Tsvetan and Heracles exchanged panicked glances.

"Oh fuck!" Sadik cried from the engine room, "We've been hit! Quick, lower her, lower her! Get the cold air into her, fast!"

Cold air… what was the use of cold air when there was a split in the bag? It was the moment that every pilot dreaded and that none survived. Tsvetan's blood ran cold at the thought. None survived.

He slammed on the brakes as the ship began to plummet and pulled the control lever up so hard that he almost yanked it out. But even this wasn't enough. Nothing could be enough to slow a falling airship and all of them knew it.

With some difficulty, Heracles stumbled to his feet and attempted to run back to the engine room.

"Take cover!" he yelled, uncharacteristically urgent, "We're going to crash, we're going to-"

He tripped as the floor slanted and he sprawled to the floor.

The airship began to pick up speed as it fell, hurtling towards the waiting jaws of the mountains. Finally, Tsvetan let go of the controls. It was useless even trying. Childish too, to pretend they had a hope. As his colleagues howled and moaned behind him, Tsvetan had only one thought left, clear in the forefront of his mind.

I'm going to die.

All he could do was brace himself.