On the Paris Air Show's final night, the cold gnawed through bones. Young Dassault shivered in her thinning suit, clutching the last Rafale fighter model as snow devoured the runway.
"Buy a Rafale..." her chattering teeth pleaded, "with Magic, MICA, Meteor missiles..." The words died beneath roaring engines. Middle Eastern delegates flowed towards Lockheed's glow, while Indian officials signed papers at Sukhoi's chalet.
Huddling behind cardboard crates, the girl-warrior-salesman lit her first training missile - the R.550 Magic. Its seeker-head bloomed crimson, painting visions: Charles de Gaulle carrier deck gleaming with fresh Rafale-M. A general's hand clasped her shoulder - "We'll replace every Mirage 2000!"
The glow faded. Naval budgets permitted only three jets this year.
Frantically, she sparked the MICA missile. Dual-colored guidance eyes illuminated Abu Dhabi's skies - Rafales painting cobra maneuvers through desert thermals. A gold-robed prince extended a diamond-crusted USB: "Here is 182 jets' deposit..."
The light died mid-gesture as F-35 shadows swallowed the booth.
Mad with frostbite, Dassault polished the Meteor's ramjet until azure flames erupted. New Delhi's parade ground materialized - 126 Rafales sky-writing "MERCI INDIA". Prime Minister Modi placed marigolds about her neck as HAL engineers assembled the first jet...
BOOM!
Live broadcast thunder shattered illusions. Screen fragments showed a lotus-marked Rafale disintegrating, a PL-15 missile from J-10C streaking through clouds like bloody calligraphy. The girl looked down - her Meteor model lay broken.
Dawn's snowplows found an ice-sculpture child clutching three dead missiles, frozen face features eternally questioning: Who claimed the PL-15 was trash?
