Smoke poured from the engine, flames beginning to lick at the straight-six's cowling between the Fokker 's twin machine-guns. One was inoperable from a direct hit that had severed the ammunition belt. The other was jamming easily for some reason, and Bastian suspected it was particles from the smoke clogging the mechanism, or stresses from the maneuvers he'd been doing to try and avoid being hit. Unfortunately, those attempts had failed.

Lieutenant Falkenrath – Bastian when he was out of uniform, being addressed by a superior, or talking to a friend – knew that his warbird was in its last throes. The engine would soon give out, and the guns were nearly useless. He could maneuver fine, but his airspeed was steadily falling. Despite it all, however, he was grinning. Jerking the plane this way and that, he forced it to keep airborne, and to keep his opponent focused on him and him alone. Induced target fixation was the goal.

Five hundred feet, directly to his six o'clock was Major Heinrich Hartman – the highest scoring Ace of the Fifth Annual Aerial Combat Tournament. With seventy-eight confirmed kills, he was intent on following in the footsteps of the late, great, Manfred von Richthofen; better known as the Red Baron. Richthofen was Major Hartman's childhood hero, and this was the match that would grant him the final two kills to bring him to the level of his hero. How better to end the tournament?

Unfortunately, Hartman had studied every good thing about Richthofen's tactics, but also had the same downfalls. He had learned from history, oh he certainly had, but he had not learned from the mistakes – only the parts that showed how to be successful. His mind was fixed on getting his seventy-ninth kill, downing this wounded bird, and being one step closer to his hero. Flying at treetop level, his Fokker Dr.I triplane screamed along behind the battered , and with every turn came closer and closer to lining up a final blow.

Five hundred feet to Hartman's six o'clock was Captain Matthias Scott, the leading Ace of Team Corsair, and the all-star of Corsair High. He also happened to be Bastian's closest friend and brother in arms. Matthias was the Squadron Commander of Team Corsair, and Bastian was his first wingman. They had known each-other since they were in grade school, and always had each-other's backs growing up. From bullies to boyhood adventures, through thick and thin, they'd stuck together.

Now Matthias was feeling pressure like never before. His best friend was in dire need of his help, or he was going down, and Matt had no idea if he could knock Hartman from the sky without his friend. They were a team, a well oiled machine, and most of Matthias' kills were thanks to his friend. He set up the shots, and Matthias took them. Without Bastian to distract their opponents, he would have only had, at best, half of the fifty kills he'd gotten throughout the tournament.

With Bastian's trailing smoke, flames beginning to issue forth, and the plane's motions becoming increasingly sluggish, it was now or never. As the three planes neared an open field, Matthias climbed above, taking his position above the battle and then angling slightly downward to get his airspeed back. Bastian broke into the clearing first, followed quickly by Hartman. The wounded , an aircraft that had been hailed once as the greatest fighter aircraft of its generation, stopped jinking around.

The fight was over. Hartman smirked, taking his time to line up on Bastian's aircraft, mentally patting himself on the back and buying his seventy-ninth commemorative cup as he did so. Just before he pulled the trigger, a hail of bullets tore into his upper wing, twin machine-guns, and the big rotary engine on the front of his Dr.I. Oil and coolant spewed out from the damaged engine's ruptured lines, fire blew out from the cowling, and the upper wing came apart.

However, the attack didn't stop. Matthias pressed, pouring boxes of bullets into the damaged crate. Ten seconds later, the Dr.I slammed nose-first into the ground. The winning streak of Dresden Academy's Team Wulf had been brought to an end after four years – as well as it being an upset victory. Despite their obvious prowess, most people hadn't believed that the Corsairs could pull it off. After all, they'd never made it past the third round of the tournament before. Most thought that them making the fifth round – the finals – had been a fluke and nothing more. This had proved them wrong.

Matthias grinned as he flew over the wreckage, doing a victory roll for those that were watching back home. Then he flew up alongside his wingman, wingtip to wingtip, and gave a thumbs up – which was replied to with a victory-V from his friend. After a moment, the two of them looked around and Captain Scott shouted over the noise of the engines.

"Shouldn't the simulator have shut down by now? It doesn't normally stay on this long after a match."

Bastian shrugged, "Computers have problems, Matt. Especially when the programming has been revamped."

"I guess that's true." Matthias nodded. Another minute passed, and the virtual reality simulator still hadn't kicked them back out to reality. He was about to speak when the world around them suddenly froze.

"What the hell...?" Bastian said as he glanced around, the planes frozen in the air. The only things that could move were him and Matt – the engines weren't even turning.

"Search me, Bastian." Matthias said, looking around as well. "Any idea what this is?"

"A hell of a bug in the system, I'd say." Bastian replied. Not but a moment later though, he suddenly felt a shooting pain in the back of his head. It built and built, and then shot forward, right behind his eyes, and then down his body all the way to his toes. He screamed and writhed in pain – and then suddenly the world went black.

==X==X==X==

When he finally came to, the first thing that greeted him was a blinding light that seemed to cause him the same pain as before. His eyes clenched shut, and he instinctively pulled the sheets over his head to block the light.

"Bastian!" The voice was familiar, but muffed due to the sheets – not that he was trying to focus on the source at the moment. "Crap! Hang on, I'll kill the lights. Dammit, where's the lights- ah! There we are." A couple clicking sounds in rapid succession, then. "Alright, you can open your eyes. I'm sorry, man. Nobody expected you awake yet."

Slowly the sheets were pulled down and Bastian opened his eyes, the darkness soothing. Looking around, he found the source of the voice and smiled. "Hey Matthias." He said, then slowly sat up in the bed. Looking around, he could see that he was in the infirmary. "What the hell happened? I remember Heinrich getting knocked down... and then some bug in the VRS... and then... just a lot of pain."

Matthias nodded slowly, pulling a chair over. "You're right, the VRS had one hell of a bug in it. We won the tournament since the bug kicked in only after we got Heinrich, so Dresden can't argue over it. But..." He sighed, "...I have some bad news, Bastian."

"Bad news?" Bastian asked, "We just stole the title from the Wulf Squadron! What could possibly be bad about that?"

"About that? Nothing." Matthias grinned, but it quickly faded. "The bad news concerns you, Bastian."

Bastian was quiet for a moment, then asked at length, "Well... what is it?"

"Bastian... the glitch had to do with the pod you were in. Some sort of power surge or something. It caused an overload and..." Matthias ran a hand back through his blonde hair, his other hand holding his flight officer's cap. "You're done flying, at least in combat, Bastian."

Bastian's eyes went wide, "Done flying? Are you crazy?! Yeah, it hurt, but I'm fine now! Hell, I'll go toe to toe with you to prove it!"

Matthias shook his head slowly. "You're right about being fine, but only because the neural pathways that the virtual reality pods use to connect to us for the simulations aren't needed for your body to function. When the overload happened, the resulting power surge fried those pathways. They can't be repaired, Bastian. It's not that you don't have the skill, it's that you can't physically connect to the pods anymore. With those pathways destroyed, your dogfighting career is over. And so is mine."

Bastian was stunned by it all, and sorrowful over his own loss, but what caught his attention most was the last bit. "No... Matt, you can't... you're the Squadron Leader, not to mention our highest scoring ace! The team needs you!"

"No, it doesn't. Not like that. Not anymore. If I can't have you as a wingman, there isn't much point to me going into combat." Matthias grinned, "Our team has plenty of good pilots, but none of them would work as well with me as you did. We're a team, and I'm no good without you." He paused a moment, then pulled a folded piece of paper from his long coat. "By the way, these are your new orders, straight from the Commandant of Cadets himself."

Bastian blinked, "Straight from Uncle Blitz, huh?" He asked as he took the paper and opened it. It was a piece of Krieg Incorporated letterhead, and the message wasn't overly long:

Dear Bastian,

I saw your match. Brilliant piloting, boy! Damned good job! I congratulate you on a victory well-earned. I've also heard about your injury, and I'm so very sorry for what happened. I designed and tested those pods myself. This is the first major malfunction that we've ever had. Near as I can figure, the new programming's patch wasn't thorough enough to properly interface with the pods. I know this doesn't make you feel any better about what happened, but I'm already working on how to fix the pods.

Unfortunately, my dear nephew, I have the unpleasant duty to suspend you from aerial combat operations due to the injury. If you wish to remain as part of the Aerial Combat Club, however, you may do so as a flight instructor. I know it isn't as thrilling, but it is at least a way to get into the air – and from what I recall, you prefer the real thing to the simulators anyway.

-Blitz Freiherr von Krieg,

Commandant of Cadets,

Corsair Boy's High School

Bastian read the letter once more and sighed, shaking his head. "Well, that settles that."

"Yeah... I know it must be hard, Bastian, but... if you do the flight instructor gig, at least we can still work together. That's what I'm going to be doing now for the club." Matthias said, offering a small smile. "What do you say?"

"I say..." He blew out a breath, "Let me think it over." He gave a small smile of his own, then glanced toward the clock on the wall. "In the meantime, isn't it almost time for the final Tankery match?"

"Oh yeah..." Matthias said as he glanced toward the clock, then went and got the remote from the counter under the television in the corner. "Should be starting in about five minutes. Want to watch it?"

"Definitely." Bastian grinned, "Cute girls, badass vehicles, what's not to like?"

Matthias chuckled as he flipped on the TV. "You're in better spirits all of a sudden."

"I was reminded of the cute girls." Bastian smirked, "And the things I'd like to-"

"Okay!" Matthias snapped, "I don't EVEN want to hear it from you, playboy!" He shook his head then, going through the channels on the TV until he found the right one – just as the two teams were bowing to one another. "Hard to believe that Oorai made it this far, isn't it?"

"Means they're very good, very lucky, or had honorable opponents with bad luck." Bastian smirked a little, "Maybe a little of all of that, even."

"Who do you think is going to win?"

"Always root for the underdog, Matt." Bastian grinned, "Even if they don't win, they're sure to give one hell of a show."