Once within the warplane, he strapped into his seat, letting out a sigh. All emotion that his youthful face had once borne was gone, replaced with the face of an unfeeling entity, flushed of its colour. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, leaving a streak of lubrication in its path. His eyes gazed ahead. Unblinking. In front, laid a path of concrete that seemingly went on for eternity as fog obstructed much of the view. Suddenly, his seat began to lightly vibrate, the man was thrust back a tad as the engine below began to rumble. For a slight second, he experienced a sensation of weightlessness. That feeling. It would stick with Preston for the rest of his existence as the moment his life would change forever. The moment The Hornet took flight to embark on its assignment. His inner ears throbbed with pain due to the change in altitude. Nevertheless, he could focus only on the mission before him. What his life had been. And what it would become.

"Hey," a voice called out from behind.

Preston ignored it and instead continued gazing upon the shrinking world beneath him.   

"You deaf or something?" the voice persisted.

Preston was snapped out of his trance and looked back. The voice was coming from a broad-shouldered man, his face lightly wrinkled. Preston replied, "Sorry, I was distracted. W-who are you?"

"Name's Chad," the man said, chuckling. "Little bit about me: I'm the captain of this crew, I've been here since the start of the war. I was the one who requested a new dorsal gunner for this here plane. I was expecting someone with even an iota of experience, but I guess HQ is tryna' get us killed, 'cuz they sent us you!"

Chad urged Preston to follow him. The cold metallic plates lining the plane's base provided a slight reactive bend and subsequent clank with every step. Preston glanced around. He tried to make sense of the overwhelming, haphazardly scattered array of control panels and boxes. A strong and inescapable aroma of perspiration was floating through the atmosphere, thickening the air. Constant creaks and light shakes were felt throughout the plane. As he stepped into the cockpit, Preston was met with a wall engraving reading, "The Hornet". Beside the engraving stood Chad. Something had changed in him. His eyes were unblinking. Cold. Towering over Preston, casting him in his shadow, he effortlessly commanded respect from anyone in his presence. In filed two more men. One, who would later be introduced as John, was bespeckled, hunched over, with fingertips shaking. When he spoke, the words were enunciated with such perfection that it sounded robotic. The other, identified as Trevor, waltzed in with an aura of confidence. He gnawed at the toothpick wedged between his lips, leaning comfortably against the back wall. 

"Listen up gentlemen!" Chad commanded. Everything went still. It seemed as if even the engine had piped down in awe of its leader. Trevor stopped chewing. John stopped quivering. "We have been assigned to fly into enemy territory to bomb an aviation center," Chad continued. "The enemy is developing a new plane, capable of things previously unknown to the field of air combat. We currently know it as The Grim Reaper. We're flying in with three other planes. We are to protect one another by any means necessary. Is that understood?"

The group responded in synchronization, with a reassuring "Yes Sir!" Each member filed out just as they had come in, with Preston exiting last. He was not eager to return to his post. He dreaded the idea that he might be the one to strip another man of his life. The thought alone gave Preston butterflies. Alas, he arrived and strapped back in. His outstretched hands gripped his turret's two handles, with his index fingers lightly engaging the triggers. Preston remained motionless for some time before finally allowing himself to lean back. While Chad may have forbidden it if he were there, he closed his eyes, as it seemed that action was still miles away. Slowly he felt himself drifting off to sleep. The day's events flashed before his eyes. It had now become just a thing of yesterday, however. History. Preston could feel the day fading before his very eyes. 

BANG!

His eyes shot open. The Hornet shook mightily, boxes scattering throughout. An orange plume of fire engulfed an allied plane. In seconds the once-strong beast was rendered a charred, non-functional, and utterly destroyed amalgamation of metal. Its crew vaporized. Within the Hornet, commands were being traded back and forth among the crew mates. Though, Preston struggled to make sense of what was being communicated. All he understood was 'ambush'. Another explosion rocked the Hornet's interior. This one was clearly far closer than the last as the resulting fire radiated upon Preston's skin, heating it tremendously. An orange glow briefly filled every crevice of Preston's station. He wildly swung his turret left and right, hoping he would catch even the slightest glimpse of the enemy bomber. Like clockwork, another explosion rang throughout Preston's ears. This one from above. Shrapnel rained onto the Hornet's roof. Consecutive pings echoed with every one. As the metal bits continued to fall, Preston released his grasp from the turret. The colour began returning to his knuckles. He looked down and unstrapped, allowing himself to fall before his seat onto the ground. Laying down, beads of tears formed along the cusp of his lower eyelid, moistening his lashes. Three ships were gone, one was to go: the Hornet. It was over. Again, like clockwork, an explosion was felt throughout the plane. Preston rolled onto his stomach and gripped the back of his head with his palms as if it would provide any protection against the inevitable plume of fire that would soon consume his entire being. And so he waited. And waited. And waited. After it became apparent that he was not, in fact, about to die, Preston pushed himself off the ground and stood up. In the doorway behind stood Trevor. His patented toothpick rested on his lower lip, being shifted slightly as he shook his head slowly from side to side. 

"You're pathetic," he said simply. He began to walk towards Preston, increasing his pace with every step, outstretching his hand. Viscously grabbing Preston's chin and forcing his face to meet his own eye line, Trevor screamed, "Why are you even here if you're gonna lie on the ground while our brothers are being killed out there? It's your fault they're dead!"

After staring deep into Preston's eyes with a smouldering gaze, Trevor released his chin. Exhaling, Preston cupped it and opened his jaw to ensure it was still fastened to his skull. Trevor slowly turned in his place and nonchalantly walked away. Unsure of what to do next Preston followed. Meeting in the cockpit once again, the four-man crew recounted their experiences. Chad confirmed that, as it stood, the Hornet was the only remaining plane in what was supposed to be a mission carried out by four. Chad informed the group that spy intel had been relayed to the Hornet, notifying them that the Grim Reaper was both far more powerful and much further along in production than once thought. If HQ sent reinforcements to complete the mission with the Hornet, the delay would make them unable to reach the Grim Reaper before its deployment. Due to the beast's newly discovered incredible power, the group realized that the outcome of the entire war rested on their shoulders. 

"Four hours," John suddenly exclaimed from the corner in which he was perched, looking up. "I did the calculations, we must reach the designated aviation base within four hours if we are to complete this mission before the Grim Reaper's intended deployment."

"It can't be done," Trevor replied, cocking one eyebrow.

Chad, peering into the bright spring sky through the cockpit's glass, stated, "It must."

Preston returned to his post. He watched as day turned into night before his eyes. Over the course of two hours, the light that had once illuminated throughout the entire cove had darkened remarkably. As the sun dipped behind a distant mountain, the colour left everything it had once graced. Preston was left stranded in darkness. A calm breeze caused him to shiver ever so slightly. A single drop of rain then fell onto the glass dome before him, resulting in a minuscule tremble that vibrated his turret's handle. One drop turned to two. And then three. The vibrations intensified as a sheet of heavy downpour began to fall. It showed no signs of slowing, only accelerating with each passing minute. The rain provided a soothing and distracting echo of white noise, however. He let out a sigh. 

Meanwhile, in the cockpit, John was tasked with monitoring the radar and surveying for any possible obstacles. Chad lay in rest, a quiet whistle emitting from his left nostril, leaving the plane on autopilot. After not detecting anything for hours, John noticed a blip appearing on the radar before him. As such, he called for the sleeping Chad. With a grunt, he awoke. Rising from his slumber, the blanket that once rested on his chest slid to his feet. He approached the radar. With another scan, the blip disappeared. Glancing out into the foggy, storming night, he declared the blip a glitch. After all, they were still hours from the base. As he turned to go back to sleep, the blip returned. Chad peered over his shoulder, intently staring down the radar. With another scan, another blip appeared. And then another. And another. A bead of sweat dripped down John's head. Seven total blips were displayed before him, all converging on their location. Chad took the pilot's chair, this time sitting up strong, kicking the blanket aside. With a shaky shout, John woke up the crew who would all meet in the plane's cockpit. John explained that aborting the mission is their best course of action. Defeating seven enemy planes was simply an impossible feat after all. Each member agreed, except Chad who instead chose to continue piloting the plane as opposed to engaging in the conversation.

"Alright boys, assume positions. Chad, turn us around. We're making it home tonight!" Trevor exclaimed, a cheerful smile creasing his cheeks.

"No," Chad said coldly, his chest pronounced, and eyes steady, "You heard HQ. This entire war rests on our shoulders. I'm not abandoning the mission. I couldn't live with myself. Y'all can eject and try to get rescued, I won't blame ya."

"He's correct. Our country will feel the ramifications of this decision. If we take the easy path, we allow the enemies a potential shot at overpowering our entire nation. All because of our cowardice. I'll stay and fight with you sir. It's been an honour knowing and battling alongside you. I trust you," John exclaimed in his robotic mannerism. 

Trevor nodded. He glanced towards Preston, "This weak baby is just dead weight. I say the three of us stay and fight. John, you take Preston's station and he ejects before getting us killed."

Preston shook his head eagerly. He was done running. He realized that his stepping onto the plane was him coming to terms with dying. He might as well go out saving the world. Hopefully being able to get through and reach the enemy base, every crew member committed to the impossible battle ahead. As such, they assumed positions. This time, Preston excitedly ran into his station. He didn't take the time to notice the metallic floors bending under the pressure of his weight or to notice the seemingly uselessly massive number of control panels lining the walls. He focused only on seeking revenge for his fallen brethren. Preston strapped in for what he assumed may be his last time doing so. With an inhale, his chest inflated, poking through his shirt. As he exhaled slowly, his warm breath momentarily lingered before him. 

The nozzle of another plane poked through the thick cloud of fog ahead, parting the mass of haze as it drew closer. It was unlike anything Preston had ever seen before. Countless guns lined its base, resting under a cockpit within which worked a crew of at least 15 pilots. Its sheer size rendered the other six enemy planes aligned beside it puny in comparison. Preston's eyes widened. He came to the realization that the titan of metal currently racing towards him was the Grim Reaper. The battle had been brought to them. 

Without hesitation, Preston engaged his triggers, forcing them as far back into their sockets as they would go, gripping them there with all the strength he could muster. With every bullet that exited the barrel, the turret's entire body trembled. He glided the gun to the left, keeping the stream of bullets continually pouring from the barrel. Within seconds, the plane he steadied the turret onto sustained tremendous damage. A turbine failed to keep itself spinning, and it began plummeting to the ground in a glorious spiral, cutting through the heavy downpour on its way. He released the triggers and leaned back, heavily breathing as the chair was given more of his weight. 

Suddenly, holes began to emerge, piercing through each layer of his protective glass dome. They formed in immediate succession of each other, with several developing in mere seconds. It took Preston some time to realize that each hole was created by a different bullet hurtling into his station with the sole purpose of ending his life. Preston braced, leaning down and gripping the back of his head, digging into every hair fibre he could grab a hold of. Bullets ricocheted throughout. One grazed the back of his neck, leaving a streak of removed skin. In an instant, the attack ended. Looking up, Preston realized that much of the playing field had been levelled, likely thanks to Trevor's adroit shooting. All that remained was the juggernaut. He grasped his turret and, again, fully engaged the triggers, aiming the barrel directly into the Grim Reaper's cockpit. Nothing. No stream of bullets. He checked the ammo. Full. After further inspection, he realized that his gun was no longer functional and that it had been shot in the crossfire. A desperate cry echoed throughout the plane's halls. Its deep and commanding tone could belong only to Chad. John had been hit. Chad continued to yell out, unable to simultaneously sustain John's life and pilot the plane. 

Preston jumped from his post and answered his Captain's cries. Once there, it became apparent that John had suffered a bullet wound to the skull. Almost completely covered in a velvet sheet of blood, his eyes drifted aimlessly to either side of their sockets as if he were looking for anything that may keep him alive. He twitched ever so slightly. Chad turned around and gazed hopelessly into Preston's eyes. His usually stiff, angered expression was softened and his eyebrows rested in a slightly concave position. For once, Chad was displaying the slightest hint of emotion. Sadness. Unexpectedly, blood spurted out onto Preston, blanketing his entire face, and blinding him. Wiping his eyes clear, he furiously jerked his head from side to side, looking for its source. Until he laid eyes on his captain. A hole had formed in his chest. Chad glanced down and let out a light chuckle. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes were beginning to lose direction, beginning to drift just as John's had.

"Win this for us son." 

He spoke softly. With a slight crack forming at the back of his throat. He grasped the flag that had been stitched onto his right shoulder, before crumpling in on himself. Chad was dead. Preston took a step back. He locked eyes with the Grim Reaper. He felt a burning sensation radiating throughout every vein in his body. Just then, Trevor walked in behind him, gasping as he did so. Turning around so as to not see the horrors sprawled across the cockpit, he leaned against the doorway and wedged a toothpick in between his two front teeth. A single tear ran down his left cheek. 

"We gotta win this," Preston spoke up, unwavering in his sight of the Grim Reaper. "For John and for Chad. And for everyone this… this thing is gonna kill if we don't stop it."

Trevor turned and nodded. He spit from his mouth the toothpick, and took the pilot's chair, instructing Preston to take his original place as the nose gunner. Preston walked below the cockpit and strapped into Trevor's chair, gripping his turret as if it were his own. Again, he pressed the triggers as far back as they could travel in their sockets. The gun vibrated as bullets rained from it onto the Grim Reaper. He sent bullets into its cockpit at every crew member, as they had done to John and Chad. Meanwhile, Trevor strategically maneuvered the plane to avoid either one being killed. One by one, every opposing crewmate was picked off. Preston disregarded all morality. Fire coursed through his blood, red in the face. The only thing on his mind was revenge, not the prospect of him taking the life of another man. Just as Preston managed to kill the last remaining pilot, Trevor let out a blood-curdling shout from above. 

The Hornet's nose began to dip, exponentially angling downward until it entered a full nose-dive toward the ground. Preston was thrust upwards, pressing against his straps. He clicked himself loose and was sent into a collision with the roof above. He climbed his way into the cockpit, which was now overrun with a bloodied pile of bodies. Three of the finest men Preston had ever known were left lifeless. Limp. The Hornet's entire crew was suspended in the air and was racing towards the ground.  

"You know I misjudged ya'," Trevor coughed up. "You're a damn good fighter. Now take your parachute and get outta here. We won."

Pulling the lever, a hiss was let out by the door's unhinging airlock. It was pushed out ever so slightly, before opening and being subjected to the winds outside. Preston pushed himself through the opening, allowing the plummeting Hornet and Grim Reaper to sink below him, to be consumed by the endless sea of clouds present in the sky. As he drew the string fastened to his backpack, a parachute was released, causing him to slowly fall onto the brown field below. Unpinning a flare gun from his belt, Preston sent a rescue signal out, only praying that his allies would see it before his enemies. The once stormy night sky had become a vast sea of lustrous orange, with the rising sun and passing clouds. A red tint reflected from every surface, casting everything in a slight glow. With each breath, a small cloud of vapour emanated from deep within Preston's lungs. As he floated down, the reality of his situation set within him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face began to contort until he degraded into an all-out sob. A seagull cawed behind him, causing him to erupt from his sadness into a fit of fear. He ducked for cover, quivering. Upon realizing the threat to be a mere seagull he reverted to his original position. Preston gazed up into the morning sky and bore the weight of his upper eyelid onto his lower, blocking his vision of the world. Life would never be the same.

-

He woke from his slumber on the couch. As he leaned up, several bottles glided from his stomach onto the ground, bouncing up and clanking with each collision. No longer subdued or comforted by the effects of the nectar, he began remembering the events of that night like they were yesterday. Preston rolled off of the couch and stared at a photo of himself taken during his service. The picture, taken on his first day, showed an innocent, kind, and smiling boy. His face, which was reflected from the picture frame's pane of glass, displayed a troubled, paranoid, miserable, and unsmiling man. A knock at the door threw him off guard, causing him to jump out of fear and fall to the ground with his entire weight, grasping the back of his head. He was the same coward he was years ago. The same boy he was. Preston lay there, trembling. The plane. The gunshots. The people. The death. It was too much for him to bear although now being a grown man who hadn't experienced any such atrocities in decades. It was too much for Preston.