Hound down the enemy in those flimsy vehicles of paper and wood. You and your hounds, how you fly. A circus of wheeling and whipping, attack first and keep the sun at your back.
Orion has had his run of the night sky, but you leave pin pricks in the endless blue, punch out your own constellation among the clouds. And leave twisted corpses of rubble in your wake.
You were born to hunt and become the hunted.
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