Flying Fortress (Plane Ponies)

>It was WWII, and you were pilot Anon.
>Instead of aircraft you and your crew flew a bomber pony.
>Her name was Flying Fortress, and she was the most gorgeous thing you'd ever seen.
>She had a healthy rivalry with another bomber pony, Liberator, and the crews of each liked to join the fun.
>You couldn't see what Liberator's crew saw in their bomber pony, though. She had a pug nose, a bit too much fat, and generally weird proportions.
>Nothing like the sleek, svelte lines of Fortress.
>Not too much padding, nor too little.
>Fortress knew how to protect her men, and you loved her for it.
>After every mission she would come home with new scars, but you and your crew always made it back to England safely.
>Fixing her up was never easy for the ground crews, though.
>She liked the rough-and-tumble look, and had a habit of trying to show off her scars to you.
>It was cute, but more than anything you wanted her to come back home with you, so you always forced her to get repairs.
>You liked to think you had more of a connection with her than the rest of your crew.
>You commanded her in the skies, and she molded her movements to your hands and feet like putty.
>No one else was so intimately aware of her every motion, every quirk, not even your copilot, Incog.
>When you flew with her, you felt like it was just the two of you against the Luftwaffe and the AA guns.
>The gentle, soothing roar of her powerful engines.
>A seamless melding of man and pony, conquering that wild blue yonder together.
>The illusion was broken whenever your crew used the radio, but you savored your time alone while it lasted.

>It was a cold March day when you were given briefing for the final mission of your tour of duty.
>Berlin.
>A cold dread overtook you.
>Near the edge of her operating range, and in the heart of enemy territory.
>You’d flown missions over Berlin before, but you were hoping for a milk run.
>One last peaceful flight with Fortress before you were reassigned.
>It was with heavy heart you briefed your crew, and it was with heavier heart you helped Fortress with her pre-flight checks.
>Neither of you said a word beyond what was necessary, but you knew her airframe well enough by now that you didn’t need to hear her say anything to feel what she was thinking.
>Your finger hovered over the switch for engine three.
>This would be your last time to start her up, to send that electric thrill down her spine.
>Incog nudged your shoulder and gave you a sympathetic look.
>He’d miss her, too.
>All around you could hear the whines of the starter engines of the other bomber ponies, and the clacking explosions of their pistons firing.
>You flipped the switch and worked your way through the startup sequences.
>Engine two.
>Engine one.
>Engine four.
>They all came to life, and the thrum of Fortress’s mighty engines rattled your body.
>The slow procession of the bomber ponies taxied to the runway and waited for their clearance for takeoff.
>You were 14nth in line, so you had to wait.
>But time marched forward, and it was soon your turn.
>You taxied onto the runway and pushed the throttle.
>What was a gentle roar became a howling cacophony of sound that penetrated you to your core.
>This feeling was something greater than simple romantic love.
>It inspired you and literally made you soar.
>It gave you power, and you gave her power in return.
>Slowly she began to rise, and the grassy knolls of England melted away into the pale morning sky.
>Your route was long.
>You would cross the English channel long before you would need to worry about combat.
>You took this time to relax and just enjoy your final moments of peace with Fortress.
>Or as much as a pilot could relax, anyway.
>Your eyes constantly roamed over her instruments in a way as automatic as saccadic movements.
>Your reverie was broken by the crackle of static.
>”Hey, so any of you fellas hear the joke Pseudonymous was telling last night? I only heard a little bit of it.”, your tail gunner asked over the radio.
>”Yeah, yeah, I know it!” This time you heard your bombardier’s voice.
>”Spill!”

>”OK, so, it goes like this. A fighter pilot loses his pony over France and has to bail out, where he’s captured by Germans. He’s injured, so they have to amputate his leg.
>”He tells them “Hey, next time you guys are bombing the shit out of England, can you drop my leg over my base?”. And they do it!
>”The next week they have to cut off his other leg, so he asks again, and they do it again.
>”The NEXT week they have to cut off his arm. He asks one more time, but they say “Nein. Zis ve cannot do anymore!”
>””Why not?”, he asks.
>””Because ve zink you are trying to escape!””

>”Hah!”, barked your belly gunner.
>You chuckled to yourself, and you could feel Fortress’s engines slightly throttling up and down.
>Her engines were so loud they drowned out her soft voice, so this was her way of laughing when she flew.
>But that wasn’t the only way she reacted to the joke.
>You could feel her wires tighten and become more responsive, like she were clenching a muscle to brace for a blow.
>It was the same way she felt in your hands when the fighting began and the world became a chaotic mess.
>To you it felt as comforting as a hug.
>She trusted you completely, and would do anything to keep her crew safe.
>You occasionally received updates from your navigator to keep you on course…
>And then the rallypoint came.
>You were nearing enemy territory, and it was your job to direct Fortress in an organized, but unpredictable path so the AA guns couldn’t get a lock on her.
>This was the only kind of evasive maneuver you could safely do.
>When enemy fighters came it’d be up to your escorts, your gunners, and Fortress’s sheer hardiness to keep you safe.
>The first attacks came in small waves.
>Hit-and-run tactics to harass your fleet and weaken you while the rest of the Luftwaffe’s local airmen rushed into the skies.
>The concussive blasts of AA shells shook you in your seat, but you were fine.
>Fortress could tank even a direct hit, so glancing blows had no chance against her mighty hull.
>The report of machine gun fire rang all around you, punctuating the rise and fall of the hum of Fortress’s engines with a staccato beat.
>Over the radio you could hear your crew calling out bogeys and bragging with their usual veneer of bravado about any fighters they might have shot down.
>Your focus was honed to a needlepoint.
>You continued evading the AA guns with precision maneuvers, following the path laid out for you by your briefing.
>Every mission was unique based on the state of the battlefield.
>You climbed and descended into safer altitudes.
>You twisted and turned in the sky in wide arcs to force the guns to constantly recalculate their ballistic trajectories.
>It was a ballet, and Fortress was your dance partner.
>The dance seemed to last forever…
>And then it was over.
>Fortress’s wires went slack, and a feeling of uncontrolled weightlessness overtook you.
>You didn’t know exactly how it happened, but the screams of your crew were enough to piece it together: Her spine had been broken by a mid-air collision with another craft.

>Fortress was dead.

>Your fall destabilized into an uncontrollable spin, and you could feel the blood rush out of your brain as your head slammed into the side of the cockpit.
>You spent your last conscious moments grieving for your lost love before you met a fiery end.