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Sweat.
Thirst.
Paranoia.
Her stomach threatened to leave as Maya put her airframe through the ringer, her ass feeling every groan of the composite skin, every shriek of metal as she turned and twisted her stick skywards towards the azure, and towards the goal; one blip of grey against the sky up high.
Full throttle, and she was pushed into her seat by the afterburning roar of the Pratt & Whitney powerplants, screaming murder as she roared towards the jet and the heavens, and the jet got closer and closer and closer.
Four hundred meters remaining, she reminded herself, just four hundred to go, and you win. You have plenty in the tank.
She screamed past the jet on its larboard not 50 metres away, and she turned her head towards the goalpost – a MiG-29 against her own F-15, the splendid serpentine green splayed on its aft rudder, in mock contrast to her own blues.
Time seemed to slow down as she went wide on the stick to the left, spotting the bird opposite hers making a flat turn to the left, and Maya knew she had a golden opportunity.
Sweat.
Thirst.
Paranoia.
Her mind went hazy as she let go the throttle, rolled belly up, and yanked landwards at angels 8 high, jockeying at 600 miles an hour, cutting through the MiG’s circle and forming an eight with both the MiG’s and F-15’s contrails. Maya, through the inky fog, could make out the jet at her 11 o’ clock, diving down. She followed, and the F-15 went belly up and wrench as she turned a 180 degrees towards it, creaking and banging all the while, the airframe taking 10 G’s of force.
“Over-G, Over-G beep, beep.” the F-15’s Bitching Betty whispered in Maya’s ear.
DON’T TELL ME WHAT I DON’T KNOW, BETTY!
The G-suit, a pantyhose of airbags, inflated with air and constricted her legs painfully as she cut the MiG’s circle in half gratefully reserving blood for Maya's brain, as she turned onwards and onwards and onwards, tighter, tighter, tighter, faster, faster, get them before they get you. The MiG dived towards the ground for speed, and Maya followed at 6 angels high.
Maya could barely see or think, the G force excessive even for an Umamusume. She thumbed the weapon select on her stick, picking an AIM-9 Sidewinder, a short-range heatseeking missile quick as a fox, the seeker growling a ‘waaaaaa’ in her ear. But not the high whine of ready to fire-
Cursing, she turned tighter into the circle as the two tangoed and twisted fatal spiral into the ground, Maya straining to make the jet’s nose ahead, watching as the altimeter ticked down on her HUD and panel. 5,500 feet. 4,000 feet. 3,000 feet. They had made 2 full circles by now, and the jet seemed so distant.
Sweat.
Thirst.
Paranoia.
“Over-G, Over-G beep, beep.” the F-15’s Bitching Betty whispered in Maya’s ear.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, BETTY!
She could start making out the trees on the desert floor. If it was a game of chicken, then she’d not let up. It was right there for the taking! The jet appeared right on the scope of the cone – where the radar would get a lock, and the missile would fly. The MiG couldn’t be more than 2,000 feet away from her.
1,000 feet. The ground was worryingly detailed now, the render of little bushes large against the canopy.
The MiG rolled towards the ground, screaming upwards much like she did, and she let go of the bandit, following above and turning to get her nose on target. She could see it painted against the desert sand sickeningly close towards the ground almost perpendicular to her, a pale orange flame coming from its afterburner like her own tail at the end of a race.
It reached upwards, but it never got close. It slammed into the ground, dust flying everywhere in a fireball that went on forever, a black cloud of death and a rain of MiG pieces.
She'd done it. She'd placed first.
Sweat.
Thirst.
Euphoria.
“So, Maya, how was the VR umalator? Did you have fun?”
“It was really good! But, if I had to complain…”
“What is it?”
“There wasn’t an F-14 available.”
"Like Tom Cruise?"
"Like Tom Cruise."