Prague, January 8th, 2012
The whistle of steel passing through air blew above the skies of Prague. Two planes, the last survivors of their squadrons, fired on each other with unrelenting fury. One plane, coated in red, proudly bore an image of the Iron Cross, while the other, boasting a drab green look, wore a coyote with its fangs bared as its squadron marker. These planes represented two institutions that, until recently, had been unheard of on the international stage: Manfred-von-Richthofen Gymnasium, a German-owned school based in Wrocław, Poland, and Tutyrk Academy, a once mighty powerhouse in Blue Forge, Alsesia. Both schools had, for the first time, reached the finals of the Interworld High School Tournament.
Though the determination of both pilots rivaled some of the greatest aces in history, the days of propeller planes battling in the skies had passed. Now, in the 21st century, Kampffliegen was merely a popular sport, watched by millions and practiced by thousands.
From 4,000 meters up in the air, Markūs vof Molotov was in no mood to ponder about the history of Kampffliegen. He had a match to win, and he would try his best to bring his squadron to the highest step of the podium. Though his squadron had been adamant that he had proved himself before, Markūs still felt the same drive to succeed. The singular mantra that he had lived by for the past year still flowed through his head every time he took to the skies. I failed at the top once, but I will never do so again. His opponent, Wieland Bruhn, had the same idea.
A stream of tracers passed by in the background, prompting Markūs to bank left just before a second burst flew past where he had been moments earlier. While his FP 6.7 was well-suited for high altitude combat, Wieland's Focke-Wulf was no pushover. For several minutes, the two Kampffliegers clashed, their wings slicing through the heavens like two swordsmen locked in a fight to the death. With never a moment to spare, Markūs pushed his instinct and knowledge to their limits as the 190 stayed on his tail like a child holding onto their mother's arm. Every time his opponent fired, Markūs had only milliseconds to react. With each burst growing closer, and the groupings tightening around his plane like a noose, he reduced throttle and pulled into a climb like he had so many times before.
Had he been unfamiliar with the sight, Markūs may have lost out of the amazement of seeing the heavens laid out in front of him, but now, years into his career, this beautiful view was not one he would be distracted by. When Wieland overshot his course slightly and ended up next to Markūs in his climb, there was no time to waste. Putting his fate into his own hands, Markūs cut throttle and watched the space above grow further away as his plane obeyed the command of gravity.
The moment of truth had arrived.
With his nose facing the enemy plane, Markūs fired until his onboard computer "locked" his guns, citing a notional overheat as the reason. is Wieland's plane trailed red smoke, a sign that it was out of combat and ordered to return to the airfield. Markūs followed, and minutes later, the two finalists were safely landed.
It took several minutes for Coyote Squadron to realize the significance of their victory. The long journey from being an underdog school in a barely thriving city had ended in triumph, and across all of Earth and Arpeia, their faces shone on screens from pub televisions to school projectors. The cheering from the crowd was jubilant, and every school that they had defeated bowed in respect to the champions. But even in their moment of glory, Coyote Squadron never forgot its roots.
The path to the finals had been paved with confusion, hardship, and even loss, but in the end, it had been worth every bit of effort. Coyote, once a ragtag group of decently-skilled pilots that had bickered with one another to no end, had been forged, linked, and polished by shared trials into a band of brothers. Now, they waited for their next adventure together: The world's first Combined Arms Tournament, hosted in Japan.