#i be wanting to infodump about the aircraft i made for my campaign

[acrisius-ii]

The Skeeter is a fighter plane devised by the most devilish minds of the KSM designed to 1. strike fear into the hearts of enemies, 2. make it seem like they were winning the war against the fey (at least to their citizens) and 3. strap as many heavy weapons as they could to as small of a package as possible for 4. the least amount of money.

the Skeeter is propelled solely by the ramjet-blackblood engine they strapped directly behind the cockpit. it is capable of producing a sonar wave powerful enough to evaporate small birds-- it does this to knock sonically sensitive entities off its trail (servants of the Queen of Butterflies, for example) and also as a last ditch effort in case the thing crashes and is beset by the wild hunt, which, make no mistake, it will. the pilots of the Skeeter are, unlike their brethren pilots of the Stork, heavily modified. Their bloodstream has been replaced with syrup-like blackblood to resist blackouts from immense g-forces. nearly all of them are deaf-- they replace their burst paper eardrums at every station possible.

it is armed with two MGs mounted behind the cockpit on either wing, to ensure that the pilot can reach out and unjam the bullet belts if they get caught in something. underneath each wing is a hardpoint, on which is typically mounted a rocket pod, each firing up to 21 unguided missiles. On the belly of the skeeter is a bay that holds five incendiary bombs. Every armament is poised to explode should the vessel begin its unceremonious hurtle to the ground to ensure that every pilot, even in death, is a scourge unto the world.

The skeeter is, like its namesake, not deployed in groups or formations, but in clouds. This is partly because of the thick line of smog that erupts from it's tail end when it flies, and partly because of the sheer volume of skeeter families. Where you see one, you will soon see five, and where you see five, ten are to follow. If you have seen ten, your world is to be soon drowned in high yield explosives and salted earth

the Augers (that is, those repairers and engineers who speak Machine Tongue) say that this machine is angry. it seethes with hate and screams its displeasure every day it is activated. angry at its designated targets, at its creators, its pilots, its repairers, designers, and builders. It is a temperamental machine-- less of a diva and more of a wild horse. do not treat it gently: this weapon must be beat into submission, or it will explode in the hangar and take with it everyone it so hates. the pilots are adrenaline junkies-- they love the chance. they prod it and push at it while in flight. bony fingers slam against the dashboard, cigarette butts are tossed everywhere, a combat boot slams into the pedals. They say "C'MON YOU LEAKING PIECE OF SHIT, DO YOUR JOB, HIT THE FUCKEN BASTARDS!"

they are, at least a little voluntarily, insane. if you turn it too sharply, it rips itself apart. run the guns too hot, the fuel lines ignite and detonate. put too much gas into the ramjet, and the entire thing goes up in flames. the skeeter, like its namesake, is made from eyelashes and gossamer. the pilots laugh their black-spit laugh, cough their engine-starting cough, and run the fragile craft like a stubborn horse. they say the pain they inflict on their steed makes it run faster, better, more filled with murderous rage.

when a Skeeter is swatted, it screams in a final wail of anguish. depending on where it was hit, its armaments detonate in a second-sun of a supernova, illuminating the sea of fog for seconds on end. any armamaents that survived the primary explosion are sent careening far away, where they will explode again. If the craft remains unexploded, the pilot screams with gleeful joy and cranks the fuel injection to maximum, aiming the nose at the largest target. they wait until the last possible instant to open the lid and jump out-- sometimes they make it, mostly they do not. on detonation, the nosecone, propelled by high explosive filler and fourteen millimeter rounds, pierces its target clean through as a molten spearhead. If the pilot goes down, so too do their enemies.

Each and every skeeter is a machine of death-- to its targets, its manufacturers, its pilots. It is just as ready to kill its rider as it is its enemies.