STRIKE WITCHES: DYNAMIC SHOPPING

You are a P-61 Black Widow pilot of the 442nd Night Fighter squadron, ace, nominated for decoration, and you currently have a loco French tart standing behind you with a pistol, threatening you with violence so you'll take her shopping.

Well when you put it like THAT it just sounds crazy.

"We're all issued pistols," Perrine says from behind you, trying to sound casual. The strain in her voice betrays her, however. "We were just attacked last night. What's so strange about that?"

"The way you keep stroking it like you want to use it," Charlotte says, looking like she wants to giggle. Your heart leaps, trying to take cover in your throat, and the shopping list in your hand quavers just a little.

"When are you leaving? I need to take care of a few things," Perrine says from behind you.

Extremely slowly, you rotate in your chair to face the French Witch. She's standing in what she probably thinks is a casual fashion, except the cocked hip with the hand resting on it only looks casually aggressive.

"If you think of anything else, just radio us. Or the Christchurch tower."

Perrine purses her mouth disapprovingly. "Christchurch is in New Zealand. I think you mean Eastchurch."

Despite the cute little holster with the Walther in it that Perrine has strapped to her thigh, you can't help but snort. "Thanks, sweetheart. We call it "Christ" church because you never make a landing there without thanking Jesus afterwards." You stand rapidly, knocking over your chair, half a sammich still in your hand. "I better get ready."

"I don't think you understand," Perrine says. "I'm going with you."

WAT (DO)

"... why?"

"You can't just go AWOL-"

"I got permission!"

"-leave base without an escort. Besides, I don't trust you. You might bring back a pair of toy handcuffs and a stethoscope with a scorpion in it."

You blink. "Damn, I wish I had thought of that."

Perrine quirks her mouth.

"We only have three seats. Where do you plan to ri-"

"My Striker Unit," she says stiffly, then spins on her heel and stalks towards the door.

She's catching on. You'll need to be quicker to get your shots in from now on.

You round on Charlotte, fire in your eyes. "You knew."

She nods.

"Why - the - WHY YOU NO WARN?" you sputter with indignation.

"You borrowed my motorcycle and didn't put gas in it afterwards," she says saucily. She rises from her chair, pushing it back roughly without taking her eyes off you.

She stalks towards you, eyes boring into yours, hand playing with the lapel of her shirt. Rounding the table, she advances on you. You don't realize you're retreating until you bump into the countertop behind you. You stare into her eyes as she gets closer...

... closer...

... very close now...

... her hand reaches out towards you, becoming, inviting... moving right towards YOUR SAMMICH.

You duck under her arm and bolt down the hallway, cradling your precious cargo as Charlotte chases you. Spotting a laundry chute, you sprint over and hurl your hand into it.

Charlotte comes to a skidding halt besides you, and sticks her head into the chute. "Aww, wh'd you do... wait."

You're already halfway down the hall, your sammich still in hand. Ducking behind one of those silly suits of armor decorating this hall, you catch your breath.

"Sup," says Ian's voice from behind a potted plant further down the hallway.

"... what the hell are you doing?"

"What the hell are YOU doing?"

Good point. You decide not to press it. Instead, you inform him of the upcoming journey to East(Christ)church.

"Sounds good. Are you planning any more shenanigans before you we get going?"

Well, are you?

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"I have a few Witches to talk too," you tell Ian. "Then we're leaving. An hour or two."

"I thought we were going to leave after nightfall? Crash at Eastchurch, pick up our shit and the booze and return around noon?"

"Change of plans," you say. "Somebody decided to assign themselves as our escort. I don't want to be around for that."

Ian sticks his head out of the ferns and scowls at the crotch of the armored suit, between who's legs you're squinting. "Aren't you going a little hard on those girls? They've been great, all things considered. Why don't you back off?"

"It's Perrine."

Ian ducks into the ferns again almost instantly. "Right. Nevermind."

You wander around the dormitories at random with no luck before going to the lounge, where you find Trude and Erica, well, lounging.

"Uh, Trude? Me and mine are making a jaunt to Eastchurch later tonight. While we're off-base, is there anything anybody wants us to pick up...?"

"Oh, my god, yes!" Trude says. Erica is actually looking awake for a change.

"Erica, could you go find the others and tell them somebody's making a run to town?"

"Eastchurch isn't town," Erica complains. "They don't know the shops." She lays down again, yawning.

"Erica, please?"

"Why won't you do it? I'll stay here with..." Erica evaluates Trude's expression carefully. You're looking at the back of Trude's head, so you don't know what's up. "Okay. Okay, geez, I'll find them." Reluctantly she rises and jogs off.

"So you're making a run to Eastchurch? Why not take the ferry to the mainland?"

"That's the 442nds base," you explain. It's actually a boggy shithole near the cold, miserable cost and the natural nesting ground of fog-banks, an airbase so miserable the RAF gave it to the Navy, but you don't add that. Being based at Castle Barin is going to have some perks, for sure. "We need to pick up our personal effects. Like our clothes."

"Oh," Trude says, seeming to brighten a bit. "Well, you don't need pants here. If you're officially in the unit, I mean."

You frown. "How do you already know that?"

"Duh. It's a small unit completely consisting of women. The rumor mill may as well be telepathic around here."

Well, she's got a point there. "So, did *you* want anything while we were out?"

Trude shrugs. "Not really. And anything I did want you can't even get, due to the war."

You nod sagely, as if this is a terrible burden that nobody can avoid. "What's your addiction?"

"... schnapps," she admits quietly. "Mint schnapps. But with the Martian base in Normandy, and every plane flying the Germany-Russia route loaded with ammo or war materiel... it's not like schnapps is being imported anymore. And the British sure don't bother making it, not any worth a d- worth tasting, you know?"

"Don't I know it. Hey, at least we can still get coffee!"

"At twice the price," Trude grumbles.

You shrug. "It *is* all overland now. But South America is still growing it, so we still drink it."

You and Trude talk casually for a good ten minutes, just shooting the breeze, until Erica returns, waving some paper. Several sheets of paper, in fact. "Everybody wants everything!"

Well, on an island base that's to be expected, you suppose. You look over it briefly. "Nothing for Luuchini?"

"She threw a hubcap at me when I tried to wake her up," Erica grumps.

"And Sakamoto?"

Erica shrugs. "She just said to make some of your payload the 'good stuff' and not the 'cheap shit.'" Whatever that means.

Oh, Sakamoto. She seems to have a remarkably thorough knowledge of everything that goes on in this huge old castle. You produce a pencil from your pocket and add "flask" next to Sakamoto's name. Either for her, or to replace Sean's.

You purse your lips and tap the eraser-end of the pencil against them. "Hmm. Is there anything Sanya or Yoshika would like, but are too polite to ask for?"

Trude smiles. "You sure have them pegged, all right. Yoshika has been dying for some fish."

You quirk an eyebrow. "What, you don't get any here?"

"She wants a crack at it before it's cooked."

"Oh, she cooks?"

"No, she eats it raw."

You give Trude a look of complete and utter horror, and she shrugs helplessly. "She calls it soo-shee or something. But we only get cooked salmon here. The market in Eastchurch should have a good variety - if you have time, of course."

"And Sanya?"

"A pitch pipe."

You blink. "Wait, what?"

Erica hops over to the grand piano decorating one corner of the room and runs her hand down the keyboard, making you wince.

"I see. Yeah, guess that would be hard to scrounge up on an airbase."

"Oh, one more thing," Erica says, and you look back at her. She's holding Sean's .38 revolver out to you, butt-first. "Sean dropped this last night after he saved my life."

You stare at Erica suspiciously, eyeing her skimpy outfit up and down. "Just where the hell were you hiding THAT?"

She winks. "Guess."

The little devil saunters off, looking quite pleased with herself, and with your expression.

"She hid it in the piano," Trude whispers to you. "Ignore her, she's not used to having men around she can harass."

"She has 250 kills?" you mutter in disbelief.

With that task complete, you dash to your room, strap on your sidearm (with four rounds left for it, since nobody in the entire base seems to have .45 ACP to spare, just more fucking 9mm,) slip on your uniform cap, and dash to the tarmac as fast as possible, checking for Frenchy at every corner. You make it to the last doorway, check your Six for the Hound of Gaul, and make it to your aircraft unnoticed.

Except for Sakamoto, that is. She's walking around your Black Widow as Ian and Sean gush over the new features to her.

"Ah. Our man of the hour," Sakamoto says loudly, making all three of you wince. "Relax. Perrine's in the dorms, primping."

Ian glances around the cavernous hangar suspiciously and edges closer to the plane.

"You can trust her," you assure him. "Sakamoto has a funny way of knowing everything that's going on."

Sakamoto throws her head back and laughs in that booming way of hers, then leans closer to you and lifts her eyepatch to reveal that strange retina of hers. "I see all. I hear all. I know all!" She turns to Ian. "Don't worry, I won't tell Perrine until you're in the air.

"Actually, could you give us..." you think, guesstimating the time-to-altitude of your new engines. "About fifteen minutes?"

Sakamoto grins at you devilishly. "No problem."

She's about to leave you to your devices when one last thing hits you. "Ah, Sakamoto, about Minna..."

She stops, and doesn't turn to face you. "Yes?"

"I'm picking up some treats for Sanya and Yoshika. Minna... she isn't that bad, we just got off on the wrong foot, and..."

"Yes?" Sakamoto asks again, and her tone is unreadable.

"... a peace offering?"

Sakamoto turns half-way to face you, but only enough for you to see her profile. "I... I don't know."

WAT.

"Something useful, I'd think. That's always nice for anybody to get. Even if they don't use it, it's more then a gag, or a toy, you know?"

You nod.

"Have a nice trip. I have a very slow walk to make to Perrine's quarters." She waves, laughs again, and stalks into the gloom of the hangar.

Your aircraft has been serviced and fueled to 50% full, which is more then enough for the 26-mile jaunt from the Dover cliffs to Eastchurch. You roar down that silly landing strip and into the air without a hitch, and, minding the engine's funny habits, begin climbing for altitude.

"Looks like a storm front's building over France," Ian observes. "It'll be blowing clouds in here before long."

Excellent.

At around fourteen minutes after takeoff, Ian breaks in. "About time to take a look, eh?" You silently roll the big P-61 inverted, and all three of you stare downwards at Castle Barin five thousand feet below. The sun is setting, long golden rays slashing across England to the West, and the darkening clouds gathering in the air serve to hide your black-painted P-61 nicely against the sky.

"There she is," Ian says with satisfaction, and sure enough there's the almost imperceptible blur of something tiny and distant tearing along the castle's runway. Compared to an aircraft, a Strike Witch is *tiny.*

"Already lost her," you say as soon as Perrine makes it over the water. "Damn, I didn't think about visibility."

"You stupid dink, you've got a gun-laying scope in your instrument panel," Sean says. "Look towards your dick. You know where that is, right? Just above it... riiiight there, good boy, it's the round glass thing with all the green lights."

You grunt, conceding the point, and shove the P-61s nose down. With a flash of insight, you cut the throttles, hurtling out of the sky as quietly as possible.

Which is not very. But still.

Perrine is not paying attention at all, tearing overland as she makes best time towards Eastchurch. You imagine she's cursing like a sailor as well. Or Sakamoto. Same difference. Her best time is pretty damn good, too - in a straight drag you doubt you could catch her with anything resembling surprise.

With the dive assist, though... now that's different. You level out as low as possible to keep Perrine out of the ground-clutter, and the scope in front of you begins showing returns as Sean engages it for you. You've already lost the Witch against the darkening terrain and sky, but the scope picks her out nicely. Something about magic engines in operation; they play merry hell with radio waves, so if you look for the snarly ugly thing on any scope, that's your Witch. You guide closer with your scope until you acquire her visually.

"Nice view from here," Ian says wryly, then flips on the radio as you close on Perrine at high velocity. "SAC-RAE-BLOO, SWEETCHEECKS!" he yodels as you thunder under Perrine at 460 MPH.

Ian clicks off the radio almost immediately. "Ignoring her on the R/T will burn her ass good," he says smugly.

"Sounded as if you like her ass just the way it is," Sean snickers from the back, and Ian remains silent, ever the unflappable gentleman.

You use your remaining smash to zoom-climb a bit, though you only grab about a thousand feet before your surplus runs out. You open the throttles a bit to keep climbing, but not too much - even though you've got enough, fuel is a crucial war materiel and you're not supposed to waste it.

Climbing to altitude to bounce Witches is a training exercise, as far as you're concerned. They need to learn from somebody, you know?

"Oh she maaad," Sean drawls. "Coming in hot."

You shrug. "Let her. I don't have the energy to play around." Or the altitude or energy to actually win if you tried, though you don't say that. "She climbing for a perch."

"Negatory, right up the ass."

You and Ian both snort, and you hear the top turret whirr as it slews around, slaved to Seans remote gunsight. A few seconds later, Ian keys his mic. "Daaaakkkadakkadakka honey, you're dead!"

"What! I've got a bead on YOU!"

"And Sean says you're the prettiest target he ever pointed the turret at," Ian says.

"I did not," Sean grumps uselessly.

"Well - I - I have a shield! That's legitimate Witch tactics!"

They go on like that for some time as you motor across England and towards Eastchurch.

As you approach Eastchurch, you find, with absolutely no surprise whatsoever, that the shithole bog the English call "moors" and you call a "shithole bog" is completely socked-in. The sun has set, as well, and in the darkness the landing lights of the airstrip cannot be seen.

"Aww, look at little Miss Frenchy," Sean chuckles.

"We can't see her, asshole, she's behind us. Stop being cute."

"She's reaching a hand out towards our tail boom, not ten feet away from it," Sean chuckles. "Like she wants to grab onto it. Probably doesn't think I can see it in the dark."

An idea grabs you. "AlllllRIGHTY THEN." You take control of the radio and key your mic button. "Perrine, we're about to land. I'll go in first, let the ground crews know a Witch is coming so they can get ready to store your Striker." And with that, you abruptly cut the engines and push the nose down, dropping away from Perrine.

"You cheap bastard," Ian says, not entirely without feeling.

To her credit, Perrine manages to go a whole thirty seconds before breaking radio silence. "I can't see the landing lights. Can't your squadron even make bright lights? Lord have Mercy!"

Eastchurch is technically an RAF naval station airbase, and much of the base personnel are English. If there was any hope of them lighting the place up better for Perrine, she blew it the instant she talked rudely with a French accent.

You take the sheets of paper of the shopping list and rub them together to make 'static.' "Lights uh - full bla - posi - ove-"

"You're breaking up," Perrine says, voice strained. "Come in, over?"

There's a sharp crack of thunder, and the Widow begins swaying slightly as the wind picks up a little. Landing is going to be Fun.

"We can't see you, come in, over? Perrine, where are you? Land already, would you!?" you say softly into your mouthpiece, pulling your mask open a bit so the engine's roar will obscure the message.

"I can't see the ground!" Perrine wails. "There's fog everywhere, and it's dark! Fire flares, please!"

"You should go smoke a cock, buddy," Ian says to you, and keys his mic switch. "Perrine, listen for our engines. Can you hear them?"

"Distantly, I'm not sure where you are?"

You hear the roar of air entering Ian's cockpit over the intercom, and something bright flashes in the night above you. "See that?"

"Yes!" Perrine says, and the relief in her voice makes you feel pretty low.

You remember the choking, and the gun, and feel much better almost immediately. But still.

"I can hear you better now!" Perrine says, which is no surprise because you've throttled up again, flying the downwind leg by experience and familiarity.

"Okay, we're going to use our radar system to guide onto the runway. You stay right behind us and you can land with us, okay?"

"O-okay," Perrine says, sounding tremulous.

Sean configures the radar, and before long you see the bright flash of the airbase's directional radio beam flash on your radar. You go through the requisite landing-request chatter, keep one ear cocked to the auditory tones that are keeping you lined up with the runway, and soon enough you see the ground - about two seconds before your wheels slam into it, which is average. Having landed here many times before you know exactly where the ground is on the altimeter, but even for a good pilot, landing at an unfamiliar, socked-in airfield is a bit nerve-wracking - the ASL given on the charts isn't always exactly accurate.

"She's down," Sean says.

You obey the ATC like a good little boy and taxi over to your old revetment, shutting down the engines with lightning speed, kicking open the bottom trapdoor, dropping out of the aircraft without using the ladder and you bolt for a hangar almost the instant your feet touch tarmac.

Perrine catches you anyways.

Something angry snags you by the collar of your jacket and yanks you backwards, off your feet. Perrine can't weight more then ninety pounds, soaking wet, so she's definitely using magic. A dainty forearm locks across your throat and starts applying pressure.

"You... filthy... rotten... backstabbing... bastard..."

"GNARFFF!" you retort cleverly.

"I should *end* you," Perrine whispers dangerously. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't!"

"Hurrrk."

"I'm not so sure I should stop her," Ian says as he walks over.

"Gnnn*rrrrrr*" you threaten Ian, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Uh, Perrine, I thought you were mad at him," Ian says, sounding puzzled.

"I'm FURIOUS with him!" she yelps, twisting back and forth, which produces some interesting sounds from you.

"Then, uh, why are you rubbing your body against him while choking him? You know he likes that, don't you?"

To say Perrine "drops" you would be a misnomer. She physically hurls you away while leaping backwards, and finds time to wipe at her shirt in horror while doing so. You, on the other hand, undertake a close inspection of the tarmac.