The infinite circle. The unending loop. The möbius. Curves traced through the sky, winding and rejoining with one another, matching X's where they met one another and ended. Parabolas downward where lay the bones of unsung thousands, corkscrews traced into the bleached dirt that held not even the mechanisms to decay those that fell and return them to the earth.

Rainbows refracting through the contrails, shattered into thousands of droplets by those slicing through them, their beauty destroyed. At one thousand miles an hour, who would notice? Who would pause to consider such devastation?

Would you?

Light before and behind you, killing light that poisons. Sparkling violet light that drives you ever towards oblivion. Crimson light that cuts and cuts and cuts and cuts and cuts and cuts and

Immelmann to Immelmann, wingover to wingover. Engine to engine and aileron to aileron. Rhythm upon which to focus one's mind. Killing rhythm. The knife-edge upon which to balance the spinning horizon, over and under, vision going spotty but fingers on the triggers blade-accurate.

You don't just see me. You feel me. You know how I fly. How I move. You don't even think about using that bloodred crimson streaking through the sky to keep track of me. You simply do.

It's beautiful.

These trailing knots and curves, these bits of contrails slicing the air, the fire of death pulsing your missiles in paths true enough to feel the reaper's specter... They're gorgeous. They're art. An evil, horrible art that I long for.

I remember your hands, holding your fork in the mess. Ordinary hands. To me, your body is not your body. My body is not my body. We have given ourselves completely to these machines. Our wings define us, our flight like the gaits we walk. The language of killing is our true voice. When the engines fire, that is breath. When the ailerons move, in perfect synchrony, the machinery sliding past and through itself from my touch... To tell you the truth, I hardly feel my hands on the stick anymore. The machine moves before I even think about it.

I know you're the same. You didn't start out that way, but it's what you've become.

You soar. Around and around, in wider circles and narrower, curving to me as I dance along. It's easy, isn't it?

I wish we could do this forever.

I wish there was no earth, nothing beneath us. Only endless sky, and nothing to hold us back. I wish I could fly beside you again. I wish we could escape into the endless blue together and discover if we are anything but ruthless murderers. I want to fly without this cockpit around me, with my body simply floating in the wind, like in a dream, and have nothing to my name but you.

Back when we flew together, I could almost imagine it. Almost.

But that's infinitely far away. In no reality near us. Our infinity contains only blood. Endless, endless blood.

Blood in the sky, on the ground. Blood across borders and through walls. Blood to feed the parched earth. Maybe with enough blood, something will grow again. We could grow again. Be something beyond machines.

Us, machines, twine tighter and tighter until it's all straight lines and harsh angles. Unnatural points and serrated edges. We are scraped away into the perfect tools to cut one another. I find myself screaming as you spear towards me. I'm nothing. I'm empty. I am a blade made for dismembering whatever is before me. It's you, now. It's you.

Hey, buddy. You still alive?

I don't even realize it, but the machine is no longer with me. I watch it fall lower and lower, and crash. It's gone. My purpose, my belief. What did it mean? Why did I care?

I'm flying. For the first time, I'm really flying.

The killing light. The light of dawn. I drift down, watching. Watching you. You're circling. You look tired. So tired.

Goodbye, buddy. I'll miss you.