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The deafening cry of the bell roused the men from their bunks. They hurried to don their stylish leather boots and fine, grey pea coats, emblazoned with the white, yellow, black tri-colour of the brand new No.4 Squadron.

Emyr's heart skipped a beat at the call to action. He was fresh out of flight training, having arrived a week before to a stark reception. His fellow airmen treated him with a cold shoulder and accusatory glances. After all, why wouldn't they?

The fox, Emyr, was somewhat of a scoundrel, and not the dashing heartthrob kind. The Flying Corps had been the last place he expected to wind-up, elbow-deep in debt and with a warrant for his arrest under a different name. How his squadmates could have known was beyond him. Perhaps he just had a handsome face.

Emyr mounted his beret and wrapped a scarf around his neck, both a deep blue in colour, and dashed eagerly out of the barracks, passing a faded poster that proclaimed: "Serve in the Royal Air Corp! Take the fight to the Separatists!" The fox squeezed past his squadmates with minimal hushed remarks, ushered at his expense.

The seventeen strong squadron made their way across the muddy field, the sun on their necks, and filtered into the mess. Emyr was the first to burst through the doors, eagerly approaching the waiting Ground Marshall, dressed in his usual navy-blue uniform with a winged peaked cap on his head.

The Ground Marshall waited next to a blackboard, around which the whole squadron gathered. Emyr was at the forefront, a beaming smile on his sleek vulpine muzzle.

• 09:00 - Line Patrol over Cleddyfhir Vale

Gordon Elis, No.1

Tommy Carwyn, No.2

Owain Rhodri, No.3

Emyr Gwter, No.4

The fox was ecstatic, the smile only growing. Finally, it would be his turn to go up and do something. A line patrol, sure, but it was better than more ground work.

Everybody gradually filtered through, each who didn't see their name hanging their heads in shame, and leaving the canteen to find a nice spot from which to watch their squadmates lift-off.

After an hour of briefing on their mission, the lucky four rushed out onto the field, their planes having been rolled out while they were otherwise occupied.

Emyr was assigned to No.4, the last aircraft in the lineup. She was D.336, a Crown Aerobatics Type-1, or "Arrow" as they had come to be known. She was a simple bi-plane design with short, broad wings. Her body was little more than a thin canvas nailed to a flimsy wooden frame, painted a stark blue with two white stripes struck across the fuselage. Under the surface was an eighty horsepower engine, almost factory-new.

As the fox approached his steed, he noticed a personal touch from his squadmates. Smeared in red across the blue and white fuselage was the withering phrase: "Lady Killer."

Emyr liked it.

He admired his detractor's efforts for a moment, then climbed onto the wing of his aircraft. Starting these things was always an ordeal, one had to stretch across the nose of the aircraft, pressing their foot on the ignition while they wound the prop by-paw to get the oil flowing.

To his right, the Flight Lead's engine roared to life, followed by No.2, then No.3, who shot an impatient look at Emyr.

Depressing the ignition, the fox heaved the propeller with one last heft, the whole aircraft shaking beneath him. Smoke poured from the exhausts as the engine rumbled to life. She was like a dragon, roused from a deep sleep by the cry of artillery guns.

Her time had come to wreak havoc on some dissident separatists.

A loud bang rang out across the field, a green flare rising into the sky. It was time to go. Emyr slid back down the nose of his aircraft, falling back into his seat. He glanced right, hearing one of the engines roar, seeing the Flight Lead begin to roll along the field.

No.2 began to roll shortly after, and Emyr took the moment to glance at his control surfaces. He wiggled the ailerons and the elevators with ease, only the rudder felt stiff, but it was nothing he couldn't overcome.

His checks done, he watched No.3 roll down the field as the Flight Lead finally took to the air ahead of them. A moment later, he opened-up the throttle. The engine snorted, grumbling louder as the prop spooled up to full tilt. He grabbed the stick just as Lady Killer began to roll along the grass.

Faster and faster she went, the unpaved field proving to be a rough ride. Each divot and mole hill shook the aircraft, the wooden frame flexing with each jolt. It felt as though the officers had been digging holes in the field, turning the aerodrome into a golf club for their pleasure.

Emyr pushed the nose forward, lifting the skid off the grass so the aircraft rolled on her two thin wheels. She was passing forty miles per hour, nearly enough to push off.

Forty-five, forty-seven, forty-nine...

Emyr pulled gradually back on the stick, allowing Lady Killer to rise with ease. The fox's stomach turned over as he felt the ground vanish beneath his aircraft, now suspended by the wind under his wings. She did not soar like a falcon, no, these magnificent machines were more akin to leaves on the wind, at the mercy of one gust too strong.

She was pulling left, the stiff rudder working against Emyr. He depressed the right pedal as far as it would go, but it barely made a difference. Cursing, he reached for the throttle, squeezing everything he could get out of his little engine.

As the Lady Killer broke sixty miles-per-hour she began to straighten-out, the stiff rudder seeming to ease into line. Emyr let off on the throttle, he didn't want to wear-out her fragile inner-workings before he'd even been shot at. That would be simply embarrassing.

He closed the distance with No.3 as they continued to rise, passing the hundred foot mark without further problems. Emyr glanced over his shoulder to take in the view.

It was a sea of emerald green fields interrupted by rows of ancient oak and willow, and crisscrossed by a network of shining rivers and bustling canals. Patches of thatch and red-tiled rooftops were scattered far and wide, little rural communities that have stood for as long as anyone cared to remember. All of it stretched from the brackish sea at Emyr's rear to the craggy valleys that lay ahead.

They pressed on, rising ever higher, passing five-hundred feet as they passed over the foot of the valley. This was sepretist country, a rugged land full of creatures who believed themselves to be descendents of a long-gone culture. Something to do with being displaced by invaders who they would annihilate, Emyr never had much cared. He had half a mind to throw his lot in with the separatists to get away from his misdeeds.

Emyr reclined in his seat, looking up at the clouds. He could almost reach out and-

A plethora of sharp cracks ripped through the air. A deadly hail rained out of the clouds, followed by a khaki blur that roared through the center of their formation.

Startled, Emyr reached for the gun mounted on his nose. He grabbed the large steel handle and pulled it towards himself, the machine gun making a satisfying mechanical kerchunk as it was cocked.

Ahead, the Flight Lead's aircraft swayed right, then left, then back again, except it didn't right itself. No.1's aircraft keeled-over to the left and dropped out of the sky, Emyr catching a glimpse of the enormous holes ripped out of its wings and the streak of blood down its fuselage.

Flight Lead had been shot dead, and the remaining three knew the khaki daredevil would be after them next, emboldened by his hawk-like efficiency.

The flight broke formation, No.3 rolling to the left while Emyr followed No.2 to the right. He rolled his aircraft ninety degrees, closing his throttle and pushing the nose down, letting gravity do the rest.

The fox scanned the skies around him, catching the khaki aircraft just as it pulled out of its dive and disappeared behind Emyr's own wing. It was a small thing with much narrower wings than the Arrow, swept slightly and curved at the edges, giving it a wicked look. It had to be a Black Stoat, a staple of Sepretist air power, and a formidable turn fighter. The Stoat could out-race, out-turn, and out-gun the Arrow by a mile, but she certainly wasn't durable. A good pilot could cut her wings loose with a few well-placed bullets.

Emyr eased out of the dive, raising the nose so that his sights led the khaki aircraft. He hoped to do just that, and end this as quickly as it had begun. He sucked in his breath, rising and rising, passing one-hundred miles. He could feel his blood rushing to his feet as the frame of the aircraft creaked under the strain.

He depressed the trigger, the machine gun mounted on his nose shuddering to life and unleashing a storm of crack crack crack. Faint streaks whizzed through the air towards the khaki plane.

The first volley sailed past the khaki plane's nose, missing by a hair. Emyr grit his teeth, rapidly approaching the enemy even as he tried to pull up, hard.

The fox unleashed another hail of machine gun rounds, and welcomed the sound of a series of dull thuds. A few rounds met their mark, tearing holes in the khaki canvas wings.

It wasn't enough, and the enemy pulled up, up, and then over into a dangerously tight loop. Emyr tried to follow, but his broad wings kept him from flipping back over. He wrestled with the stick, suspended hundreds of feet in the air by his harness, and eventually managed to flip the aircraft upright.

Another thrum of gunfire forced Emyr to duck, hiding within his hapless fortress of paper. A spine-chilling sound followed, the crunch of wood as a single, lucky bullet met its mark.

Coming out of hiding, Emyr checked each wing. His left was okay, but as he inspected his right, he noticed that one of the outer struts had been severed in a shower of splinters. He cursed, if he wasn't sluggish enough already, now he couldn't pull anything stupid without ripping his wings off.

Another round of machine gun fire forced him to duck again. If he didn't do something, there wouldn't be a plane left to rip apart.

Thinking fast, he closed the throttle and pushed his nose down, entering a steep dive that caused his stomach turn-over. The damaged wing flexed gently as the air wrapped around it, threatening to tear it loose. Emyr checked his gauges, passing a-hundred n' ten on the speedometer.

Gently now, gently, any sudden moves and he'd be done for. His aircraft creaked and groaned around him as it raced downwards, the eastern slope of the valley approaching rapidly. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was still being tailed.

The khaki plane lined-up another shot, when suddenly, the canvas on his wings seemed to explode, rippling as it was torn to shreds by a welcome sight. Emyr watched as No.2 raced between him and the khaki Stoat.

His controls and wings shredded, the khaki aircraft raced to the ground like a sack of potatoes, tossed from an airship. Emyr pulled out of his dive, turning back on himself in a gentle arc and watching as his former enemy crashed nose-first into a pasture some fifty feet below, startling a flock of unlucky sheep. He watched as the aircraft's fuselage bent, its wooden frame cracking and splintering, the wreckage resembling an accordion rather than a warplane. He did not see the pilot either.

Never mind the pilot, he had caused enough trouble for the fox. Emyr pulled his nose gently above the horizon, hoping to rejoin formation and get this patrol over and done with.

Emyr leaned his head back to check on his squadmates, high above, and cursed. Two more khaki planes had swooped out of the clouds and began a spiraling dogfight with No.3, one which wound up and around, quickly dropping towards the valley, and the eagerly waiting fox and his wingmate.

One of the other khaki planes broke from the fight, diving down ahead of Emyr and No.2, dashing headlong towards them. Emyr's wingmate took the initiative, the fox saw him glance over his shoulder and wave-off his damaged squadmate, before himself opening-up the throttle and speeding towards the enemy, commencing a deadly game of chicken.

Emyr was taken back for a moment, confused not only by the foolishness of No.2's actions, but the fact he was putting his life on the line for a deceitful fox. It was only last night that No.2, Carwyn, had threatened to drive Emyr into the ground if the fox tried anything funny.

Emyr couldn't let him go in alone, after all, he'd steal the fox's thunder if he did that. And so Emyr tailed him, opening his throttle and matching his speed, charging towards the khaki aircraft.

Not a moment later and the sky was full of whizzing bullets. All three aircraft opened-up on their machine guns, unleashing an unending wave at each other. Emyr leaned forward, ducking his head slightly as bullets sailed between his wings with a hairraising whoosh!

Thankfully the bullets seemed to focus-in on his wingmate, while Emyr fired blindly in retaliation, keeping his head down until-

Crunch~!

The sound of shattering wooden beams, rending metal, and tearing canvas shook the fox. He lifted his head just in time to witness the hefty fuselage of the khaki plane crashing through No.2's right wing. It was clear that they had turned too late, and by sheer luck No.2 had come out much worse.

Emyr pulled a hard left, only able to watch as his wingmate spiralled out of control, their remaining wings tearing free and fluttering away just before he disappeared into a cider orchard. It seemed a rather dainty impact, by comparison, and he hoped No.2 made it out okay. Although, perhaps a broken nose might serve him right for his previous threats.

As the fox circled around, falling further towards the ground, he noticed something odd. The rattle of machine gun fire had ceased.

He levelled his plane, raising his nose so that his ironsights narrowed on the crippled khaki plane. His struts were cracked all over, creaking dangerously, while his engine seemed to wheeze and sputter, frequently cutting out as he made a beeline north.

Yet Emyr could not see the pilot. Had he died? He couldn't be slumped forward, out of sight, his aircraft wasn't diving. Perhaps he had been knocked out of his plane by the debris and sudden impact.

There was only one way to find out.

Emyr gradually closed the distance, holding his breath as he let the khaki aircraft slip from his ironsights, keeping to his left. He tentatively pulled along their broadside, an easy enough maneuver given their engine sounded as though it were wheezing its last petroleum-scented breaths.

He lined-up, matched speed, and then finally let himself breathe. He hadn't been shot at yet, he might be in luck. The fox leaned over to his right, observing the enemy aircraft.

At first it appeared his assumptions were correct. A red streak stained the side of the aircraft's fuselage, but when he inspected the inside of the cockpit, he noticed a white scarf still fluttering in the wind.

The scarf stopped his heart, and he felt as though the whole world went into slow motion. He reached for the throttle, but not before the enemy pilot popped-out of his cockpit wielding a revolver of some kind.

No, not a revolver, but a flare gun!

There was a dull pop! Followed by a terrific heat that singed the fur on Emyr's cheek, growing hotter until it burned worse than anything the fox had known. It felt as though somebody had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and forced his head into a lit fireplace.

Emyr let go of the controls, his plane banking sharply to the right and smashing into his foe, shattering both of their wings in an explosion of vicious splinters. The khaki plane's engine died immediately, the rest dropping out of the sky like battered, old brick.

Emyr's plane limped on, his upper right wing shearing off, while the lower one bent dangerously, yet refused to snap. The fox was too busy clawing at his face to notice, and his plane began to dive towards a road lined with rugged, old ash trees.

By the time he ripped the flare from his cheek and tossed it overboard, it was too late. The blue-painted Arrow planted itself firmly into an ash tree. Branches clawed at the aircraft, tearing canvas from frame and scraping against metal components with a terrible screech. All the while whipping at the exposed fox cradled within.

The impact with the trunk of the ash sent Emyr sailing head-first into his instruments, knocking him out in an instant, and immersing him in a welcome silence.

A pressure on his shoulder brought Emyr back to his senses, or so, that's what he thought. He still couldn't see, but he swore his eyes were open. Was he dead and floating in purgatory?

He cursed himself, with the things he'd done, there's no doubt he'd be burning in hell. Purgatory was too good for him.

The pressure moved from his shoulder to his cheek, an immense pain seized his body, causing him to recoil. The pressure, however, persisted. It worked its way up his cheek, and then over his eyes.

Whomever it was, they were taking the time to wipe Emyr's eyes, and it was working. A faint light in the darkness grew rapidly, until his vision was washed with a gentle green light. Sunlight, streaming through the canopy of the ash tree. And standing to his left, something in a dark blue long coat with silver buttons, and a tall, red cap of some kind.

"That were a nasty fall you 'ad, fox bach" Commented the bassy voice, which evoked a masked feeling of authority.

The shapeless blue blur grew increasingly clear as Emyr lay hunched-over the nose of his plane. Eventually, it took the form of a black and white Collie, dressed in the uniform of a rural police officer with a stylish royal-blue coat, and red breton cap.

Emyr sat there, unmoving and staring at his rescuer. The collie only sighed, reaching into his coat and producing a half-empty metal canteen.

"Go on, I keeps this spare. You never know when some scabby fox is going to fall out of the sky, in need of a stiff drink." He smiled, offering the drink to the weary, crippled pilot.

"Thanks..." The fox rasped, snatching the drink and forcing it between his lips. He tipped his head back and began to chug the bitter contents. Sweet alcohol, the first choice of surgeons everywhere for post-amputation pain relief.

"We'll, err... find a way to get you down in a moment, get you back to town and on a train South." He raised an eyebrow, leaning back on a tree branch, seeming not to care that he was placed on a precarious wooden ladder that sounded as though it might just disintegrate under his feet.

Emyr rinsed-off the canteen, leaning his head back and letting out a crude belch. He basked for a moment in the sensations, feeling the alcohol flow straight into his veins.

"If you don't mind my saying, ye don't half look familiar, fox bach." The collie said, eliciting a glare from Emyr. The fox knew that look, the officer had an eyebrow raised, appraising him.

Of course, it was just his luck to be saved from bleeding to death by a competent police officer. Emyr sucked in his breath, then shook his head.

"Must be a coincidence, today was my first flight out over this valley." Emyr explained, offering the canteen back to the police officer without looking him in the eye. Then, a tight grip on his wrist caught the fox by surprise.

"You sure you don't know one Steffan Jones." The collie forced his head close to Emyr, his grip refusing to allow the fox to retreat.

Emyr grit his teeth, wondering how to respond, but... It would be a fruitless attempt. The officer had made-up his mind, and when rural police officers make-up their minds, there's nobody else there to shout some sense into their ear.

"I don't know why I bother trying to hide..." Emyr growled, raising his free paw in a gesture of surrender. He turned slowly to face forward, making sure the officer could see the damage the flare had done. "I have such a handsome, recognisable face."