Fear Factor
Canon: Axis Powers Hetalia
Iron Fic Entry
Author's Notes/Warnings:
Contains fem versions.
Contains a switch in branch of service (from Heer (probably) to Luftwaffe).
Pro-Axis. Sorta.
--
"...is that an engine?"
Canada looked up from his lunch, peering at the ceiling as if he could make it transparent.
"It sounds like an engine. A plane engine. I thought we were under a ceasefire?" And by the same token, that made the meeting compound a no-fly zone. America nodded, standing and heading for the double doors at the end of the hall. As he squinted up at the sky, he was less than surprised to see the crosses on the flats of Germany's wings. Her Dornier 217 cruised high overhead. The plane seemed faster than what he'd seen in combat, and America could see the boxes of ammo sitting unopened on the grass, so she hadn't stocked it with any shells, but it was still a fearsome sight: a backlit, deep black silhouette, with those iron crosses standing out against the gloom, the reflected sunlight from below catching on the bay doors. The nose glinted in the light as well, the clear glass making it, at this distance, seem to disappear. He glared at the shape of it, as she widened her flight pattern and rose a little higher in the air, and turned to stalk inside.
"Italy! Give me that radio!"
Amidst pleas that America not kill him, and wails for Japan to please come and save him from the scary Allied officer, Italy was evacuated from his chair and America grabbed the receiver to the radio, pleased to see that it was already on the correct channel.
"--is everything alright down there? What was that noise?" The other pilot's voice crackled down the line, curious but not overly concerned.
"Get the hell out of the air, kraut!"
"America? Why are you on the radio? You know that room is in enemy--"
"And you're in a no-fly zone!" By God, if anyone was going to get to look cool in an aircraft, it was going to be him! "Remember the terms of the ceasefire?"
"But those terms are soon to dissolve into nothing! Tensions have been running high or a long time now." Her tone showed plenty of conviction. She even sounded a little smug. "Better to be the first in the air, showing the enemy your superiority, than stuck on the ground when the war starts."
"I can see right through you. You're trying to scare the Allies with your big, fancy bomber-- well just you wait! I can outfly you any day!" He slammed down the receiver, leaving a trembling Italy to wave his white flag at the control panel. Outside near the long cement field that served as their runway, flight line and hangar, for now, he found Britain, binoculars held to her eyes.
"So, does this mean the war is back on?"
"I don't know yet," America said, looking at his B-17. "But I need a favor..."
Back in the air, Germany was looking down at the compound, and trying her best to calm Italy down.
"I'm sure he wouldn't have hurt you that badly--but can you look around and tell me what you see outside?" Not that she was all that scared of his slow, vulnerable bomber chasing her much faster plane. He'd be an idiot to even try. But America had such a strange temper. He'd do a lot of idiotic things if he got angry enough.
"I see planes on the runways..."
"Ja, you see them every day. Are any of them moving?" Being exasperated at Italy was almost enough to calm the nagging feeling in her gut.
"Uhm... yes! Yes, one is moving! It's trying to take off. Maybe you should land."
"Bah, I'm not giving up that easily. We'll see how America feels when I push him out of the sky. Poor thing will be heartbroken..." She chuckled.
"But Germany--"
"But nothing. Go out and practice being a good soldier for a while."
"Ah... alright..." There was a pause, and then, "But you should know it's not his plane."
"...what?"
"It's not his plane! It's Britain's."
"Britain's?" She asked, blinking, but even so far up, she caught sight of the brightly painted wings and fuselage before Italy could echo the words back. Germany gulped, staring as the Hurricane rose into the air with a speed she couldn't hope to match. The smaller, more agile fighter turned, and as her Dornier rose, it gave chase. The real shock came a few minutes later, as she tried to shake America off. Bullets whizzed overhead. One cracked the glass on her cockpit by hitting against the weld between two strips of metal. That flimsy, tiny fighter was giving the battle all it could, and to her horror, for now it had the upper hand.
Just then the radio crackled.
"Well? Give up yet?"
She glared at it, as America's annoying voice filled the small glass bubble. It had never felt so fragile.
"Nein."
Another hail of bullets. She felt the impacts as they found the tips of her wings. Then one end of the tail-- the left.
"Alright. You sure? I don't wanna shoot you down and make an example of ya, but I will if I have to." America sounded so damn cocksure. "We can stop here, and land, and I don't have to show a bunch of force and scare the Axis."
She could almost hear him grinning as the silence lengthened, stretched after his reply. By the third or fourth minute of being ignored while they flew in confidence rounds, several thousand feet up, America tried again, "You there?"
"You heard me the first time. Nein. This is one air battle you don't get to win." she dropped, speed and altitude sinking. America dropped with her, but he shot forward, engines going at full power. She smirked, and brought her own propellers back up to full. Now he was going to get it-- where did he go?
Bullets peppered the top of her fuselage. She realized with a shock that he must have done just the same as her-- cut his speed and let her get ahead. Her controls pulled in her hands. Something was wrong with the tail.
"Last chance, kraut!" He swung in a wide circle, guns blazing, and lined up, dead center. They'd both dropped so far that the compound was in clear sight. She headed for the flight line; he circled, shooting at whatever the guns would reach, but the damage had been done. Germany could feel the loose metal hindering her flight, the torn apart tail and wings making it near-impossible to control the plane. But when he gave her the chance to do it, she didn't surrender. Force couldn't be met with surrender. That's not the way to fight a war. Again, the space on the radio filled with crackling, static-y silence. Bullets finally found their mark on the Hurricane, punching through the wings and body easily, but it was hard to fly and aim at the same time. The cockpit remained untouched. America laughed, as the ground rushed closer and closer, patiently following the fight down. Spiderweb cracks appeared in her own glass cockpit. She felt the air whistle through them, as landing gear slid out of its places, and Italy's voice warned that they were too close--
Too close?
Germany looked up from fighting the controls. How long had she had her eyes off the enemy? He was trying to crowd her into slowing down, but she hadn't done it. Now it was him trying to escape, but it was useless. Their wings crunched together. Glass broke. The ground jolted them out of a short, if high-speed, drop. The smoke cleared on a nearly demolished fighter, spun out from the crash to the edge of the flight line, and a battered heavy bomber, cockpit smashed, landing gear mangled into nothing.
America scrambled from his cockpit and sprinted for the enemy plane. Even to him, it seemed insane to rush into the smoke, looking for the person he'd just shot down, but it was his nature to do it, gladly, first-aid kit in hand.
After all, once you've shown force, any good ruler knows that the next step is to fix what the hero just broke.
--
Canon: Axis Powers Hetalia
Iron Fic Entry
Author's Notes/Warnings:
Contains fem versions.
Contains a switch in branch of service (from Heer (probably) to Luftwaffe).
Pro-Axis. Sorta.
--
"...is that an engine?"
Canada looked up from his lunch, peering at the ceiling as if he could make it transparent.
"It sounds like an engine. A plane engine. I thought we were under a ceasefire?" And by the same token, that made the meeting compound a no-fly zone. America nodded, standing and heading for the double doors at the end of the hall. As he squinted up at the sky, he was less than surprised to see the crosses on the flats of Germany's wings. Her Dornier 217 cruised high overhead. The plane seemed faster than what he'd seen in combat, and America could see the boxes of ammo sitting unopened on the grass, so she hadn't stocked it with any shells, but it was still a fearsome sight: a backlit, deep black silhouette, with those iron crosses standing out against the gloom, the reflected sunlight from below catching on the bay doors. The nose glinted in the light as well, the clear glass making it, at this distance, seem to disappear. He glared at the shape of it, as she widened her flight pattern and rose a little higher in the air, and turned to stalk inside.
"Italy! Give me that radio!"
Amidst pleas that America not kill him, and wails for Japan to please come and save him from the scary Allied officer, Italy was evacuated from his chair and America grabbed the receiver to the radio, pleased to see that it was already on the correct channel.
"--is everything alright down there? What was that noise?" The other pilot's voice crackled down the line, curious but not overly concerned.
"Get the hell out of the air, kraut!"
"America? Why are you on the radio? You know that room is in enemy--"
"And you're in a no-fly zone!" By God, if anyone was going to get to look cool in an aircraft, it was going to be him! "Remember the terms of the ceasefire?"
"But those terms are soon to dissolve into nothing! Tensions have been running high or a long time now." Her tone showed plenty of conviction. She even sounded a little smug. "Better to be the first in the air, showing the enemy your superiority, than stuck on the ground when the war starts."
"I can see right through you. You're trying to scare the Allies with your big, fancy bomber-- well just you wait! I can outfly you any day!" He slammed down the receiver, leaving a trembling Italy to wave his white flag at the control panel. Outside near the long cement field that served as their runway, flight line and hangar, for now, he found Britain, binoculars held to her eyes.
"So, does this mean the war is back on?"
"I don't know yet," America said, looking at his B-17. "But I need a favor..."
Back in the air, Germany was looking down at the compound, and trying her best to calm Italy down.
"I'm sure he wouldn't have hurt you that badly--but can you look around and tell me what you see outside?" Not that she was all that scared of his slow, vulnerable bomber chasing her much faster plane. He'd be an idiot to even try. But America had such a strange temper. He'd do a lot of idiotic things if he got angry enough.
"I see planes on the runways..."
"Ja, you see them every day. Are any of them moving?" Being exasperated at Italy was almost enough to calm the nagging feeling in her gut.
"Uhm... yes! Yes, one is moving! It's trying to take off. Maybe you should land."
"Bah, I'm not giving up that easily. We'll see how America feels when I push him out of the sky. Poor thing will be heartbroken..." She chuckled.
"But Germany--"
"But nothing. Go out and practice being a good soldier for a while."
"Ah... alright..." There was a pause, and then, "But you should know it's not his plane."
"...what?"
"It's not his plane! It's Britain's."
"Britain's?" She asked, blinking, but even so far up, she caught sight of the brightly painted wings and fuselage before Italy could echo the words back. Germany gulped, staring as the Hurricane rose into the air with a speed she couldn't hope to match. The smaller, more agile fighter turned, and as her Dornier rose, it gave chase. The real shock came a few minutes later, as she tried to shake America off. Bullets whizzed overhead. One cracked the glass on her cockpit by hitting against the weld between two strips of metal. That flimsy, tiny fighter was giving the battle all it could, and to her horror, for now it had the upper hand.
Just then the radio crackled.
"Well? Give up yet?"
She glared at it, as America's annoying voice filled the small glass bubble. It had never felt so fragile.
"Nein."
Another hail of bullets. She felt the impacts as they found the tips of her wings. Then one end of the tail-- the left.
"Alright. You sure? I don't wanna shoot you down and make an example of ya, but I will if I have to." America sounded so damn cocksure. "We can stop here, and land, and I don't have to show a bunch of force and scare the Axis."
She could almost hear him grinning as the silence lengthened, stretched after his reply. By the third or fourth minute of being ignored while they flew in confidence rounds, several thousand feet up, America tried again, "You there?"
"You heard me the first time. Nein. This is one air battle you don't get to win." she dropped, speed and altitude sinking. America dropped with her, but he shot forward, engines going at full power. She smirked, and brought her own propellers back up to full. Now he was going to get it-- where did he go?
Bullets peppered the top of her fuselage. She realized with a shock that he must have done just the same as her-- cut his speed and let her get ahead. Her controls pulled in her hands. Something was wrong with the tail.
"Last chance, kraut!" He swung in a wide circle, guns blazing, and lined up, dead center. They'd both dropped so far that the compound was in clear sight. She headed for the flight line; he circled, shooting at whatever the guns would reach, but the damage had been done. Germany could feel the loose metal hindering her flight, the torn apart tail and wings making it near-impossible to control the plane. But when he gave her the chance to do it, she didn't surrender. Force couldn't be met with surrender. That's not the way to fight a war. Again, the space on the radio filled with crackling, static-y silence. Bullets finally found their mark on the Hurricane, punching through the wings and body easily, but it was hard to fly and aim at the same time. The cockpit remained untouched. America laughed, as the ground rushed closer and closer, patiently following the fight down. Spiderweb cracks appeared in her own glass cockpit. She felt the air whistle through them, as landing gear slid out of its places, and Italy's voice warned that they were too close--
Too close?
Germany looked up from fighting the controls. How long had she had her eyes off the enemy? He was trying to crowd her into slowing down, but she hadn't done it. Now it was him trying to escape, but it was useless. Their wings crunched together. Glass broke. The ground jolted them out of a short, if high-speed, drop. The smoke cleared on a nearly demolished fighter, spun out from the crash to the edge of the flight line, and a battered heavy bomber, cockpit smashed, landing gear mangled into nothing.
America scrambled from his cockpit and sprinted for the enemy plane. Even to him, it seemed insane to rush into the smoke, looking for the person he'd just shot down, but it was his nature to do it, gladly, first-aid kit in hand.
After all, once you've shown force, any good ruler knows that the next step is to fix what the hero just broke.
--
