June 5, 1917

Allied Airbase in Calais, France

No. 10 Naval Squadron

231st Royal Flying Corp

My team and I received the new shipment of planes. They're

the newest model in the Sopwith line. It has three wing layers!

The problem is, we realized the current performance setting

won't be enough to deal with elite German fighter pilots like

the Red Baron and his Flying Circus. They need to be more

manueverable as well as fast in the air. It needs some upgrades.

The lads and I are working around the clock to make adjustments

and add some improvements. Maybe if we switched for a new engine

and remove the one extra machine gun, we could balance out

the weight ratio to improve lift. It might work.

We got a deadline to achieve before we're sent to the Western

Front to support the troops on the ground. We need to be ready.

I hope we could finish the upgrades post haste, with as little

distraction as possible.

~Collishaw

“You have to believe me! I’m a bonafide Witch from Canada! A-although I was born in the independant colony of Newfoundland, I-I was raised up in Prince Edward Island, the home of Anne of Green Gables! Look at my Identification Papers! As well as my birth certificates if you have to! I was even trained with magical combat experience in Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia! How can you not have faith in a fellow Canadian!?”

“As much as I would like to listen to your story, I don’t have the time. We’re trying to reach a deadline before we go into full sortie. Could you pass me that wrench?”

“Who do you take me for? Do I look like the type of person you would want to boss around as a maid. I can turn you into a Rainbow Trout with a flick of my wand and.............G-geh. Fine! S-since you asked nicely, here you go! B-but don't be mistaken, I'm not your caddy!"

“Thank you...Wait... Miss… That's a blow torch.”

Raymond Collishaw was busy, so he had no time to fiddle around with a blow torch. The upgrades and mechanical improvements he was making didn’t necessarily need him to cut open parts of his plane to install gears and switches. It would cost too much time and resources to put everything back together and that would push their timing back another week.

The day his ‘B’ Flight have to be shipped back into the Western Front was tomorrow morning, 0800 sharp. The flight plan was to first launch from the Calais airstrip, to make a quick stop at St. Omer, fly over the hills of Flanders, then refuel and rearm at the Hazebrouck Allied Airbase for battle.

The German Empire was pushing hard, hammering the Allied Trenches and have been taking over multiple strategic strongholds in rapid succession. The events from the Battle of Arras were a disaster for the Royal Naval Air Service. They lost four times the number of planes compared to the German Lufstreitkrafte. Due to these depressing results, that day was nicknamed Bloody April.

Morale was already at a new time low… Raymond Collishaw hoped he and his team could change that sad fortune around.

“A wrench. You know, a long metal tool with teeth that looks like a Y?”

“…Uuuuuh. This one!?”

“No. That’s a screwdriver. I can’t twist a nut and bolt with that.”

“Th-then, this one.”

“…That’s a measuring device to see if a table is balanced or not.”

“….. Uh.”

“Miss Witch. Do you even know what a wrench is?”

“O-of course! I-it’s kind of like a Scottish Terrier, right? O-only... with Y-shaped horns like a Chimera?”

“There is a shed near the mess hall about 3 meters from here. Feel free to sit under an electric fan to cool down. If you need anything, feel free to speak with the local nun who breaches at the base on a daily basis.”

“G-guh!? D—don’t look down on me like some lazy bum! I-I’m here to pull my weight in this war, not sit around on my hands like a dead weight school girl! Move aside, let the professionals solve this equation with magic!”

“W-wait! Th-this is a nine cylinder engine! D-don’t wrecklessly stuff it with questionable herbs or drip blood on it.”

“IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK OF MAGIC YOU BRAT!?”

Raymond Collishaw hoped he could complete the adjustments by late noon. That way he could run some tests on the new 110 hp Clerget 9Z nine-cylinder rotary engine. They had to remove the stock engine from his plane as it lacked enough speed to get him enough lift to pull high gravity turns.

Knowing German Fokkers, they excelled in making sharp U-turns once they fly past their targets to get a quick beat on them. With slow reaction and movements, it was only a matter of time any Allied plane would be gunned down.

He was running all sorts of mathematical equations in his head that could help reduce drag and improve speed and maneuverability for his plane. However, due to thinking so deep to the point where he might go insane from thinking about Fibonacci's Ratio - he failed to have enough mental power to defend himself from the girl who had shoved him aside. A splash of her long black silky hair hit him in the face, waking him up like a slap of cold water.

“Gughgg! Cough! Cough!”

“D-don't bite on my hair! I-I'm trying to concentrate...Ramora-Akava!”

The girl held out her dainty looking hand. It was smooth, free of callouse, as if she never touched any that weighed more than a fine china tea cup. With a rotation of her wrist, her bridal gaunlet like sleeve ejected a thing wand carved from an arbutus tree.

A spark of strange light emitted from the tip. Soon, a pulse of strong green light radiated from the end of the hand-carved wand and washed over the side of the exposed engines. With a stick of her soft tongue and fine eye-hand coordination, she used a small Telekinetic spell to make the nuts automatically turn to tighten itself.

“…Clockwise. You have to go clockwise or the bolts will loosen and fall off.”

“I-I know that! I-I’ve studied Psychic Powers! A-Abraham Lincoln discovered it right?”

“…I think you’re trying to say Physics... And no, that's Isaac Newton's field of study.”

“G-guh!? SHUT UP!”

The Canadian Pilot find it hard to believe, but once the nuts and bolts turned in the proper direction he could hear them tightening. The same way if he did all 10 bolts by hand, only with 10 hands simultaneously.

“… I don’t believe it.”

“See. This is proof that magic exists! Your government only tells you it doesn’t exist, is because we made an agreement to hide in the shadows of your modern civilization. Ever since the Global Witch Hunt, everyone who knew or were adept in magic had to go into hiding or face false trials and gruesome execution. We left our homes, our nation, and our ancestrial roots to protect our lives and our traditions.”

“No. I mean I can’t believe you’re able to turn the nut and bolts so quickly. Maybe you should consider opening an auto repair shop with that talent.”

“ARE YOU MOCKING MY MAGIC, YOUNG MAN!?”

The girl who called herself a Witch gnashed her cute teeth. The way her black hair splashed over her face when she flicked her head back in rage had an appeal that was almost irresistible not to look. Spitting her own black strands from her lips, she glared at the Canadian Pilot who had the expression of ‘I want to take you seriously, but I’m tired’. We'll talk tomorrow.

“Hey. While you’re here, could you see if you can fix the tail rudder. It looks like it gets stuck halfway when I turn left. See, the rudder angle isn’t going all the way. If this stays, my right turns would be short and slow, we can’t risk that while fighting in the air with high speed German Machines.”

“I told you I’m not an equipment you can use for your accursed machinery! I am a Witch, a Magic Agent serving the British Magic Intelligence department! My jobs is to work along side regular soldiers in the army, and fight against magicians on the war front. To bring glory and pride to the British Empire!”

“…Wait. I thought you said you all decided to abandon your nations to live a life of solitude. Now you're fighting against your own kind...What, are you suddenly in the middle of a Civil War?”

“N-no! Th-that's not how it sounds! The German Empire have begun to deploy Magicians into the war, they're attempting to turn the entire battlefront to their favor. It's a complete breach in the Crowley Pact, where we should never interfere with the affairs of the modern world or set regular people as a target. If these Kraut Magicians came at you while you have no proper magical defense, every soldier on the air, land, and sea won't stand a chance!"

“…The fact that you’re doubting my entire squadron's ability to survive in this war is rude.”

“Th-that isn’t the point! This isn’t like facing a line of machine guns which you can dodge! I’m talking about Sorcerers summoning Hellhounds to rip your body to shreds; raising spears of ice from the ground to stop your artillery movement; or even creating walls of storms to blockade your offensive! They are taking complete advantage of this war, like an adult bullying a child!”

"...................."

"...Wh-what?"

"I'm 24."

"A-are you seriously paying attention to the weight of this situation!?"

“… Then what about you? You said there is this law amongst your people that you cannot get involved with our war. What made you change your mind? Aren’t you all breaking that same law?”

“W-we’re different, we’re the good guys! I-its only natural we come out of hiding to-to lend you all a helping hand!”

“…………………….”

“N-now don’t give me that stare, y-young man! It has ‘you’re just making excuses like the enemy’ written all over it. I resent that! S-so don’t look at me with that judging gaze.”

Raymond Collishaw didn’t mean to be rude. He knew when it was not nice to stare and when was a good time to do so. It's not nice when someone is talking and you’re looking so hard at them, he knew that. He often daydreams whenever his mother tried to tell him not to play ball inside of the house (which he earns karate chops to the head to wake him up).

The only time it was considered proper, if the speaker is denying their problems like an alcoholic. It was that simple.

“U-uwa-uwa-uwa. Th-that serious look in your eyes is making my heart beat too hard.”

“………Are you really a witch?”

“Yes, of course! I was born and raised in Bell Island, Newfoundland! I was born in Canada! My parents are legendary witches! Do you not see me waving my wand?”

“…Wait. Your parents were Witches. Doesn't that mean they're both... girls?”

“Yes. How I was born to be as beautiful as them is a mystery indeed."

"That's not the reason why I feel incredibly confused."

"E-enough of this side talk. Listen properly! My duty is to protect you. Your team mates, and any poor soldier who has the crosshair of an enemy magician on their heads. We know not everyone is at fault for the Global Witch Hunt, it was all caused by lack of communication and xenophobia, conflict of cultures if you will. Our Magic Society only hid away in the best interest to keep both worlds from colliding like snooker balls…But now that our own kind is rising up to shoot you down with their powers… it’s only right that we cast aside the shadows we’ve been living in – and fight for our mother nation.”

“………………………………………………….”

“…………………..Wh-what? Wh-why are you staring so hard at my body!?”

“You remind me of something. Like when a bacteria infects the body.”

"...Young man. Do you wish for me to strike you with my hands? Or with this weapon you call a Screwdriver."

Raymond Collishaw held up a hand, trying to calm down the Witch who already picked up the blow torch from the ground. She didn’t know how to turn it on. It was a simple as turning the canister nozzle to release gas at a certain constant flow of velocity, then add fire to the end to create a focused and pressurized flame cutter.

But if it didn't have an incantation, charm, or ritual involving a wide scale hex that could shake the city of Hamlet with dancing rats - she had no f**king clue how to use it. He was safe.

Until she realized the canister itself was heavy and large enough to be used as an alternative melee weapon. Deadlier than a bayonet even. So he picked his words very carefully to defuse this battle on the ground.

"...D-don't touch that. I-it's cursed by an evil wizard! The longer you hold it in your hands li-like that, i-it will turn you into a man. Wh-why, I used to be a pretty girl just like you three weeks ago."

"GYAAAAAAAH! WHY THE H*LL DIDN'T YOU TELL ME BEFORE HAND! NYAAAAH! I-IS THERE AN ADAM'S APPLE GROWING IN MY THROAT!? IS THERE!?"

As if the blowtorch was the plague itself, the Canadian Witch dropped the item and started to violenly rub her hands all over her dress. It was like she was trying to remove invisible mud from her palms.

The Canadian Pilot bit his lips. If he lets out so much as a tiny chuckle, the ruse was over and the girl would rightully smack him on the head to defend her pride (and emberassment).

"A-ahem. Wh-what I was trying to say is, th-that y-your Magicians showing up r-remind me of a bacteria getting into the body. Wh-when that happens, our immune system released antibodies to target the foreign infection and d-destroy it... N-now that you say evil Magicians are showing up every where, a-ahem. It's only natural good Witches like you would show up and protect humanity right?"

"...Young man. I feel like you're making fun of me."

"...N..no."

"Look at my eyes when you lie to me, then I'll believe you. Am I really a Streptococcus germ in your eyes? Haaah!?"

“W-wait, hold on. Th-the Great War i-is still on. Th-there's no need to turn on each other i-immediately, r-right?”

The Witch ended up forcing the Canadian Pilot to back up. The moment when his back hit the side of his plane, he knew that was where the road ends. And he hadn’t even taken off from the ground as the Captain of ‘B’ Flight. What a shame.

“…I-I’m sorry… I will try my best to understand you better... P-please don't poke me with that arbutus twig. I-I'm ticklish.”

“……….......……………”

“…………………………….. Miss, you’re staring.”

“Sleipnir… You can call me Sleipnir.”

“Is that...your name?”

“No. Due to my sensitive identity, this is a code name. I don’t like it, but I have to bear with it as it matches my organic magic flow to my spiritual conduit. The last thing I want is to change my name to Susanna or Tiffany and experience unnecessary seizures every time I cast a spell.”

“… I see.”

The Pilot let out a sigh the moment the Witch stuffed her arbutus wand... down her blouse (cough). He watched her straighten the angry ruffles she made in her garment. It was an exotic dress that looked like it was woven from over thousands of raven feathers, tied together like a quilt that doubled as a ball dress. It wasn’t a standard uniform, neither a robe that a military nun would wear… but…

“…Y-you… boy. If you tell me your name, I will call truce.”

“Lieutenant Raymond Collishaw, from British Columbia. Serial Number 2561A—”

“W-wait! I-I asked for your name as a friend, n-not as an interrogator!”

“S-sorry… I… I honestly have never talked to a girl this close before…And… you smell nice so I was distracted a bit.”

“Uwa-uwa-uwa. Sh-should I take that as a compliment or sexual harassment. Uwa-uwa-uwa.”

The Witch was suddenly caught off guard by that small comment. The collateral damage was so high, she had to shield her cheeks from letting the red glow flow through her fingers. The last thing she wanted was to show any sign of weakness. Especially when she had to be seen as a strong ans useful indvidiual. After calming down, muttering some kind of magical hex or Buddhist sutra (unsure), she eventually held out a hand to—

“I-I look forward to working with you, Raymond Collishaw…If you don’t mind… could I call you Ray-Ray. I’m bad with names so I—”

“Here. You start with the rear end and I’ll work my way from the front. If we do it quick enough, we can finish coloring everything in a few hours.”

“…A…aheeh?”

When the Witch held out her hand, to offer a possible hand shake to seal their relationship – Raymond Collishaw absent mindely hung a bucket on her open palm. By the time she felt her other hand received a brush, she looked down to inspect the content of what she was holding.

Black paint.

“I know it’s against regulation to paint our aircrafts, but it can’t be helped. The metallic material is too reflective and will blind us whenever we turn into the sun. He last thing we want is to crash into other planes when we're supposed to be useful in the air. And since this is 80% off from the local paint store, I thought it was suitable choice.”

“…Wh…what…I?”

“Surely you know how to paint right? I mean, some of you have to draw symbols in caves to cast a spell to knock out a princess right?”

“Do—do I look like a Neanderthal!? Wh-why are you shoving a bucket of cheap paint and a horse brush into my hands! I-I’m a Magic Specialist, I don’t do hard labour!”

“The more help the better. It’s all hands on deck from here on in, we have to get these planes flight worthy by tonight or we’ll miss being shipped out to the front tomorrow morning. Come on. If we hurry we could paint over Black Roger, Black Death, Black George, and Black Sheep we could run a test flight before we hit the sack!”

“Stop! Th-this level of enthusiasm is scaring me! I-I may a be a Witch who has seen dangerous hexes and gorey magical explosions, I’m still a girl! M-my arms will shatter if I lift anything more than a paperweight! I-I can't even keep a bouncing baby in my arms for God-sakes!”

“Don’t worry, you won’t get your dress dirty. It’s the same color anyway. Consider it as an initiation party to joining the ‘B’ Flight.”

“NO! STOP! D-DON’T DRAG ME! DON’T DRAG ME! I’M HERE TO FIGHT MAGICIANS, NOT WORK INTO A SWEAT! NO! NOO! NOOOO OOOOO OOOOOOOO OOO!”

And so Raymond Collishaw went to work. Adopting a new friend into his squadron, he had an extra pair of hands that allowed him to speed up the tasks that had to be completed before the sun set. He looked forward, seeing his new plane coming to full fruition. A brand new high powered engine, reinforced frame to endure both turbulence and high-gravity turns, a custom paint job.

Somehow the Canadian Pilot understood why the Red Baron painted his aircraft a bright red. It wasn't about blending into the sky or using camoflouge to improve stealth, not even comitting to uniformity at all.

It just looked better than a standard plane... and to add the finishing touches, Raymond Collishaw added a simple name across the side of his pitch black plane, dibbed in golden letters.

Black Maria.

"...M...my hands... I-I can't feel the skin of my own palms... m-my shoulder is going to pop out from hefting bucket after buckets of paint for you...T-take responsibility for my damages!"

"Would a Crepe Suzette be sufficient? Sister Amelie makes the best ones in all of Calais, and she's volunteering in our mess hall. I'll introduce you to her."

"I'm not in the mood to see your god-d*mn mistress. My hands are ruined because of you!"

"...She's a nun... and I told you to hold the brush like a pen, not like chopsticks."

"I'M A WITCH! I'M NOT MEANT FOR PHYSICAL LABOOOOOOOOUUUR!"