"How much of this can we really put in the book?" asked Nath, raising an eyebrow at Marc dubiously.
Marc hummed, tracing his finger along the lines of the diary. "We probably shouldn't mention the potions…" he mused. "I can't imagine Ladybug wanting that getting out."
"Considering that even the Kwamis don't know how they're made," Orikko began, poking his head up from his bowl of popcorn on the counter, "that's probably a good idea."
"We could swap 'potions' for 'pearls', though," Nath pointed out.
London, October 1940
"I'm telling you, I can do more good up there than down here!"
"I–it's not safe! What if you f–fall?"
Edmund scoffed. "It's no different from the airmen who've been going up there every day, every night, trying to fight them off. But for every plane they shoot down, the Krauts send at least four more!"
"And if they shoot you down, there's only one of you!" Renee retorted hotly, planting her hands on her hips.
Barkk harrumphed and folded her arms. "Don't worry!" she squeaked. "I keep my holders safe!"
Edmund sighed heavily. "We need to do something. After last night, I don't know if the RAF can handle that new chap – not on their own."
Renee gave him a worried look. "But without the ability to fly, how are you supposed to do any good up there?"
Brows furrowed in thought, Edmund turned away from Renee to look over at Master Fu, sitting on the far side of the small flat and watching them pensively. "Didn't you say that miraculous users can fly sometimes?"
Master Fu grimaced. "I… did say that, yes," he admitted, nodding hesitantly. "But those power-ups, they are extremely difficult to produce."
"I just need one."
"I am sorry." Master Fu shook his head. "I… have not been able to translate the recipe. I will look into it, but I make no promises."
Edmund's mouth set in a thin line, his eyes narrowed intensely. "Then I'll take a parachute."
"And if that fails?" demanded Renee, folding her arms.
"Then we find out whether my leash can function as a helicopter!"
"Are you sure about this, sir?"
"Just fly!" retorted the Hound, giving his leash a testing tug and tightening his grip. Pulling the goggles down over his eyes, he nodded curtly to Lieutenant Marcus sitting in the Spitfire's cockpit. Giving him a resigned salute, Marcus pulled it shut and latched, revving the engine. The ground crew removed the chocks, and the Spitfire rumbled down the airstrip, bounced a couple times, and took off into the air. With a whining roar, two dozen more fighters rose up after them into the late afternoon sky. Red and orange streaked the clouds to the west, playing games with the London smog. To the east and west, he could see flashes of sunlight glinting off of other planes, all taking off from other airstrips around the country. The raid was coming. They had just lost contact with a patrol boat in the Channel, moments after it had radioed back a possible raid sighting. The Hound gritted his teeth, scanning the horizon for the first glimpse of the German bombers.
"Call out first contact," ordered Marcus, banking the plane slightly and riding an updraft higher into the air. Behind them, the rest of the squadron formed in a line. "Climb to 6000 meters and await instructions." Marcus glanced out the window at the Hound, still crouching low on the wing. "Hold on, sir."
The Hound's mouth set in a thin line and he nodded curtly as they ascended, higher and higher. The scarf covering his mouth barely cut the wind enough for him to draw in a breath. But he would not give up. He could not let his people down.
"Contact!" called out one of the planes on the far end of the formation. "One o'clock low. I see… four – no, five – 109s. Six!"
"I see them!" another pilot announced. "Two have bombs on board. Full wing of 88s behind them."
"Form in elements!" Marcus ordered, trimming his wings. "Bombers are the primary target: do not let them release their payloads!"
The Hound thumbed a control on his leash handle. "Oh, Foxy lady?"
"You rang?"
"Sun's getting low," he answered, studying the planes ahead of him carefully. "Blackout should begin soon enough. What say we turn out the lights?"
"Hmm… it's as if you read my mind, Doggy." There was a moment, then a few of the city lights began to go out below them, in patches at first but quickly spreading out until the entire city of London had gone dark. Moments later, the sound of an ethereal flute melody carried over the communicator, and the city itself vanished into mist.
One of the other pilots in the formation gasped. "What the–?"
"Stay on focus!" Marcus chided, pushing the plane into a steep climb before leveling out, just for a moment. "Contact in three – two – dive!"
Bracing himself against the plane's fuselage, the Hound switched channels on his communicator. "Let slip the Dogs of War! Doggedness!"
A thrum of energy ran out through the formation and, as one, the wing plunged downward, all 25 planes opening fire with their machine guns at once. Below them, the leading fighter-bombers of the German formation erupted into a massive ball of fire, as the following Germans veered away from each other and the formation scattered. The Hound tensed, scanning the German planes carefully as, without slowing down, Marcus flew straight through the remains of the German fighters, sending streams of bullets into the bombers behind them. Machine gun fire erupted to the left – a second RAF element pounced on the bombers, catching them in a pincer. A German fighter whipped past the plane, and Marcus dipped one wing; the German ripped another Spitfire's left wing to shreds, sending the fighter into a nosedive. The Hound crouched lower, holding onto the airframe with one hand, gripping his leash in the other, trying to follow the German that had just passed them. A line of bullets shot across their wing, and the Hound twisted around to find a Stuka on their tail, lining up the shot. Releasing his leash's hold on the plane, he quickly spun it in a tight circle, deflecting the bullets away from the Spitfire as the Stuka opened fire. His grip on the airframe slipped the slightest bit, and the Hound's heart leaped up into his throat. The Spitfire juked up and down violently before twisting into a dive, trading altitude for speed, with the Stuka close on its tail.
"Hang on!" shouted Marcus, barely audible over the wind noise around them. "I need to shake him!"
"Sorry, Leftenant!" the Hound called back. "Leave him to me!"
"What!?"
"Complete the mission!" With a cry, the Hound released his grip on the Spitfire and let the wind tear him away, out into space, hurtling backward toward the pursuing Stuka. Behind him, the Spitfire leveled off and turned back into a steep climb, firing wildly from below at a Heinkel that had just opened its bomb bay. Bullets tore through the exposed interior, detonating one of the bombs on its rack and consuming the plane entirely. The Hound caught a quick glimpse of the shock on the German pilot's face before he threw his leash out and caught it around the Stuka's propellor, which immediately stalled out, reeling the Hound in closer. Twisting his body around to avoid the blades and protruding cockpit, the Hound was thrown back, over the top of the Stuka, and slammed his feet into the back of the fuselage, pulling hard on the nose. His miraculous boots slid on the smooth metal, but only a couple centimeters before he could brace himself in place. The plane spun around wildly, nearly throwing him off, and he released the leash's hold on the propellor, allowing it to abruptly reengage. The plane flipped over, and the Hound sprang away from it with the momentum, just as the plane turned into a nosedive straight toward the ground. Holding his arms out wide for drag, the Hound scanned the sky around him for any German planes, just as a German 110 dove past him, hot on the tail of a Hurricane. Eyes narrowed, the Hound pulled his arms in close to his sides and accelerated after them in a steep dive for a long moment before he looped his leash around the 110's twin tail and reeled himself in toward it. Ahead of him, the Hurricane rolled to one side with the 110 following, and the Hound nearly fell past the 110. A burst from the 110, and the Hurricane's left wing disintegrated, sending the plane crashing toward the ground in an uncontrolled spin. That same moment, the 110 turned sharply and began to climb, and the Hound grabbed onto its tail. Above them, a Heinkel released its payload, and the Hound grabbed onto the 110's tail tightly, holding it with his knees and struggling against the wind with his leash. The 110 jerked up and down once, but the Hound's grip remained secure. Swallowing back his nausea, the Hound flicked out his leash, caught it around one of the falling bombs, and swung the bomb around below the 110 and released it, sending it hurtling straight back into the cloud of bombs, all of which detonated in midair.
"C–cont–" The radio cut off abruptly into static.
"Five?" demanded Marcus, confusion in his voice.
"He–he's gone!"
"What happened?"
"I–I don't know! It just – it came from behind!"
"I need help here!"
"Bogey on my–!"
"What's going on up there?" the Hound demanded, as his 110 suddenly rolled around upside down before ascending in a tight corkscrew, straight toward a Spitfire.
"We've an unknown bogey!" one of the pilots announced, just as the Spitfire above the Hound burst apart in a shower of debris.
A figure with large grey wings appeared above the wreckage, illuminated in the waning sunlight. The Hound's jaw dropped in surprise, and at that same moment, the 110 veered sharply to one side, throwing the Hound off its back and up into the air. There was a moment of weightlessness, before very suddenly gravity reasserted itself, hurling the Hound's stomach back up into his throat. Swallowing it back, the Hound twisted around, caught his leash around one of the 110's wings, and pulled it taut. Wind rushed past his ears, nearly deafening him to the sounds of battle filling the air all around. The plane turned into a sharp spin, moments before crashing through the wing of a passing Heinkel and sending both planes hurtling through a Spitfire and all three down toward the ground.
The Hound spun around in midair as a burst of gunfire shot past his arm, barely missing his shoulder. Above him, the winged figure dove toward him, holding out one arm. He could barely make out the shape of a magazine protruding from the side of the man's arm, the swastika emblazoned on his helmet. Still falling, the Hound held his arms out to create drag and spun his leash, blocking a wild spray of bullets. Above them, another Hurricane lost a wing, moments before the cockpit was torn to shreds. The winged man ripped out his magazine, fumbling to insert another one into the contraption strapped to his arm. Seeing this, the Hound's leash darted out, aiming to wrap around the man's arm and wing, but the man pulled his arm out of the way in the nick of time. The leash wrapped around nothing, and the Hound flicked his wrist, whipping the man's side just below the armpit. The magazine fell out of his hand and dropped to the ground, as the man lunged, fumbling to catch it before it was out of his reach. His hand caught nothing but air, and he rolled around, away from the Hound. His eyes narrowed, the Hound caught his leash around the man's ankle, holding on tightly as the winged man tried to ascend. Reaching the end of his leash's length, the Hound held on tightly, bracing himself as the force threatened to rip his arm from his shoulder. The winged German let out a string of German curses, his wings straining to keep him aloft.
Above them, several dozen RAF fighters still fought against the remnants of the German raid, even as the bombers began to turn back toward the coast. The winged German pointed his arm down at the Hound, and the Hound tugged sharply on his leash, giving himself a bit of upward momentum and throwing the man's aim off, before releasing his grip on the man, just as he fired. The Hound spun his leash in a shield, and the man rocketed upward, nearly slamming into the underside of a Heinkel before he could recover and catch a handhold on it. Riding his momentum, the Hound twisted around, threw his leash out, and snagged it on the wing of a Spitfire, releasing a heavy sigh as he pulled himself in.
"Good job, sir," called Marcus, as the lead Spitfire dipped its wings.
The Hound nodded to himself and adjusted his hold on the plane. Around him, the dozen Spitfires banked together, angling toward their airfield. "Same to you, Leftenant. We live to fight another day."