Dogfight or Flight

Dogfight or Flight rests on the velvet-dusted counter, a pocket-sized device of brass and burnished leather. Its patina tells a story—greenish moss in the creases of its rivets, evidence of rain and years spent strapped to a pilot’s thigh. A delicate wing motif curves around the body, thin as a spar, with micro-screws that gleam each time the light catches them. The texture is tactile: cool metal under a glove, then warm leather that smells of oil and old canvas. A tiny glass lens sits at the top, catching sunbeams and reflecting a spark of something like a small star. The script etched along its spine is patient, ceremonial, rumored to be the handwriting of an engineer who made a dozen such devices before settling into retirement in a river town. The lore is hazy, yet the image remains crisp: a gamble in a brass casing, a tool formed from the marriage of risk and speed. In the world it belongs to, Dogfight or Flight is less a weapon than a negotiator. It invites a choice in the heat of a chase: push to surge forward and pierce the line, or ease back to breathe and plot a hidden route. Those who have learned its rhythm swear by the heartbeat it compels—the momentary tilt toward audacity when the air grows thin and the horizon seems to lean away. When used, the device releases a measured hush and a micro-churn of gears that grants a sprint of seconds and a shield that glints like water on a blade. Not a ruinous blast, but a precise nudge—a way to seize the moment, to tilt the scale toward survival, or to press your advantage just long enough to reframe a skirmish as a story of cunning rather than raw force. It’s a gambler’s trinket, and its beauty lies in the choice it forces: do you race, or do you glide? Trade whispers have carried its name through the lanes of the city. Buyers meet sellers in the crowded hush of the Saddlebag Exchange, where palm-swept coins clink against leather and the air smells faintly of sandalwood and oil. The tag is rarely generous, the haggling quick, and the stories told as if each sale stitched another thread into a broader tapestry. A dozen stallkeepers will offer a dozen prices, some tucking away rare trinkets in their sleeves, others fumbling for a ledger bound with string. The price of Dogfight or Flight shifts with mood and rumor; a careful purse might walk away with it for a handful of silver, a larger purse might exchange it for a tale, a promise, and a future favor. In this city of merchants and memory, the device becomes less a purchase and more a passport—a small device that ties a pilot’s courage to a street’s murmur, a keepsake that turns a fight into flight, or flight into something almost cinematic, if you’re brave enough to press the lever and listen to the wings whisper your name.