Legs 'Eight-Ball' McKinsey, ace pilot of the West European Battleforce, scuttled into the hangar. It was a very descriptive hangar, and it looked like stuff. "Over here, Legs!" shouted his commanding officer, General Thread. "Where's the rest of your squadron?" "Not a jot, Old Bean," Legs replied in his hilarious British accent that I'm not being paid enough to depict. "The chaps wanted to make their own damn silly entrances." "Ah, very good." The spider general flexed his eight limbs. The sleeves of his uniform were perfectly pressed. Not like Legs though - he wore a leather bomber jacket. Because he was a pilot. And because he was cool. "So what's the hullabaloo, Big Chief?" asked our intrepid protagonist. "It's the Foreign League, Legs." "The Foreign League of Invading Enemy Swine?" "Yes, the F.L.I.E.S." "Lordie lord!" "One joke at a time. Anyway, they've just unleashed the next superweapon in their Great Migration." "Those ruddy mashers!" "Yes. The Foreign League have redirected the Zytax Comet onto a collision course with planet Earth. Ground Zero will be command center of the West European Battleforce itself." "Those swine plan to puncture our W.E.B.!" The general unrolled a series of schematics on the briefing table. "We're kitting out the best spacecraft in the Battleforce. They're to be armed with our latest payload: a ballistic incendiary codenamed The Bag." Legs shook his head, making his little goggles rattle. "What will those eggheads think of next?! I hope they didn't scratch up old Rosy." General Thread glanced at the Rosetta, Legs's famous spacefighter, which will be significantly better than all of the others in this story. "They know better than to mistreat a war hero's wings." "So, it'll be the old bombing run on a flying comet routine, eh Chief?" "That's right, Legs. We're going to train you in a new technique. The Charizard Manuever. You're going to fly into geosynchronous orbit with the comet and land on its backside. From there you can deploy the Bag and blow that rock to hell." "I'd wager those Foreign League ruffians will have a word or two to say about that?" Legs flexed his eight fists. He hated those F.L.I.E.S. - ever since they began their Great Migration into the known galaxy. "That's why we're sending a squadron with you. I've assembled a crack team of less humorous and talented sidekicks to make sure you reach the comet in one piece. They should be arriving right now..." Legs and General Thread looked towards the hangar door, awaiting the moment when the roleplay would be ruined.