An Aces Tale
Looking out from his virtual cockpit he realised that he was truly master of all he surveyed.
Below the gang bangers and suicides dweebs threw them selves at an enemy field to continue their incessant land grab up until the next reset. He viewed them with contempt.
Things were not as they used to be. He remembered those times. He had flown with true aces then. With masters of the art, folk who truly understood the true objective of the air combat sim , together they had defined the genre..
Times had changed, many had passed on, some had become cods them selves. Few visited the arena now. They exchanged acknowledgements; some times flew together, but rarely.
The hordes now populated the arenas. Some had come from the other places where he had once frequented long ago. Few of them understood the heritage of the “then” that should define the “now”.
None could match his skill, none could demand his respect, pretenders were sought out, defeated, and shown for the inadequates they truly were.
He had his followers now of course. How could he not have? But he tired of such sycophants who were always tempted back to the horde and the land grab when offered the prospect of perks and points.
He had been watching a dot, which was clearly enemy, manoeuvre at what appeared to be co alt. It now resolved its self to be so and he was gratified to note that the plane was the same as his.
Another pretender perhaps. He warned his fellow country men away from the ensuing combat, reminding them of the fate of kill stealers who interfered with his combats.
He manoeuvred for the merge, speed, altitude and plane type all seemed the same. This fellow was either a fool or ignorant of who his opponent was.
His combatant mirrored the merge well and after a few manoeuvres he decided that here at least would be some challenge to break the boredom, before the pretender made some typical mistake or another.
But as seconds turned to minutes and minutes added the fight grew harder and harder. Neither gaining the advantage, each coming close to the shot, each avoiding the others fatal strike.
Who was this pretender? Never had he been opposed by such skill, could it be a master of old returned?
The combat slowed, neither could disengage, both had pinged the other. His palms began to sweat, his motions of rudder, throttle, elevator and aileron became more frantic, fuel was low, ammo was depleted. Still the combat raged……lower and lower.
On his last few rounds, with the aircraft stalling, the fuel gave up and his nose swung toward a final, last chance shot as his opponents craft also faltered in mid manoeuvre…….
Suddenly behind him he heard a heavy drone and saw a flash of dull grey as multiple tracers penetrated his opponent who exploded in a ball of fire and parts………… the La7 zoomed away chortling his victory cry.
System reported an “Assist”…………. he was furious. A gangbanging, land grabbing dweeb had stolen his kill in the most despicable manner. He harangued the La7 pilot over the radio and text channels. How could this happen?……the pretender should have been despatched by him not some kill stealing fool ……..particularly as he was now forced to execute a ditch with nothing more than an assist to show for his efforts.
Which reminded him……. Who was the pretender? He scrolled up the text bar to find after the system report the assist giving the name of……….
himself! it was his own name! system had reported an assist upon himself?
Still staring incredulously at the screen his plane rolled over and crashed into the terrain………….
Far away in another place, the cods looked to each other and nodded in agreement
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“A kill had been recorded”
