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Description
ACT 0=FLIGHT
Aerial Colony 12, Upper Flight Deck, Runway 7C
March 29, 2305; 1200 Hours

“The Dustbunny’s gonna leave!” The words sweeping Aerial Colony 12. They wouldn’t mean anything to an outsider, only to those living onboard, those who’d seen the infamous mess of plane known formally as the Black Baron.
It was a replica of an ancient warplane known as a Fokker Dr.I, the name was said to be a play on the name of a legendary combat pilot, one who had slain many of his foes. Unlike the original plane, cherry red with Iron Crosses on the wings, body, and tail; the Black Baron was jet black with the Union Jack, a flag of a faraway land. The craft’s unfortunate nickname had come from the decade or so worth of dust coating it, hanging into the machinery and off the wings, giving it an appearance more like that of a creature that lived under the bed’s of small children.
Regardless of its former appearance, it had been wiped down and wheeled out to Runway 7C. And all the mechanics and technicians followed…

“Damned fools, of course the Baron can still fly. Can’t you boy?” To punctuate this the pilot slapped the side of the plane. The idling motor sputtered and coughed, causing the onlookers to jump backwards. Embarrassed, the pilot reached down and started to put on his flight cap, then paused. The cap had been worked on; slits lined with metal had been added along the front. He looked at these puzzled, until he saw the device on the floor; he groaned, he had always hated the damn things. On the floor of the seat lay an oxygen mask with an elastic band on the back and clips lining the edges. He called down to a mechanic, “Why’d you put this in!?”
A technician came up, looking nervous. “Well sir… You’re getting older, and it’s safer this way-”
“Older!? I’m only 46! If I can’t stand the wind in my face, then I shouldn’t be flying in the first place!”
“Ralph!” The pilot turned to his right, jogging toward the plane was a middle-aged man in a business suit, the only thing that distinguished him from the spectators was the large scar crossing his face and sealing his eyelids. He walked the last feet then leaned on the wings. “Whew, bit of a ways to get here from the control tower.” He looked up at Ralph, “Couldn’t miss the big moment.”
Ralph grimaced, “Great Jonathon, just go join the peanut gallery. Or make yourself useful and convince this tech that I don’t need an oxygen mask.”
Jonathon shook his head, “Orders from the tower, just put it on.”
“Traitor.” Ralph slid the mask on and fixed the band into place. He then came to the task of putting on his cap, he stared at the slits; did they have a purpose?
“Let me help you with that, sir.” The tech slid the hat onto Ralph’s head, fitting the mask’s clips into the hat’s slots. “Right, you’re set.”
“Wait, my goggles.” Ralph’s voice came out oddly distorted.
“Sir, the mask’s visor will suffice.”
“Hell it will.” Ralph then reversed the process of getting his headgear on. The audience around him was getting bored, he’d have to hurry. He held up the mask and looked for a release for the visor. Finding none, he simply punched it out. Now he pulls out his goggles from a pocket in his jumpsuit, polishes them, puts them on, and begins to put the modified mask and hat back on.
The crowd was now chatting and beginning to walk away, Jonathon included. Ralph slapped the side of the plane again, the loud protest of the engine getting their attention back. Jonathon walked back up, “May I do the honors?” Receiving a nod in reply, he walked to the front of the plane and assumed a martial arts pose.
The tech from before approached nervously, “Sir… What are you do-”
Jonathon kicked the propeller from the side with as much force as he could muster. The motor kicked in, spinning the propeller so fast it became a blur. He gave Ralph a thumbs-up and walked clear of the runway.
The exterior speakers turned on with the standard warning, “All personnel clear Runway-7C! I repeat, all personnel clear Runway-7C!”
Ralph pushed an assortment of buttons and the Baron began to lurch down the runway. A few yards down the way the movement became smoother and faster until he was barreling down the runway toward the edge. Only a few feet from the edge he pulled back on the throttle, feeling the almost forgotten rush of adrenaline. Looking back he could see the last of the dust being torn clear of the Black Baron and the clouds far below. He settled into his old posture, time to see if he could still do his old tricks.
ACT 0=END

Description
ACT 0=FLIGHT
Aerial Colony 12, Upper Flight Deck, Runway 7C
March 29, 2305; 1200 Hours

“The Dustbunny’s gonna leave!” The words sweeping Aerial Colony 12. They wouldn’t mean anything to an outsider, only to those living onboard, those who’d seen the infamous mess of plane known formally as the Black Baron.
It was a replica of an ancient warplane known as a Fokker Dr.I, the name was said to be a play on the name of a legendary combat pilot, one who had slain many of his foes. Unlike the original plane, cherry red with Iron Crosses on the wings, body, and tail; the Black Baron was jet black with the Union Jack, a flag of a faraway land. The craft’s unfortunate nickname had come from the decade or so worth of dust coating it, hanging into the machinery and off the wings, giving it an appearance more like that of a creature that lived under the bed’s of small children.
Regardless of its former appearance, it had been wiped down and wheeled out to Runway 7C. And all the mechanics and technicians followed…

“Damned fools, of course the Baron can still fly. Can’t you boy?” To punctuate this the pilot slapped the side of the plane. The idling motor sputtered and coughed, causing the onlookers to jump backwards. Embarrassed, the pilot reached down and started to put on his flight cap, then paused. The cap had been worked on; slits lined with metal had been added along the front. He looked at these puzzled, until he saw the device on the floor; he groaned, he had always hated the damn things. On the floor of the seat lay an oxygen mask with an elastic band on the back and clips lining the edges. He called down to a mechanic, “Why’d you put this in!?”
A technician came up, looking nervous. “Well sir… You’re getting older, and it’s safer this way-”
“Older!? I’m only 46! If I can’t stand the wind in my face, then I shouldn’t be flying in the first place!”
“Ralph!” The pilot turned to his right, jogging toward the plane was a middle-aged man in a business suit, the only thing that distinguished him from the spectators was the large scar crossing his face and sealing his eyelids. He walked the last feet then leaned on the wings. “Whew, bit of a ways to get here from the control tower.” He looked up at Ralph, “Couldn’t miss the big moment.”
Ralph grimaced, “Great Jonathon, just go join the peanut gallery. Or make yourself useful and convince this tech that I don’t need an oxygen mask.”
Jonathon shook his head, “Orders from the tower, just put it on.”
“Traitor.” Ralph slid the mask on and fixed the band into place. He then came to the task of putting on his cap, he stared at the slits; did they have a purpose?
“Let me help you with that, sir.” The tech slid the hat onto Ralph’s head, fitting the mask’s clips into the hat’s slots. “Right, you’re set.”
“Wait, my goggles.” Ralph’s voice came out oddly distorted.
“Sir, the mask’s visor will suffice.”
“Hell it will.” Ralph then reversed the process of getting his headgear on. The audience around him was getting bored, he’d have to hurry. He held up the mask and looked for a release for the visor. Finding none, he simply punched it out. Now he pulls out his goggles from a pocket in his jumpsuit, polishes them, puts them on, and begins to put the modified mask and hat back on.
The crowd was now chatting and beginning to walk away, Jonathon included. Ralph slapped the side of the plane again, the loud protest of the engine getting their attention back. Jonathon walked back up, “May I do the honors?” Receiving a nod in reply, he walked to the front of the plane and assumed a martial arts pose.
The tech from before approached nervously, “Sir… What are you do-”
Jonathon kicked the propeller from the side with as much force as he could muster. The motor kicked in, spinning the propeller so fast it became a blur. He gave Ralph a thumbs-up and walked clear of the runway.
The exterior speakers turned on with the standard warning, “All personnel clear Runway-7C! I repeat, all personnel clear Runway-7C!”
Ralph pushed an assortment of buttons and the Baron began to lurch down the runway. A few yards down the way the movement became smoother and faster until he was barreling down the runway toward the edge. Only a few feet from the edge he pulled back on the throttle, feeling the almost forgotten rush of adrenaline. Looking back he could see the last of the dust being torn clear of the Black Baron and the clouds far below. He settled into his old posture, time to see if he could still do his old tricks.
ACT 0=END