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12 days ago
Current I got a gun, no girls.
8 mos ago
You're not proving me wrong. Alvin and the Chipmunks still == Nightcore Classic Rock
8 mos ago
Alvin and the Chipmunks is just Nightcore Classic Rock
12 mos ago
The one video of the crying baby in autotune.
1 yr ago
Pamphlets on how to not be lazy but they're really far away from the chairs in the waiting room


I'm the Goblin Slayer, I'm here to play roles. That's about it. If you want more, ask for more.

I don't bite.

Discord: Verticus#0823 Steam: Verticus Blizzard: Verticus#11125

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Lancer was going up against the man who knew how to make dogfighting, no, flying in general seem like a dance, or part of a song, or a routine. They were flowing with one another as if a waltz was playing and they were emulating the beat, dancing around each other. It was a clash of their differences, while Winkoop was an ace emulating the dance of the Waltz, it felt as if Lancer was dancing to the beat of Jazz. The clash continued until they reached the climax of the cacophonous concert-- The climb and chase. As soon as the Devil began to rise, Lancer followed behind, up until he flipped around and began to play chicken with his F14D. It was a life or death situation, Captain Rose jammed his joystick to the far right, stepping on the respective pedal to begin a spin as soon as the smoke trails of the missiles came into sight.

It was not the smartest maneuver to perform in a panic, two missiles skirted past his craft, but two missiles hit a mark, and did their damage. One missile fragmented right into his left wing, technically scalping it and leaving Lancer with half an aileron on the left side. The other, slammed against the tail, taking a one of the upright rudders with it. The plane was in no condition to go for another target. It was taking out Winkoop or crashing and burning at this point.

All Lancer could manager was to get his cockpit antiparallel with Winkoop's in order to aim the 40mm gun right at the cockpit of the man. He wanted to have fun and take this man out on the ground, but there would be no better end than in the sky, it seems. There was a contingency in the case he missed.

Lancer: "I'll take care of her for you. Rest easy old man. You were backed into a corner to fight and you know it."

Lancer began spraying 20mm bursts at the cockpit belonging to Winkoop, if he didn't take him out, he'd take out his electronics making his plane useless and at risk to plummet right into the Earth. That wasn't good enough, he wasn't going to give Winkoop a win in the game of chicken either, he was pointing the nose right at the fuselage of Winkoop's craft. The explosion would take him out. The only escape was his ejection seat, he'd hate to lose his lucky craft, but there is one code that always holds true: The pilot is worth more than the machine.

Rose tried to lean back in his pilot's seat as he listened over the radio as Devil-1 had the gall to talk back over the frequency that he opened up for him to vent his frustrations out on. He wouldn't expect anything less from a spider like Winkoop. What he said was very well-informed, as if Rose's dossier had crossed Winkoop's lap more than once, it was obvious if Winkoop could see Rose's face, he'd recognize it from a mile away, nobody walks away from Vlhakia without non-officially being marked for death and branded an insult to the crown. Well, Rose knows Winkoop too. Research is not a one-sided war.

Lancer: "Don't count your chickens before they hatch. Bane of Saralon."

Lancer smirks beneath his helmet, twisting his joystick so that the guidance buffers on the jet engine's end would guide his plane into a Cobra maneuver to make Devil-1 overshoot the bead he had locked on Angel-3. With a jump of his afterburner he would change his trajectory straight upwards, with a slam of his airbrakes he would push his plane back down, and another jump of the afterburner with another twist of the joystick he would plant himself as the one with the upper hand in the fight. Angel-3 was now tailing Devil-1, not the other way around.

Lancer: "While we're on the subject of child killing, how's Emilia?"

He was going to cut deep in any way he could. This man had no moral high ground, especially one who works and carries out orders from such a bloodthirsty nation. Lancer dialed his LRAAMs to be set on a timed fuse post-launch. He wasn't going to lock on Winkoop that would be too obvious of an attack. He was going to enact a rudimentary pincer maneuver as a solo pilot. The sight of missiles will scare Winkoop to evade, they will be on a dummy timer and detonate after a certain set amount of time, at a hope to catch the Devil's aircraft in an explosion, but most definitely to keep Winkoop on the defensive. In the meantime, he was going to aim at the engine hardpoints with bursts from his 20mm cannon to disable and down the craft. If the victory wasn't total, it would be personal, on the ground.

Lancer: "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this."

Lancer: "Hope you're feeling it too. Winkoop. Just like old times."

My name is Jacob Lone Star Nights and I'm here to tell y'all the cowboys are boutta cow tow these vlhaks

Lancer hit his airbrakes in order to force enough drag to shot backward past the missiles, and twisting his ailerons so that his plane was sideways. This maneuver turned the trajectory of the missiles in order to detonate on his fuselage, unfortunately for the missiles, they hit each other in front of Lancer's cockpit, where his trusty tomcat took no damage. The only real damage would be a bright light in front of him from the explosion. With a smirk beneath his helmet, he disabled his airbrakes, pushing forward the throttle, his twin engines would whine, before hitting into afterburn, on the ground below, that familiar heated-screech would sound off.

Lancer: "Next time pace your fucking battles in the soup. Angel-2 can handle herself, you white knighter."

Straightening out his plane so he wasn't viewing the world from the side anymore. Lancer took full control of his plane from there, flipping a few switches to knock off the auto stabilizers that kept hypoxia and vertigo from creeping in and ruining his flight, he flicked his nose toward the increasing size of a plane-chain of fighters, aiming toward the bogey tailing Angel-5, particularly the pilot's cockpit, he was going to plant a 20mm round right to the dome of the pilot trying to take down another Angel.

In the meantime, he decided to keep himself busy, broadcasting his intentions on the friendly channel.

Lancer: "I have a feeling I know who's leading this attack. All Angel callsigns prep for the real fight."

Lancer: "Switching channels. Ping me if you want me to hear something."

Lancer turned the dial on his transmitter with his free non-aiming hand, to an old Joint-Ops frequency he knew once upon a time.

Lancer: "Oi, you fucking queen-crotch-licking imps, I know you know when your frequencies are used."

He gave them time to be curious as to why there was a Vlhakian frequency being used in the area of operations. He knew they were busy and he wouldn't be rude and presumptuous that they weren't already on this frequency. After enough time, he spoke up again.

Lancer: "I know you hear me. I just wanted to tell you I'll be bringing you down myself, big guy."

Lancer: "I'm taking your black box and holding your whole fucking charade of a unit hostage internationally."

Lancer: "Then I'm coming for your royalty and sticking their crowns so far up their asses this attack will look like an even bigger joke."

Lancer took a look at the theater of war that was everything outside of his cockpit. It was time to kick this into gear. Already a bomber was downed, but we needed to rout them or take them all out. That was the plan. Take them all out. Angel-5 was his wingman now, from what he could understand over the radio. This was good. It would be good to show the Vlhak Lice exactly how welcome they are unnanounced in Antrea.

He had to make good use of his craft and his wingman's at the moment so that they could be as effective as they can while still in the air, and maybe even keep them in the air. He spoke on the Angel channel.

Lancer:"Keep on me Angel-5 and let's do our share."

Lancer:"Here is the plan. I'm going to lock the bomber. They're going to evade. When they go wide. You shoot their tail."

Lancer: "I'll Fox-Four the escorts, get them down. You down the bomber. If you rog, get ready."

Lancer began adjusting his targeting console in front of him, Fox-2 targeting pattern. He then changed his approach, pointing his nose right toward the trajectory of the closest bomber, flicking up the cover on the button specifically connected to his LRAAMs, the familiar beep of a lock-on began, hoping the bomber would try to get away from that lock-on.

However, his index finger was hovering over the Fox-Four, the 20mm trigger for when the escorts came to keep him from shooting down the bomber.

Moments before the raid begun, Captain Rose of the 450th was kicking back, sipping a cup of Antrean Earl Gray, reading the classifieds section of the military's newspaper, The Daily Republic. It was a day of simple protocol, flight checks, fuel checks, all easily done by talking to the aircraft maintenance personnel and copying what they said onto a status sheet. His day was, for the most part, smooth sailing from there. He set his cup down on the table he was reading at; however, the liquid within began to ripple as the cup began to shake. Something was up. Angel-1 was against low-flight training due to how easy it is to make a mistake and ruin the plane, or at the very least, the wing suspension.

That was beside the point, the cup was shaking because something was up, and Rose wanted to get to the bottom of it. He folded and set his paper down, stood, and went to the nearest window to peer in the direction of the tarmac. It was too late. It was a quick, strategic strike, but unidentified aircraft flying Vlhakian livery buzzed the airbase for onlookers in the base to witness. It was not just a simple buzz-by, it was a surgical attack. Plumes of flame and smoke burst into the sky from the initial aggressive, treatise-breaking assault. This was no time to panic, but it was exactly the time to kick the tires and light some fires.

Captain Rose ran from the chow hall to the armory to get his gear and go. Banging his hand against the keypad-locked locker that was his, he'd pop in his code, his sister's birthday, and grab his gear. Flight Vest. LOX pump. Comm Transmitter. Throat mic, and of course, his signature piece, his DAS-Tech helmet. Getting everything strapped on, fastened, and cleared, he'd open up a line to the 450th-Gravestone channel.

Lancer: "Angel-3, Captain Rose, checking in. Guess peace treaties mean nothing these days. Heading to my F-14 for Sortie and Defense."

A fresh beep let the folks listening in know he was done with the message as he was rushing himself to his hangar to kick their responsiveness back into high gear. The second he got to the side of his beauty, he hit a hardpoint to kick down the ladder and pop open the cockpit, climbing in, he'd start flipping switches, retracting his ladder, his cockpit sliding into place, electronics buzzing, soon the engine would kick on into prefire, everything would be in place for his take-off, except for the fact there were enemies in close proximity, the most dangerous time to take off. Balls be damned, swift payback was better than a stipend for doing nothing. Taxiing onto the adjacent runway, popping onto ATC-CASTLE comms.

Lancer: "Lancer taking to the skies. I better get a refund on my tea after this. A free smoke too. One for Jackson also."

Quick response was the best answer to show any aggressor that whatever they were doing wasn't going to be a steamroll of an operation. In fact, a quick response gives the defender a better chance to steamroll their opponent. Time to prove that.


Here is my CS GM bud Mr. Stank

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