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everythingismagicTitle: You Can't Take the Sky From Me [FF.NET Chapter Six] [ Writing Journal Previous Chapters ]
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, PolandxLithuania, GermanyxItaly. Future pairings: GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland, SpainxRomano, Belarus--->Russia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 3,215
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: The wood was splintering and falling off in enormous chunks and the grand sails were aflame. He could no longer even make out their colors. In the distance, he saw a man tumble off the deck and down to the sea. There was no way he could survive that fall. And he realized it could have been someone he knew; Switzerland, the perpetually irritated gunner, or perhaps it was Prussia, the lively and snarky swordsman. Or England. It could have been England.
Author's Note: For those of you wondering when the story was going to jump into battle mode, it's here. A couple of things! Firstly, I wanted to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
winku for doing some amazing art for this fic. She did two comics, one from chapter two and one from chapter four. You can see them HERE. Secondly, I set up a resource post for this fic. It includes a map of the 'world,' Jolly Rogers for the three main crews in the story, and any artwork that's been done for the fic. Obviously it will be updated with new content (I'll definitely be updating the map with more named locations once they appear). You can check that out HERE.
America had never seen anything like it in his entire life. There were flames, hot and huge, filling the blue sky with crimson and orange and thick smoke. There were massive, white dirigibles, which America knew to be zeppelins. Three of them circled the scene, each formidably firing weapons from the open gondolas suspended underneath their immense forms. He made out black lettering on their flanks, recognizing it as Cyrillic text, although he hadn’t the slightest how to read it. K-Kosmider?
And beyond the zeppelins, and beyond a cloud cover that threatened to obstruct his view further, was a more disturbing melee. A ship, falling from the sky.
The wood was splintering and falling off in enormous chunks and the grand sails were aflame. He could no longer even make out their colors. In the distance, he saw a man tumble off the deck and down to the sea. There was no way he could survive that fall. And he realized it could have been someone he knew; Switzerland, the perpetually irritated gunner, or perhaps it was Prussia, the lively and snarky swordsman. Or England. It could have been England.
“ENGLAND!” America shouted, his voice catching in his throat. His voice reverberated through the small cockpit, and he pressed his head into his hands. He breathed deeply, continuously, panicked. Lifting his head, his blue eyes widened and they darted about wildly, surveying the scene. England…
Was he too late? He cringed at the thought. The zeppelins were pale white, with black gondolas and rudders, like a skeleton fleet reaping throughout the sky. And that ship, plummeting to its death, must have been the Victoria. Had he arrived too late? Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back. Another figure fell from the ship down into the sea far below. So this was war. Through the cockpit, he could make out only muffled noise. The whistling of missiles, the bang of cannons, and in the distance, gunshots. His heartbeat was fierce and heavy in his ears, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He narrowed his eyes in steely determination and his mouth formed into a thin line. The ship was still falling. Maybe he could still rescue some of the crew.
Maybe he could still save England.
He flew into the fray.
America dodged everything that skimmed by him, piloting his biplane through the flame and the smoke and the now almost deafening cacophony. He said a silent prayer and prepared to nosedive, down toward the falling ship.
It was then that he spotted something else flying in the sky. The cloud-cover and smoke inhibited him from making out any details, but it was another pirate ship. He frantically looked from ship to ship, hoping desperately that the one still afloat in the sky was Victoria. Shakily, America reached for his radio. “E-England?” No response. “England?” Of course not. Even if England were on the other ship, he’d be far from where his radio was. He’d be fighting off the zeppelins. “Fuck.” He decided to go after the falling ship. Whether it was England’s ship or not, there might be people he needed to save on it.
He was a hero, after all. America nosedived, swiftly and steeply. A missile just missed his tail, and he sped up. Moments later, he noticed that the other ship was diving downward as well. It wasn’t falling, he could tell by the assuredness of its motions. It was being deliberately steered.
And he chanced looking up, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat when he could finally make out who was at the wheel. It was England. His expression was fierce, determined, passionate. The wind caught his coat and it flew, whipping the red and blue fabric behind him. Near the middle of the deck he saw Prussia, his blade clashing with that of a silver haired woman’s. Switzerland was on the other side, manning the cannons in a most rapid-fire manner. But his eyes went back to England, who steered with as much strength as he could muster. A gust of wind blew his hat off, but he ignored it, continuing his descent toward the falling ship.
He couldn’t deny it, as much as he wished to; England looked like a captain.
America flew closer, and England finally looked away from the steering and directly at him. America could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile cross his lips and the mouthing of a ‘thank you.’
He nodded back and replied, ‘no problem.’
He observed as England gestured wildly and yelled something to Switzerland. The gunner left the cannons behind and ran up to the wheel, taking it from England’s hands. The captain pointed downward and Switzerland nodded.
America watched in bewilderment as England grabbed a coil of rope and swung it around the bow, knotting it tightly. England gave it one last belligerent pull and much to America’s shock, jumped off the ship, rope in hand.
He swung down toward the falling ship, and America wondered if he should have helped him but he had no idea what to do. If he let loose the rope and started to fall, he’d catch him then. Looking down at the burning ship, America spotted a pair of pirates clinging to the back deck. They were both bloody and burnt, and one was slung unconscious in the other one’s arms.
England bounced off the back of the ship and leapt up onto the quarterdeck. He exchanged dialogue with them and appeared to be arguing with the conscious one, before finally shaking his head in frustration and grabbing him by the hand. He tied a bit of extra rope he’d snatched around their centers, and pushed off the ship. The man held, as if it were his most precious cargo, the unconscious man tightly in his arms. He glanced back down at the falling ship, tears apparent in his eyes even at this distance. Such grief crossed his face that America had to force himself to look away.
England strengthened his grip on the pair, able to use only one arm to hold them as the other was occupied with the rope, and Switzerland began to pull their lifeline up.
America flew up along with them, watching them with a careful eye. England’s jaw was set in determined resolution, and his brows were creased in pain. America imagined that the rope was rubbing his hand raw, but his hold never wavered, not once. The rope swung wildly, and England almost missed grabbing the edge of the ship once he reached it. The wood splintered under his hand, and even from his distance, America could see blood seeping from his palm. Switzerland ran forward and took hold of his hand, pulling England and the two pirates onto the deck with one easy tug. Switzerland, slight in figure like England, was obviously a lot stronger than he appeared.
And then England was back at the wheel, ignoring his injuries and swerving it as rapidly as he could back up toward the sky. The bulky ship turned around with an enormous creak and a whine from the steam engines, and headed back upward. Switzerland, who had vanished for a moment, reappeared with a crank radio and handed it to England.
England made direct eye contact with America, and moments later, his voice came over the plane’s radio.
“You came.”
“I told you I would! Are you okay? What the fuck is going on?”
England paused for a moment and motioned Switzerland back to man the cannons. “I’m perfectly fine. Never mind what’s going on. It’s the Kosmider, or do you even know who they ar---“
“Of course I do! God, England, do you think I’m stupid?”
America could have sworn he saw England smirk. “You came, and I’m grateful, so I won’t answer that at this moment.” The aviator grumbled. “The Nuberu Pirates managed to take out one of the zeppelins before their ship fell. There’s… only two of their crew left now.” His voice broke at this. “That zeppelin is still in the sky, but it won’t be for long.” America looked up and noticed that one of the three zeppelins was teetering, it’s top aflame and much of the skeleton of the great machine showing through.
“That’s… terrible.”
“Yes, it looks like the Kosmider did quite well on their mission today,” he spat.
“But you guys are still--- “
“They weren’t after us. The attack was on Captain Carriedo’s ship. We just came to help.”
“What? You came to help, even though it wasn’t your--- “
“Is the concept of us helping someone else so alien to you, America?” He didn’t answer, but instead averted his eyes to his lap. “Never mind! Let’s get up there and fight off the bastards who are left. What do you have?”
America blinked, his eyes widening. “Um wha? Oh some missiles and…”
“Shoot them off! Take out the one on the left. If you’re half the pilot you pretend to be, it should be done in a snitch.”
“Geez, you beg me to come and all you can do is insult me,” America mumbled. He flew past the ship. Prussia was still blade to blade with the silver-haired woman, and he took a moment to survey their battle. Prussia was flawless. His swipes were bold and confident, and he dueled with a nimbleness and grace that America would have thought impossible from the loud-mouthed first mate. The woman was holding her own very well though, the full-skirted black dress she wore not even causing a hint of hindrance in her calculated movements. Her long hair swung about freely, and every few strikes, she’d pull a dagger from her sleeve and use it instead of her sword.
He averted his gaze to Switzerland, who continued to utilize the ship's artillery in such rapid-fire succession that America had trouble following his actions. His cannons were aimed up at the largest of the zeppelins, and they hit their target more often than not. America’s mind wandered to the two men England had rescued. There’s only… two of their crew left now.
He steeled himself and flew toward the left zeppelin, releasing his first missile as he did so. His aim was true, and the missile smacked spectacularly into the side of the zeppelin, ripping much of the white away to reveal the steel skeleton underneath. America uttered a quiet “yes!” and then cursed as a small missile came at him. He dove down rapidly and watched it explode above him, then with the agility that came with his skill as a pilot, came up under the zeppelin and shot another missile. This one slammed into the belly of the beast, and the zeppelin shook at the impact.
He only had two left. A thought flitted across his mind, unbidden. If he showed up back at the base with no missiles, what would his superiors think? Could he explain to them that he was attacked by the Kosmider? Would they believe him? “Fuck.” America slammed his hands on the dashboard. But I made this choice. I came to help and… I’m not going to let them get away with what they’re doing. That’s what a hero would do. That’s my job, right?
He spun around in a roll and fired at the back rudder, a vital point on the zeppelin. His missile obliterated it, and America knew he had won. Throughout all of this, he’d successfully dodged their attacks. He was a damn good pilot, and England was going to know it.
The zeppelin dipped downward, like some great white whale falling to its demise at the bottom of the sea. He spotted several of the crew leaping out of the behemoth with parachutes, and he gritted his teeth that they would survive this but the grieving man’s crew would not. He didn’t know the man, and he was a pirate. But America could scarcely deny the depth of his emotion, even from just a fleeting glance of his face. Perhaps pirates weren’t heroes, but they were a damn lot better than the Kosmider.
America fired his last missile, this time on the unharmed side of the zeppelin. It was already going to go down, but now it would go down faster. Good.
“One down, England!” America yelled excitedly over the radio. It was several moments before he received a reply.
“I saw. You’re a fine shot, America.”
“Aha! So you’re acknowledging my awesome then?”
America could have sworn he heard a snicker. “Don’t press your luck.”
There was one zeppelin left, the largest of the lot by far. Its white flanks gleamed, and it appeared mighty and unsinkable despite the damage it had incurred. Being out of missiles, all America could do was watch as the crew of the Victoria combated their final foe.
England had left the bow and was now talking to Switzerland, who appeared to be swearing mightily and pointing at the cannons. Had they run out of heavy artillery? That appeared to be the logical conclusion. Shit. America cursed the fact that he’d run out of his own weaponry. He was useless to them. He banged his hands on the dash of his plane in frustration.
The Victoria was damaged, its sails torn and wood splintering off the sides. The end of the bow had been snapped off as well. The ship held sturdy, showing no danger of falling. But America feared for how much more it could stand. Prussia still fought the black frocked lady, their swordplay a continuing ballet of intense aggression. His smug smirk had lessened though, and his movements had grown more sluggish. How long had the two been fighting? How long had this been going on? He couldn’t, wouldn’t let England’s crew lose. But what chance did he have? What could he possibly do now?
America had never felt more useless. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to fend off the hot, prickling tears that threatened to escape. It was everything. England’s crew, the Nuberu, and the fact that this sort of vicious melee was going to become a commonality in the world’s skies if the Kosmider got their way. And here he was, the hero, forced to stand back and watch as the villains came closer to victory. It made him nauseous.
His eyelids slid open, and he looked back to the ship with immense trepidation. The zeppelin was closer now, far too close, in America’s opinion. England had departed and left Switzerland with the now useless cannons, and he was storming over to the foremast. He called back toward his gunner and the other man ran to his side. England spoke to him using urgent hand gestures. Switzerland’s expression grew infuriated and he interrupted the captain, motioning wildly and shaking his head in the negative.
England frowned and pointed to himself, and Switzerland scowled and crossed his arms in resignation.
What the hell is he doing? America picked up his radio to ask, but he noticed that England had removed the crank radio from his waist. Dammit.
England threw his coat off and handed it to Switzerland, then began to climb up the mast. His gunner stood sentry at the bottom, loyally following his captain’s every move.
The captain winced in obvious pain every few moments, his bleeding hand now worse for the wear. A bit of debris fell and sliced his cheek as he climbed, but England ignored it and continued upward. America wondered if the pain in his hand distracted him from even noticing the injury he’d just attained. The sky-boat rocked with every hit it took, and every time it happened, England’s grip tightened on the mast. One time it wasn’t enough, and he slid down the mast quite a ways. He inched back up, looking more determined. Eventually he slung himself over to the foretopmast, now at least fifteen meters above the deck. He was precariously high, and the ship was hardly remaining still. America felt his stomach drop as the ship took a sharp hit. England maintained his ground, and pulled a dagger out of his belt. He sliced a piece of rigging, and grabbed onto it like a rope.
The pirate stared directly at the zeppelin, as if judging distance and trajectory, and pushed himself up and off the mast. No fucking way. America’s blue eyes widened and he didn’t even have to think about it, he flew closer to the ship, ready to catch England if he fell.
England soared, fighting gravity as best he could as he aimed his body toward the top of the remaining zeppelin. He let go of the rope with his injured hand and unsheathed his rapier. Then, with a deft skill that America found surprising from the surly captain, his blade made contact with the zeppelin. The razor sharp sword slashed down as gravity carried England, and it created an enormous gaping hole in the white exterior. To top off the attack, he sheathed his sword, quick as a flash, and pulled out an elaborate pistol. The man currently piloting the zeppelin had been exposed by England’s attack, and the captain aimed true, taking him out with one effortless bullet.
America let out a ‘yes!’ and pumped his fist. He grinned as England swung back to the Victoria, Switzerland running over and catching him as he landed on the deck. The gunner fired one last cannon, the very last one, America assumed, at the zeppelin for good measure.
The silver-haired swordswoman looked up from her fight with Prussia and scowled, attempting one last attack on the first mate then turning tail and running toward the deck. She leapt with grace from the Victoria to the zeppelin, a bespectacled young man catching her and pulling her up into the gondola.
“Are they… retreating?” America asked out loud. And indeed the zeppelin turned around, presumably departing before the damage made it impossible to make a return flight. It flew away sluggishly, like an injured beast, and the battered Victoria was left behind.
They were alive. They’d won this round.
America’s sigh of relief was so loud that it was likely to be audible from outside the plane. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, but the almost immediate crackle of his radio snapped him back to attention.
“Huh?”
“H-hey!” It wasn’t England’s voice. America looked at the radio quizzically. “Hey hotshot. You’d better land your ass on this ship. Our captain is going to need some tender loving care.”
His eyes widened in realization, and he looked to the deck of the Victoria to confirm it. “Prussia!” He smiled in spite of himself, but then flushed when he registered what exactly the first mate had just said. “W-what the hell do you mean by that?!” America grumbled and kicked his plane into gear, flying toward a smooth landing on the deck of Victoria.
Prussia waved at him, and he could make out the first mate’s smirk from his plane. “Haha. You know exactly what I--”
His statement was interrupted when the radio slipped from his hands, and he slumped like a ragdoll and fell face forward onto the deck. America could make out blood seeping profusely from his back.
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, PolandxLithuania, GermanyxItaly. Future pairings: GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland, SpainxRomano, Belarus--->Russia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 3,215
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: The wood was splintering and falling off in enormous chunks and the grand sails were aflame. He could no longer even make out their colors. In the distance, he saw a man tumble off the deck and down to the sea. There was no way he could survive that fall. And he realized it could have been someone he knew; Switzerland, the perpetually irritated gunner, or perhaps it was Prussia, the lively and snarky swordsman. Or England. It could have been England.
Author's Note: For those of you wondering when the story was going to jump into battle mode, it's here. A couple of things! Firstly, I wanted to thank
winku for doing some amazing art for this fic. She did two comics, one from chapter two and one from chapter four. You can see them HERE. Secondly, I set up a resource post for this fic. It includes a map of the 'world,' Jolly Rogers for the three main crews in the story, and any artwork that's been done for the fic. Obviously it will be updated with new content (I'll definitely be updating the map with more named locations once they appear). You can check that out HERE.America had never seen anything like it in his entire life. There were flames, hot and huge, filling the blue sky with crimson and orange and thick smoke. There were massive, white dirigibles, which America knew to be zeppelins. Three of them circled the scene, each formidably firing weapons from the open gondolas suspended underneath their immense forms. He made out black lettering on their flanks, recognizing it as Cyrillic text, although he hadn’t the slightest how to read it. K-Kosmider?
And beyond the zeppelins, and beyond a cloud cover that threatened to obstruct his view further, was a more disturbing melee. A ship, falling from the sky.
The wood was splintering and falling off in enormous chunks and the grand sails were aflame. He could no longer even make out their colors. In the distance, he saw a man tumble off the deck and down to the sea. There was no way he could survive that fall. And he realized it could have been someone he knew; Switzerland, the perpetually irritated gunner, or perhaps it was Prussia, the lively and snarky swordsman. Or England. It could have been England.
“ENGLAND!” America shouted, his voice catching in his throat. His voice reverberated through the small cockpit, and he pressed his head into his hands. He breathed deeply, continuously, panicked. Lifting his head, his blue eyes widened and they darted about wildly, surveying the scene. England…
Was he too late? He cringed at the thought. The zeppelins were pale white, with black gondolas and rudders, like a skeleton fleet reaping throughout the sky. And that ship, plummeting to its death, must have been the Victoria. Had he arrived too late? Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back. Another figure fell from the ship down into the sea far below. So this was war. Through the cockpit, he could make out only muffled noise. The whistling of missiles, the bang of cannons, and in the distance, gunshots. His heartbeat was fierce and heavy in his ears, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He narrowed his eyes in steely determination and his mouth formed into a thin line. The ship was still falling. Maybe he could still rescue some of the crew.
Maybe he could still save England.
He flew into the fray.
America dodged everything that skimmed by him, piloting his biplane through the flame and the smoke and the now almost deafening cacophony. He said a silent prayer and prepared to nosedive, down toward the falling ship.
It was then that he spotted something else flying in the sky. The cloud-cover and smoke inhibited him from making out any details, but it was another pirate ship. He frantically looked from ship to ship, hoping desperately that the one still afloat in the sky was Victoria. Shakily, America reached for his radio. “E-England?” No response. “England?” Of course not. Even if England were on the other ship, he’d be far from where his radio was. He’d be fighting off the zeppelins. “Fuck.” He decided to go after the falling ship. Whether it was England’s ship or not, there might be people he needed to save on it.
He was a hero, after all. America nosedived, swiftly and steeply. A missile just missed his tail, and he sped up. Moments later, he noticed that the other ship was diving downward as well. It wasn’t falling, he could tell by the assuredness of its motions. It was being deliberately steered.
And he chanced looking up, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat when he could finally make out who was at the wheel. It was England. His expression was fierce, determined, passionate. The wind caught his coat and it flew, whipping the red and blue fabric behind him. Near the middle of the deck he saw Prussia, his blade clashing with that of a silver haired woman’s. Switzerland was on the other side, manning the cannons in a most rapid-fire manner. But his eyes went back to England, who steered with as much strength as he could muster. A gust of wind blew his hat off, but he ignored it, continuing his descent toward the falling ship.
He couldn’t deny it, as much as he wished to; England looked like a captain.
America flew closer, and England finally looked away from the steering and directly at him. America could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile cross his lips and the mouthing of a ‘thank you.’
He nodded back and replied, ‘no problem.’
He observed as England gestured wildly and yelled something to Switzerland. The gunner left the cannons behind and ran up to the wheel, taking it from England’s hands. The captain pointed downward and Switzerland nodded.
America watched in bewilderment as England grabbed a coil of rope and swung it around the bow, knotting it tightly. England gave it one last belligerent pull and much to America’s shock, jumped off the ship, rope in hand.
He swung down toward the falling ship, and America wondered if he should have helped him but he had no idea what to do. If he let loose the rope and started to fall, he’d catch him then. Looking down at the burning ship, America spotted a pair of pirates clinging to the back deck. They were both bloody and burnt, and one was slung unconscious in the other one’s arms.
England bounced off the back of the ship and leapt up onto the quarterdeck. He exchanged dialogue with them and appeared to be arguing with the conscious one, before finally shaking his head in frustration and grabbing him by the hand. He tied a bit of extra rope he’d snatched around their centers, and pushed off the ship. The man held, as if it were his most precious cargo, the unconscious man tightly in his arms. He glanced back down at the falling ship, tears apparent in his eyes even at this distance. Such grief crossed his face that America had to force himself to look away.
England strengthened his grip on the pair, able to use only one arm to hold them as the other was occupied with the rope, and Switzerland began to pull their lifeline up.
America flew up along with them, watching them with a careful eye. England’s jaw was set in determined resolution, and his brows were creased in pain. America imagined that the rope was rubbing his hand raw, but his hold never wavered, not once. The rope swung wildly, and England almost missed grabbing the edge of the ship once he reached it. The wood splintered under his hand, and even from his distance, America could see blood seeping from his palm. Switzerland ran forward and took hold of his hand, pulling England and the two pirates onto the deck with one easy tug. Switzerland, slight in figure like England, was obviously a lot stronger than he appeared.
And then England was back at the wheel, ignoring his injuries and swerving it as rapidly as he could back up toward the sky. The bulky ship turned around with an enormous creak and a whine from the steam engines, and headed back upward. Switzerland, who had vanished for a moment, reappeared with a crank radio and handed it to England.
England made direct eye contact with America, and moments later, his voice came over the plane’s radio.
“You came.”
“I told you I would! Are you okay? What the fuck is going on?”
England paused for a moment and motioned Switzerland back to man the cannons. “I’m perfectly fine. Never mind what’s going on. It’s the Kosmider, or do you even know who they ar---“
“Of course I do! God, England, do you think I’m stupid?”
America could have sworn he saw England smirk. “You came, and I’m grateful, so I won’t answer that at this moment.” The aviator grumbled. “The Nuberu Pirates managed to take out one of the zeppelins before their ship fell. There’s… only two of their crew left now.” His voice broke at this. “That zeppelin is still in the sky, but it won’t be for long.” America looked up and noticed that one of the three zeppelins was teetering, it’s top aflame and much of the skeleton of the great machine showing through.
“That’s… terrible.”
“Yes, it looks like the Kosmider did quite well on their mission today,” he spat.
“But you guys are still--- “
“They weren’t after us. The attack was on Captain Carriedo’s ship. We just came to help.”
“What? You came to help, even though it wasn’t your--- “
“Is the concept of us helping someone else so alien to you, America?” He didn’t answer, but instead averted his eyes to his lap. “Never mind! Let’s get up there and fight off the bastards who are left. What do you have?”
America blinked, his eyes widening. “Um wha? Oh some missiles and…”
“Shoot them off! Take out the one on the left. If you’re half the pilot you pretend to be, it should be done in a snitch.”
“Geez, you beg me to come and all you can do is insult me,” America mumbled. He flew past the ship. Prussia was still blade to blade with the silver-haired woman, and he took a moment to survey their battle. Prussia was flawless. His swipes were bold and confident, and he dueled with a nimbleness and grace that America would have thought impossible from the loud-mouthed first mate. The woman was holding her own very well though, the full-skirted black dress she wore not even causing a hint of hindrance in her calculated movements. Her long hair swung about freely, and every few strikes, she’d pull a dagger from her sleeve and use it instead of her sword.
He averted his gaze to Switzerland, who continued to utilize the ship's artillery in such rapid-fire succession that America had trouble following his actions. His cannons were aimed up at the largest of the zeppelins, and they hit their target more often than not. America’s mind wandered to the two men England had rescued. There’s only… two of their crew left now.
He steeled himself and flew toward the left zeppelin, releasing his first missile as he did so. His aim was true, and the missile smacked spectacularly into the side of the zeppelin, ripping much of the white away to reveal the steel skeleton underneath. America uttered a quiet “yes!” and then cursed as a small missile came at him. He dove down rapidly and watched it explode above him, then with the agility that came with his skill as a pilot, came up under the zeppelin and shot another missile. This one slammed into the belly of the beast, and the zeppelin shook at the impact.
He only had two left. A thought flitted across his mind, unbidden. If he showed up back at the base with no missiles, what would his superiors think? Could he explain to them that he was attacked by the Kosmider? Would they believe him? “Fuck.” America slammed his hands on the dashboard. But I made this choice. I came to help and… I’m not going to let them get away with what they’re doing. That’s what a hero would do. That’s my job, right?
He spun around in a roll and fired at the back rudder, a vital point on the zeppelin. His missile obliterated it, and America knew he had won. Throughout all of this, he’d successfully dodged their attacks. He was a damn good pilot, and England was going to know it.
The zeppelin dipped downward, like some great white whale falling to its demise at the bottom of the sea. He spotted several of the crew leaping out of the behemoth with parachutes, and he gritted his teeth that they would survive this but the grieving man’s crew would not. He didn’t know the man, and he was a pirate. But America could scarcely deny the depth of his emotion, even from just a fleeting glance of his face. Perhaps pirates weren’t heroes, but they were a damn lot better than the Kosmider.
America fired his last missile, this time on the unharmed side of the zeppelin. It was already going to go down, but now it would go down faster. Good.
“One down, England!” America yelled excitedly over the radio. It was several moments before he received a reply.
“I saw. You’re a fine shot, America.”
“Aha! So you’re acknowledging my awesome then?”
America could have sworn he heard a snicker. “Don’t press your luck.”
There was one zeppelin left, the largest of the lot by far. Its white flanks gleamed, and it appeared mighty and unsinkable despite the damage it had incurred. Being out of missiles, all America could do was watch as the crew of the Victoria combated their final foe.
England had left the bow and was now talking to Switzerland, who appeared to be swearing mightily and pointing at the cannons. Had they run out of heavy artillery? That appeared to be the logical conclusion. Shit. America cursed the fact that he’d run out of his own weaponry. He was useless to them. He banged his hands on the dash of his plane in frustration.
The Victoria was damaged, its sails torn and wood splintering off the sides. The end of the bow had been snapped off as well. The ship held sturdy, showing no danger of falling. But America feared for how much more it could stand. Prussia still fought the black frocked lady, their swordplay a continuing ballet of intense aggression. His smug smirk had lessened though, and his movements had grown more sluggish. How long had the two been fighting? How long had this been going on? He couldn’t, wouldn’t let England’s crew lose. But what chance did he have? What could he possibly do now?
America had never felt more useless. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to fend off the hot, prickling tears that threatened to escape. It was everything. England’s crew, the Nuberu, and the fact that this sort of vicious melee was going to become a commonality in the world’s skies if the Kosmider got their way. And here he was, the hero, forced to stand back and watch as the villains came closer to victory. It made him nauseous.
His eyelids slid open, and he looked back to the ship with immense trepidation. The zeppelin was closer now, far too close, in America’s opinion. England had departed and left Switzerland with the now useless cannons, and he was storming over to the foremast. He called back toward his gunner and the other man ran to his side. England spoke to him using urgent hand gestures. Switzerland’s expression grew infuriated and he interrupted the captain, motioning wildly and shaking his head in the negative.
England frowned and pointed to himself, and Switzerland scowled and crossed his arms in resignation.
What the hell is he doing? America picked up his radio to ask, but he noticed that England had removed the crank radio from his waist. Dammit.
England threw his coat off and handed it to Switzerland, then began to climb up the mast. His gunner stood sentry at the bottom, loyally following his captain’s every move.
The captain winced in obvious pain every few moments, his bleeding hand now worse for the wear. A bit of debris fell and sliced his cheek as he climbed, but England ignored it and continued upward. America wondered if the pain in his hand distracted him from even noticing the injury he’d just attained. The sky-boat rocked with every hit it took, and every time it happened, England’s grip tightened on the mast. One time it wasn’t enough, and he slid down the mast quite a ways. He inched back up, looking more determined. Eventually he slung himself over to the foretopmast, now at least fifteen meters above the deck. He was precariously high, and the ship was hardly remaining still. America felt his stomach drop as the ship took a sharp hit. England maintained his ground, and pulled a dagger out of his belt. He sliced a piece of rigging, and grabbed onto it like a rope.
The pirate stared directly at the zeppelin, as if judging distance and trajectory, and pushed himself up and off the mast. No fucking way. America’s blue eyes widened and he didn’t even have to think about it, he flew closer to the ship, ready to catch England if he fell.
England soared, fighting gravity as best he could as he aimed his body toward the top of the remaining zeppelin. He let go of the rope with his injured hand and unsheathed his rapier. Then, with a deft skill that America found surprising from the surly captain, his blade made contact with the zeppelin. The razor sharp sword slashed down as gravity carried England, and it created an enormous gaping hole in the white exterior. To top off the attack, he sheathed his sword, quick as a flash, and pulled out an elaborate pistol. The man currently piloting the zeppelin had been exposed by England’s attack, and the captain aimed true, taking him out with one effortless bullet.
America let out a ‘yes!’ and pumped his fist. He grinned as England swung back to the Victoria, Switzerland running over and catching him as he landed on the deck. The gunner fired one last cannon, the very last one, America assumed, at the zeppelin for good measure.
The silver-haired swordswoman looked up from her fight with Prussia and scowled, attempting one last attack on the first mate then turning tail and running toward the deck. She leapt with grace from the Victoria to the zeppelin, a bespectacled young man catching her and pulling her up into the gondola.
“Are they… retreating?” America asked out loud. And indeed the zeppelin turned around, presumably departing before the damage made it impossible to make a return flight. It flew away sluggishly, like an injured beast, and the battered Victoria was left behind.
They were alive. They’d won this round.
America’s sigh of relief was so loud that it was likely to be audible from outside the plane. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, but the almost immediate crackle of his radio snapped him back to attention.
“Huh?”
“H-hey!” It wasn’t England’s voice. America looked at the radio quizzically. “Hey hotshot. You’d better land your ass on this ship. Our captain is going to need some tender loving care.”
His eyes widened in realization, and he looked to the deck of the Victoria to confirm it. “Prussia!” He smiled in spite of himself, but then flushed when he registered what exactly the first mate had just said. “W-what the hell do you mean by that?!” America grumbled and kicked his plane into gear, flying toward a smooth landing on the deck of Victoria.
Prussia waved at him, and he could make out the first mate’s smirk from his plane. “Haha. You know exactly what I--”
His statement was interrupted when the radio slipped from his hands, and he slumped like a ragdoll and fell face forward onto the deck. America could make out blood seeping profusely from his back.
