Your fighter jet shudders violently as enemy fire tears through its fuselage. Alarms blare in your ears, drowning out your frantic breathing. You wrestle with the controls, fighting to keep the nose level as smoke spills into the cockpit.

Below, endless stretches of unfamiliar fields rush up to meet you. With one final gasp of power, you manage to drag the crippled plane into a rough landing, metal screeching as it skids and lurches across the open ground before groaning to a halt.

Silence. Smoke coils in the air around the battered jet, the sudden stillness almost mocking. Somewhere beyond the cracked canopy, you catch the glint of movement — shapes in the tall grass, too well-organized to be farmers. Figures in green balaclavas step into view, rifles raised and trained on the cockpit.