#Advanced Pilot Training

[atom-aviation32]

Pilot Training: Your First Cockpit Experience Explained

Introduction to Pilot Training

Pilot training is the foundational step for anyone aspiring to fly aircraft professionally or recreationally. It equips students with essential knowledge, skills, and certifications required to operate an aircraft safely. From theoretical aviation concepts to hands-on cockpit practice, pilot training is a comprehensive journey that transforms beginners into skilled aviators. Programs like private pilot training or commercial pilot training cover a variety of aspects, including navigation, meteorology, and emergency handling. At First Cockpit, we focus on offering state-of-the-art training programs that ensure students are confident and prepared to tackle real-world challenges in aviation.

The Importance of Pilot Training

Pilot training is crucial for ensuring safety, precision, and compliance in aviation. It provides aspiring pilots with the expertise needed to handle aircraft, navigate complex airspaces, and respond to unexpected situations. Comprehensive training not only builds technical proficiency but also instills the discipline and decision-making skills vital for managing high-pressure scenarios. At First Cockpit, we prioritize hands-on learning and simulator sessions, giving trainees real-time exposure to flying. Proper pilot training ensures that every pilot becomes a responsible and skilled aviator, contributing to a safer and more efficient aviation industry.

What to Expect in Your First Cockpit Experience

Your first cockpit experience is a thrilling and memorable moment in your pilot training journey. It typically begins with familiarizing yourself with the aircraft controls, cockpit layout, and basic flight instruments. An experienced instructor will guide you through pre-flight procedures, including safety checks and system overviews. Once airborne, you’ll get to experience the exhilaration of controlling the plane under professional supervision. At First Cockpit, we ensure this milestone is both educational and exciting, laying the foundation for your confidence as a pilot. From takeoff to landing, your first cockpit experience is designed to inspire and motivate you to pursue your aviation goals with passion.

Preparing for Your First Cockpit Session

Choosing the Right Pilot Training

Choosing the right flight school is a critical step in your pilot training journey. A reputable school ensures you receive quality instruction, modern equipment, and access to experienced instructors. Begin by researching schools accredited by recognized aviation authorities, such as the Directorate General of Civil Aviation (DGCA) or the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). Visit their facilities to assess their aircraft fleet, simulators, and training environment.

Consider the type of pilot training programs offered, such as private pilot or commercial pilot courses, and ensure they align with your goals. Read reviews and testimonials from current or former students to gauge their experiences. Cost is another vital factor; compare pricing structures, including tuition, equipment, and examination fees. At First Cockpit, we pride ourselves on offering comprehensive training programs tailored to prepare you for success in the aviation industry.

Essential Equipment and Resources

Having the right equipment and resources enhances your learning experience during pilot training. Key essentials include a high-quality aviation headset to communicate effectively with instructors and air traffic control, a kneeboard for taking notes, and a logbook to track your flight hours and progress. Invest in pilot manuals and study guides covering topics such as aerodynamics, navigation, and weather patterns.

Flight simulator software is another valuable resource, allowing you to practice key skills at home. Comfortable clothing and sunglasses are important for a smooth training experience. At First Cockpit, we provide guidance on acquiring the best resources to ensure you are fully equipped for success. By having the right tools, you can focus on developing your skills and making the most of your training sessions.

Understanding the Cockpit Layout

Familiarization with Cockpit Instruments

The cockpit is the nerve center of an aircraft, and understanding its instruments is essential for safe and efficient flying. Instruments are typically grouped into six primary categories, known as the "six-pack": airspeed indicator, attitude indicator, altimeter, vertical speed indicator, heading indicator, and turn coordinator. These instruments provide crucial data about the aircraft's speed, altitude, orientation, and direction.

In addition to the six-pack, modern cockpits feature advanced avionics such as GPS navigation systems, multifunction displays, and communication radios. Familiarize yourself with these tools by studying manuals and practicing on flight simulators. During training sessions at First Cockpit, our instructors ensure you gain hands-on experience with every instrument, helping you understand their functions and applications. This foundational knowledge is key to building your confidence and expertise as a pilot.

Key Controls and Their Functions

The controls in a cockpit allow pilots to manage the aircraft's movements and systems. The yoke or control stick governs pitch and roll, enabling the aircraft to ascend, descend, or turn. The rudder pedals control yaw, helping maintain directional stability. The throttle adjusts engine power, influencing speed and climb rate.

Other essential controls include the flap lever, which modifies wing configuration for better lift or drag, and trim controls, which help maintain steady flight without constant yoke input. Modern cockpits also feature autopilot systems to reduce pilot workload during long flights. At First Cockpit, we emphasize hands-on practice with these controls, ensuring you understand their roles and can operate them confidently during your training flights. Mastery of these controls is crucial for smooth and precise aircraft operation.

Tips for Your First Cockpit Experience

Getting Comfortable with the Environment

Your first cockpit session can be both exciting and overwhelming. Take time to familiarize yourself with the surroundings, including the layout of instruments and controls. Sit comfortably, ensuring you can easily reach all controls and have a clear view of the instruments. Listen carefully to your instructor and ask questions if you’re unsure about anything.

At First Cockpit, we encourage students to take a moment to relax and focus on the experience. Feeling comfortable in the cockpit is the first step toward building confidence and developing the situational awareness necessary for successful flight training.

What to Focus On During Your Initial Lessons

During your initial lessons, concentrate on mastering basic maneuvers and understanding the aircraft’s behavior. Pay attention to the instructor’s guidance on throttle control, maintaining altitude, and smooth turns. Practice following a checklist for pre-flight and in-flight procedures, as this ensures safety and consistency.

Avoid feeling overwhelmed by trying to learn everything at once. Instead, focus on building a strong foundation of skills that will be expanded upon in future sessions. At First Cockpit, we design initial lessons to be manageable and rewarding, setting the stage for your growth as a pilot.

Evaluating Your Progress as a Pilot in Training

Understanding Flight Hours and Certifications

Flight hours are a key metric in your progress as a pilot. They represent the time you’ve spent flying or practicing in simulators under supervision. Achieving specific milestones, such as solo flights or cross-country trips, marks your advancement. Certifications, like a private pilot license (PPL) or commercial pilot license (CPL), require a minimum number of flight hours and passing written and practical exams.

At First Cockpit, we help you track your flight hours and prepare for certifications step by step. By understanding these requirements, you can stay motivated and focus on achieving your aviation goals.

Setting Goals for Your Training Journey

Setting clear, achievable goals is essential for maintaining motivation throughout your pilot training. Break your journey into smaller milestones, such as mastering takeoffs and landings, completing solo flights, or obtaining specific certifications. These milestones provide a sense of accomplishment and keep you focused on long-term objectives.

Regularly review your progress with your instructor to identify areas for improvement and adjust your goals as needed. At First Cockpit, we work closely with students to set personalized goals, ensuring a rewarding and structured training experience.

Exploring Drone Survey Services

About Drone Survey

Drone Survey is a leading provider of aerial surveying and mapping services, utilizing advanced drone technology to deliver precise and efficient results. Their innovative approach makes them a trusted partner for industries such as construction, agriculture, mining, and environmental management. By using high-resolution cameras and LiDAR sensors, Drone Survey ensures accurate data collection for topographical mapping, site inspections, and 3D modeling.

For pilot trainees, understanding the potential of drone technology offers an expanded perspective on modern aviation. Whether you’re pursuing traditional flight training or exploring drone operations, Drone Survey’s expertise highlights the evolving landscape of aerial solutions. Partnering with Drone Survey can provide valuable insights and opportunities for aspiring pilots and aerial professionals.

Conclusion: Embracing the Journey of Pilot Training

Pilot training is a challenging yet immensely rewarding journey that transforms aspiring aviators into skilled professionals. From your first cockpit session to mastering advanced maneuvers, each step builds your knowledge, confidence, and expertise. At First Cockpit, we are committed to guiding you through every phase of this process, offering top-notch instruction, modern equipment, and a supportive learning environment.

Embrace the challenges and celebrate your achievements along the way. With dedication and the right training, you can achieve your dream of becoming a proficient and confident pilot. Remember, the journey is as important as the destination, and First Cockpit is here to make it an unforgettable experience.

[uniquetigertheorist]

FTA Cadet Pilot Program: A Structured Path to a Commercial Pilot License

The FTA Cadet Pilot Program is designed for aspiring pilots looking for a direct path to a commercial pilot license. With industry-aligned training modules and expert guidance, it ensures high-quality pilot preparation. This program helps pilots transition smoothly into airline jobs.

[thecanadiandroneinstitute]

Elevate Your Skills with an Advanced Drone Training Course and SFOC Course Online

The drone industry has rapidly evolved, becoming an integral part of various sectors, including agriculture, real estate, filmmaking, and emergency services. As drone technology advances, so too does the need for qualified operators who can navigate the complexities of regulations, safety, and operational efficiency. In Canada, Transport Canada sets forth specific requirements for drone pilots, especially those looking to conduct complex operations. This article will explore the benefits of enrolling in an Advanced Drone Training Course and the significance of completing an SFOC Course Online, ensuring that you meet the regulatory requirements while enhancing your skills.

Understanding Advanced Drone Training

An Advanced Drone Training Course is designed for those who have already obtained their Basic Pilot Certificate and wish to expand their knowledge and skills for more complex drone operations. This course goes beyond the basics, preparing pilots to handle a variety of challenging scenarios, including flying in controlled airspace, operating over people, and conducting aerial inspections or surveys.

Key Components of an Advanced Drone Training Course

Regulatory Knowledge: Advanced courses cover the Canadian Aviation Regulations (CARs) in depth, focusing on the sections relevant to advanced operations. Understanding these regulations is crucial for compliance and safety.

Airspace Management: Pilots learn how to navigate different airspace classifications and understand the communication protocols necessary when flying in controlled airspace. This includes working with air traffic control (ATC) when required.

Risk Management: Safety is paramount in drone operations. Advanced training includes risk assessment techniques, emergency response strategies, and how to conduct thorough pre-flight and post-flight checks.

Flight Operations: The course offers practical flying experience, allowing pilots to practice advanced maneuvers and scenarios under the guidance of experienced instructors. This hands-on experience is invaluable for building confidence and competence.

Technical Skills: Pilots gain insights into the latest drone technologies and software, including flight planning applications, mapping tools, and data analysis software. Familiarity with these technologies enhances operational efficiency and effectiveness.

The Importance of SFOC Course Online

For drone operators wishing to engage in advanced operations, obtaining a Special Flight Operations Certificate (SFOC) is often a necessary step. An SFOC is a regulatory requirement for specific drone flights that fall outside the standard regulations.

What is an SFOC?

An SFOC is a permit issued by Transport Canada that allows drone operators to conduct flights that do not comply with the standard requirements for Basic and Advanced Pilot Certificates. This includes operations such as flying in controlled airspace, flying over crowds, or conducting experimental flights.

Benefits of Taking an SFOC Course Online

Comprehensive Understanding of Regulations: An SFOC Course Online provides a thorough overview of the regulatory framework surrounding special flight operations. This knowledge is critical for ensuring compliance and understanding the application process.

Application Guidance: The course typically includes step-by-step guidance on how to complete the SFOC application. This includes information on what to include in your application, how to outline safety measures, and how to demonstrate your understanding of risk management.

Safety Protocols: An SFOC course covers essential safety measures specific to high-risk operations. This includes emergency procedures, risk assessments, and how to mitigate potential hazards during flights.

Flexibility and Accessibility: Online courses offer the flexibility to learn at your own pace, making it easier to fit education into your schedule. This is especially beneficial for those balancing work or other commitments while pursuing advanced drone training.

Enhanced Employability: Completing an SFOC course online, alongside an advanced training course, demonstrates your commitment to safety and professionalism. This can enhance your employability in the growing drone industry, as many employers seek certified operators.

Preparing for Your SFOC Application

Once you complete your SFOC course, the next step is to prepare your application. Here are some essential tips:

Outline Your Operations: Clearly describe the purpose of your flight operations, including details about the type of drone you will use, the intended area of operation, and the specific tasks you will perform.

Risk Assessment: Conduct a thorough risk assessment of your planned operations. Identify potential hazards and outline your strategies for mitigating these risks.

Safety Measures: Detail the safety measures you will implement to protect yourself, your crew, and the public during your flights.

Documentation: Ensure you have all necessary documentation ready, including proof of training, pilot certificates, and insurance coverage if required.

Review and Submit: Before submitting your application, review all materials to ensure completeness and accuracy. A well-prepared application will facilitate a smoother approval process.

Transitioning to Advanced Operations

Upon receiving your SFOC, you will be well-equipped to conduct advanced drone operations. Whether you are working in construction, real estate, or emergency response, having the right certifications and training will set you apart in a competitive market.

Conclusion

The demand for skilled drone operators in Canada is on the rise, and pursuing an Advanced Drone Training Course alongside an SFOC Course Online is a significant step towards a successful career in this dynamic field. By understanding the regulatory framework, enhancing your operational skills, and prioritizing safety, you can confidently navigate the complexities of drone operations.

Investing in your education not only prepares you for a variety of challenging scenarios but also opens doors to new opportunities in industries that rely on drone technology. As you embark on this journey, remember that knowledge and preparedness are your best tools for success in the ever-evolving world of drone operations.

[shehazada]

Here are some intriguing facts about astronauts that you may not have known:

Astronauts are specially chosen and trained individuals who embark on space travel.

They play a crucial role in advancing our knowledge and exploration of the universe.

Astronauts have made significant contributions to our understanding of space through their groundbreaking research and discoveries.

They undergo extensive training to prepare themselves physically and mentally for the challenges of space travel.

Astronauts often spend months or even years in intensive training programs before they can embark on a mission.

They must possess exceptional skills in areas such as science, engineering, and piloting.

Astronauts experience a range of physical changes while in space, such as bone density loss and muscle atrophy, due to the effects of microgravity.

They use specialized equipment and technology to conduct experiments and gather data while in space.

Astronauts often participate in spacewalks, where they venture outside of their spacecraft to perform maintenance or repairs.

They live and work in confined spaces aboard the International Space Station (ISS) for extended periods of time.

Astronauts from different countries collaborate and work together on various space missions.

They serve as inspiring role models for aspiring scientists and explorers around the world.

[tanadrin]

@grimogretricks

For people saying that airport security is wholly theatre and that it doesn't do any good- certainly it seems they've gone overboard on certain things, but what is your explanation as to why hijackings and terrorist attacks involving planes are MUCH less common than they used to be?

Sorry that this is mostly off the dome, and has less references than I would like. We argued this stuff to death in the aughts, though ultimately the political incentives in favor of security theater were just too great. Everyone is terrified of the potential backlash of not being seen to do enough in advance of the next big terrorist attack, I guess. And to be clear, we are talking mostly about post-9/11 airport security measures as being security theater. Some degree of airport security has been necessary since people started getting on airplanes with guns and informing the pilot that, hey, guess what, we're going to Cuba instead of Miami today.

But the big reduction in airplane hijackings came with the institution of metal detectors to keep guns off airplanes after a couple high-profile hijackings in the 1970s. But remember that these incidents were of a very different character than what we now think of as the risk to airplanes: they were certainly a problem, but the modus operandi of hijackers in this era was to force the plane to fly to a non-extradition country and land safely. 9/11-style hijackings, that used the plane as a bomb and killed everyone aboard, were on nobody's radar--when the goal was blowing up the plane and killing passengers, bombers generally used bombs planted in checked baggage, which requires different security measures from passenger screening.

Two security changes occurred after 9/11 that made future such hijackings basically impossible: one, probably most importantly, was that passengers understood they no longer could count on hijackers having an interest in surviving the hijacking. This change in passenger behavior was immediate: later that same year when a guy tried to bomb an airplane (using a really ineffective device hidden in his shoe) passengers immediately acted to restrain him. The second important change was reinforcing cockpit doors and keeping them locked: this makes hijacking airplanes with knives (the only major modality left to most would-be hijackers) functionally impossible.

All the other intense passenger screening and security measures implemented after 9/11 has been repeatedly shown by security researchers to be pretty ineffective, not even very reliable at stuff like keeping knives off airplanes. For years after 9/11 there were endless news stories about law enforcement running drills at airports and weapons making their way through security. A lot of later security measures, like liquid limits in carry-on baggage, came from terrorist plots that didn't even make it off the drawing board (and are unlikely to have ever worked anyway), and seem mostly to be overzealous ass-covering by transportation security officials.

And, finally, we should note that the real security threats to airplanes in the post-9/11 era seem to have come come from two sources that are basically impossible to protect against using traditional security methods, and for which passenger-based security screening is useless: anti-aircraft missiles and suicidal pilots (plus an honorable mention to aircraft companies trying to skirt certain regulatory requirements).

Despite what decades of American media would have you believe, elaborate plots targeting transportation infrastructure and involving like a dozen people are actually not at the top of the list of terrorist methodologies--why time and money training members of your organization to fly planes into buildings, when you can just use social media to convince a guy to drive a car into a crowd of bystanders, or stab somebody on the street? It's much cheaper, and much, much harder to guard against. Random lone-wolf terrorism is, unlike the kind of elaborate plots portrayed on TV, and one-off real-life examples like 9/11, basically impossible for security services to guard against in advance. But in order to justify the war on terror, and large budgets for security services on anti-terrorism grounds, it was necessary to play up the threat of such plots, even if by its very nature 9/11 was impossible to repeat. For similar reasons, the post-9/11 era also played up the threat of Islamic extremism and large overseas terrorist networks, even though far-right extremists acting in small groups also have managed to kill huge numbers of people in spectacular ways.

So for all these reasons, and those noted at the top, the political incentives around transportation security means that passenger screening measures in airports are almost guaranteed to be a one-way ratchet, even if they don't work. It's a bit like the fabled anti-tiger amulet--it's easy to say the lack of tigers is proof it's working! Even if the real reason there are no tigers about is that you live in Ohio. The media environment post-War on Terror helped create a public appetite for and approval of such anti-tiger amulets, too, of course. This was not by any means a purely top-down phenomenon.

[bluebellowl]

Been travelling by train and passing my time by playing some Advance Wars again.

Once in a blue moon I get really into the characters and this was one of those times.

Especially my favourites Eagle and Jess owo

This time I really tried to figure out where exactly their character designs originated from. Eagle looks a LOT like some portraits of Manfred von Richtenhof aka the Red Baron, and in the first game he‘s wearing pilot googles more closely resembling WW1 pilot googles. In his lore it‘s mentioned that these were his father‘s and he was also the reason he even joined the air force.

Jess wears a german tank crew uniform, which makes me wonder why they made her so damn tall as tank drivers can‘t be too tall or they aren‘t fit for driving a tank. My hc is that that‘s why she‘s not actually driving but commanding. She‘s really good with engines but can‘t operate much. Her art also shows her just… carry a tank shell like it‘s nothing?? Girl‘s got strength!!

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 4 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window. The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3

Chapter Summary: An earthquake hits LA, and you hold on for dear life.

A/N: You know what would be cool? If you left a comment :) Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: mentions of trauma/injury

“Alright, speed-round: if you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing?” Bobby asks as he cooks breakfast.

You’re sitting at the kitchen island, nursing your second cup of coffee. Everyone’s shift started two and a half hours ago, right at 5 am. There hasn’t been a call for the 118 yet, so Bobby’s taking advantage of the opportunity.

“Fighter pilot: Topgun. Call sign: shogun,” Chim answers as he digs into his omelet.

Hen laughs.

“What about you, Hen?” You smile.

“Editorial cartoonist, The New Yorker. I have a lot to say,” she says as she sits down.

You raise your eyebrows as the men share a look.

“You draw?” Bobby asks, surprised.

“No, it's a dream. It's not supposed to be attainable,” Hen argues. She looks at you. “What would you be?”

“You know, ever since I was a kid, I loved helicopters,” you remark. “During paramedic training, I learned about flight nursing and thought that was super cool. I guess I would be a flight nurse.”

You go back to drinking your coffee, but everyone stays silent. You look up to find them staring at you.

You chuckle in confusion. “What?”

“Girl, you could go do that now if you wanted to,” Hen says.

“I can’t just decide to be a nurse,” you argue.

“You could go be a flight paramedic if you wanted to,” Bobby says. “And since you’re an advanced paramedic, you can become a nurse in like, half the normal time.”

You frown. “Seriously?”

He nods. “There are a lot of paramedic-to-RN bridge programs out there. California prefers nurses with bachelor’s degrees, but you could get your associate’s degree and go from there. You might need some hospital experience to beef up your resume, but otherwise, you’d be a shoo-in.”

Chim looks at Bobby in disbelief. “Why would you tell her all of that?”

He laughs. “What?”

“You’re gonna make her leave!” Hen exclaims. She sets her head on your shoulder. “We don’t want her to leave—we love her.”

You smile and pat Hen’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving. I love what I do right now, and I love the people I do it with. That’s why it’s just a dream.”

It’s true: you love what you do… most of the time. When you don’t love it, you really fucking hate it. But that’s anywhere. You should just count your blessings, cut your losses, or whatever the expression is.

Buck joins you all, grabbing an apple from the bowl between you and Hen.

“Buckaroo, If you were not a member of the LAFD, what would you be doing?” Chim asks.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Buck frowns as he sits beside you. “I’m not getting fired, am I?”

Bobby gives him a look of contemplation that makes you snort.

Chim casually takes another bite. “That’s inevitable.”

“He’d be a golden retriever,” Hen chimes in.

“No, a bartender,” Chim says. “No, no, a bouncer at a bar.”

“A bouncer at a strip club,” you correct him.

Chim and Hen high-five each other, then you. You turn to your side. Buck has a small smile on his face, but you can tell something is eating at him.

“What’s going on, Pretty Boy?” you ask. When he meets your gaze, you offer (what you hope is) an encouraging smile.

“Traffic sucks in this town unless you're driving ten tons of engine with sirens,” Buck says. “It took me almost two hours to get from my place to the call center downtown, then back over here. I told Maddie she needs to start Ubering.”

You frown at the mention of ��Maddie,’ a name you haven’t heard before. Does Buck have a girlfriend? And they’re already living together? Something about that doesn’t sit right with you. It feels like a piece of lead took residence in your stomach, and the space between your lungs and ribs got slightly smaller.

“Maddie?” You ask, trying to sound neutral.

“My sister,” Buck clarifies.

The lead in your stomach evaporates. “Oh. I didn’t know you had a sister. She’s living with you?”

“For now, until she finds a place of her own,” Buck nods.

You nod as well. “How are things going?”

“Well, she’s a Buckley, so she’s practically running the place,” Buck says.

Bobby offers him a plate, which he accepts. He stands up to go to the table, and on his way over, he pats your shoulder twice. When he’s out of sight, Hen cocks her head and raises an eyebrow.

“What?” You ask her, deadpan.

“‘Maddie’?” she repeats, mocking how you said her name.

“It was a question.”

“You sounded like a jealous girlfriend,” Hen laughs.

“I’m not jealous, and I’m definitely not his girlfriend.”

“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t be,” Hen says in a sing-song voice as she stands.

“Yeah, you better run,” you threaten playfully as she approaches the table.

She flips you the bird, and you laugh loudly.

The first call of the shift is to a building affected by an earthquake. It sounds like the scene already has plenty of paramedics, so for the first time in a long time, you’re in firefighter gear and will be helping pull victims from the site. It’s not your favorite thing to do all the time—that’s what the rescue team is for. Every once in a while isn’t bad, though. It gets your blood pumping like paramedicine does; you only tend to use your muscles more than your brain. It’s also fun to sit in an engine instead of the rig for a change.

Eddie is next to you, and since getting on, he hasn’t looked up from his phone. His brow is furrowed, and his forehead is already shining with sweat.

You lean over, knowing you’ll still have to yell for him to hear you over the engine and sirens. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, then back at his phone. “Yeah, no service. Texts won’t even get through.”

He’s pissed, and you have no clue why.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Who are you trying to get a hold of?”

Eddie stares at you momentarily, then looks around the engine at the other passengers.

“My son,” he eventually explains. “I’m trying to reach my son.”

“Woah, you got a kid?!” Buck exclaims.

“Christopher,” Eddie says, pulling up a picture on his phone. He shows you, then Buck. “He’s seven.”

“He looks like a sweet kid,” you say.

“Yeah, he’s super adorable,” Buck agrees. “I uh, I love kids.”

“I love this one,” Eddie says quietly. “I’m all he’s got. His mother’s not in the picture.”

“He’s at school right now?” You ask, tilting your head.

Eddie nods.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you say, patting his knee reassuringly.

Eddie glances from your hand to your face. He nods slightly and gives you a closed-mouth smile. He wants to believe you, but his parental instincts tell him not to. You get it. No one but Chris can quell that anxiety.

You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window.

The damaged building is one of the craziest things you’ve seen in a long time. It’s on the corner, leaning out over the street below. All of the buildings around it look fine on the outside. It truly looks like something from an apocalyptic movie.

“You guys ever deal with anything like this before?” Eddie asks once you’re all standing on the sidewalk.

Bobby shakes his head, still staring up at the building. “Nope.”

A cop is escorting a couple down the sidewalk. They’re fighting her to go back.

“You have to let me back in there, my baby is in there!” The woman screams.

“Please, our daughter is still inside!” The man protests as an officer pushes him back. “She’s eight years old! Her name is Kat!”

Your stomach is in knots. This is why you don’t like working rescue. As a paramedic, you don’t know what you’re walking into. When you work search and rescue, you know what you’ll find; you just might not like it.

You follow your team as Bobby looks for the Incident Commander. You begin walking through a makeshift medical bay, and you can see that they’ve already implemented disaster protocol triage. Each patient is wearing a tag with their assigned triage color. Green means stable, yellow means a serious injury but not an emergency, red means an immediate threat to life, and black indicates death or injuries incompatible with life. You mostly see green and yellow, which is a good sign.

You overhear some of what Chief Williams, the Incident Commander, and Bobby are discussing. Essentially, the building is on a fault line, and the only thing keeping it upright is some steel, so one aftershock and the whole thing could come down.

Bobby faces you all. “Okay, listen up: Here's how you make it to the end of the day. You don't worry about the things that you can't do anything about. Focus on one task at a time. I can't order you guys to go inside that building, and I'm not gonna judge you if you decide not to.”

“Where do you want us?” Is the first thing Eddie asks.

Bobby is pulled to help with triage, while Chim and Hen see a woman on the 11th floor needing rescue. This left you with Eddie and Buck by default, who are tasked with sweeping the ground floor in search of any survivors or rescue teams that may need additional assistance.

You find some bodies that you leave black tags on and spray paint an ‘x’ on a landmark near them. You aren’t entirely sure you believe in god, but just in case, you also send a prayer.

“How does it feel to be in on the action for once?” Buck asks with a grin. “Ya know, instead of standing outside waiting like you normally do.”

“So far? I’m not loving it,” you retort, ducking under a massive piece of concrete.

A firefighter from a different crew approaches you, a victim in tow.

“Need any help?” Eddie asks.

“All good,” The firefighter replies. “There’s a kid maybe 50 feet back, he needs EMTs. Bad.”

“Is it a little girl?” you ask, thinking of Kat. Honestly, you aren’t sure what you want the answer to be.

“No, an African American teenager,” he clarifies.

“Fire and Rescue, hello?!” Buck shouts.

“Right here!” A voice shouts back. “Thank god, man, he’s stuck!”

The three of you have to crawl across a beam to get to him. You’re the last one to make it across, and Buck hands you your bag once you do. You give him a single nod, which he returns.

“What’s your name, kiddo?” You ask with a smile as you approach the victim.

A man is holding one of his hands, and the other is cradling his head. He doesn’t appear to be his father, but you can tell they know each other somehow. You can see why: his injury is brutal. His left leg is trapped under a massive concrete support beam, one that normally goes from the ceiling to the floor.

“Jeff,” he answers shakily.

“You already try and move some debris, see if you can pull him free?” Eddie asks as he gets a set of vitals.

“The second we touched the beam, everything above started shifting,” the man responds.

Buck stares up. “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. It looks like this debris is holding up this section of the ceiling. If we try to pull it out of the way, this whole area could cave in.”

“My friend Eddie and I are gonna stablize your neck, okay Jeff?” You say as you get the c-collar out of your pack.

Eddie holds C-spine as you slide the collar around Jeff’s neck.

“I-I can’t move it, coach,” Jeff says. “How bad is it?”

“Hey, bones heal, alright?” His coach replies.

“Sir, this firefighter is gonna lead you out of here,” Buck interrupts.

“No, screw that, I’m staying, alright? This kid is a son to me.”

“Okay, we need to focus all of our attention on Jeff right now. We can't be worried about your safety, too,” Buck insists. “Now go.”

A sense of pride swells in your heart. Buck is taking charge of the situation, similar to how Bobby would. Sometimes, you can hardly believe this is the same guy who got fired for not respecting the job.

Buck approaches you. “What’ve we got?”

“Crushed tibia and fibula,” you answer. “Looks like it missed any major arteries.”

“Alright, Pretty Boy, what do you think?”

Both Buck and Eddie begin talking. They frown and glance at each other, then at you.

Your cheeks burn a little. “Um, Buck is Pretty Boy.”

Buck gives a little shit-eating grin.

“Huh, sounds like there’s a story there,” Eddie notes.

The three of you are standing in a small circle, out of earshot from Jeff. You’re trying to decide what the next step is, and the boys have considered every option… except yours.

“What if we try chipping away at the debris, try to make headway,” Eddie suggests.

“Are you crazy? The entire goddamn building could come crashing down us,” you argue. “I don’t know why we’re even discussing this. There’s one option: we get a trauma surgeon in here, and Jeff loses his leg instead of his life.”

“Basketball is his life,” Buck says. His arms are folded across his chest, and he sways back and forth a little as he thinks.

“Yeah, Well, it isn’t just his life at stake,” you retort. “We’re here too, and call me selfish, but I don’t want to die so a kid can play with a ball. That’s also assuming, by the way, that his leg is even salvageable when all is said and done. And it might not be.”

“You don’t know that it isn’t,” Eddie shrugged. “We have to at least try, right?”

“Okay, I know you boys are super into the whole ‘badass, lifesaving, run-into-danger’ firefighter thing, but we have to be realistic. This isn’t just Jeff we’re talking about. Hell, this isn’t just about the four of us. It’s about everyone above us, too: Hen, Chim, and god knows how many other firefighters and survivors. Risking all of their lives for one person isn’t heroic—it’s stupid.”

“What about an airbag?” Buck says to Eddie. “We shore up this pocket we're in. get an air bag to lift up the beam that’s pinning him down.”

Eddie nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, that could work.”

You tap your mouth like it’s a microphone. “Is this thing on?”

Buck sighs. “Look, we can’t just—”

“I can hear you, you know,” Jeff interrupts your conversation. “Shouldn’t I get a vote?”

You look at Jeff, then back at your coworkers. Without saying anything, you all move back over to Jeff, surrounding him in a formation similar to before.

“Jeff, what do you want to to do?” You ask, gently taking his hand.

He squeezes your hand. “I may be able to live without my leg, but I don’t know if I can live knowing I could have saved it, but didn’t.”

You smile and nod. You look to Buck and Eddie. “Then we try the airbags.”

“Alright, Jeff, you ready?” Buck asks.

Buck is at Jeff’s shoulders, Eddie is at his hip, and you’re crouched at his feet. Buck and Eddie will move Jeff once the airbag deploys, and it’s your job to make sure he’s clear.

Jeff nods. “Yeah, but if things go wrong, leave me and save yourselves. This is my choice to try this.”

“Eh, I kind of like you, so now you’re stuck with me,” you joke. You get at least a chuckle out of everyone. “All four of us are getting out of here.”

“That’s right,” Eddie agrees, “with all 8 legs.”

Buck leans in a little closer to Jeff. “Now, Jeff, she gave you some morphine, but once we move you, it’s gonna hurt like hell. You ready?”

Jeff agrees, quietly at first but then loudly. “Yeah. Yeah, Yeah. Yeah, come on, we’re the champs.”

You smile and can almost taste how bittersweet the expression is. Buck and Eddie quickly catch on and begin agreeing.

“Yeah, we’re the champions!” Buck shouts.

“We got this! Yeah, we got this!” Eddie yells.

Eventually, the three of them just yell in similar octaves. They sound like a bunch of little boys excited to play a game. You have to blink a few times, holding back tears.

Buck counts down, then turns a nozzle to deploy the airbag. You can hear some cracking sounds but feel no slack on Jeff’s leg.

“Anything?!” Buck shouts.

“A little more!” Eddie shouts back.

Debris begins to fall on your shoulders, and you can feel the surface below you shaking.

“Come, come on, come on—”

Jeff’s leg is suddenly free enough, and you and Eddie pull him to the side.

In seconds, the three of you have him on the backboard, splinted, and ready for transport. Each of you is singing your praises to Jeff, encouraging him, and assuring him he did a good job. The boys get him onto the platform your team crawled in on. The boys are doing the heavy lifting, so you let them go first.

As you start to slide across the beam, you catch something in the corner of your eye. It’s a pink and purple sneaker, likely a child’s.

“Kat?” you shout, digging for your flashlight. “Kat?!”

After getting Jeff out, you confirm that Kat was wearing pink and purple shoes, which means she’s stuck somewhere in the building. The three of you return to the building with additional firefighters, all calling out Kat’s name.

An aftershock begins. Everything around you begins shaking, and you can feel the ground start to give. It makes your stomach do a few backflips. There’s a massive shift below you, and before you even realize it’s happening, you’re falling between two segments. For a moment, you hear Eddie and Buck call your name. Then, all you can hear is the world falling on top of you.

Eventually, everything becomes still. You reach for your radio, trying to get unpinned from whatever came crashing down on you. “Buck?! Eddie?!”

You can’t explain it, but you can feel you’re in a different spot. The air didn’t just get colder; it’s like the actual pressure of the atmosphere shifted.

You find there’s some slack above your legs, so you begin kicking. “Is anyone down here?!”

“Hey,” a gravely voice calls out.

You grunt a few times as you pry and pull yourself from the rubble. When you break free, you see a trapped firefighter a few feet away. His legs are completely obstructed, and he’s pressed flat on his back.

“Hey, 221, right?” you say, opening your medi bag. “We ran into some of your boys earlier. I’m 118.”

“Russ, 221,” he confirms.

“Russ, where’s your radio?” You ask as you look around. “Mine’s toast.”

“I don’t have one,” he rasps out, “all radios were issued out. It’s not my shift?”

You feel a pull on your heartstrings. “ Oh my god, you came in on your day off, Russ?”

“Eh, I had nothing better to do,” He jokes with a weak laugh.

You begin looking around and think of various ways to free Russ. You first try pushing the debris away, which proves unsuccessful. You then try pulling Russ out, and when that doesn’t work, you try using your fire axe as a jack.

“There’s gotta be an actual jack in one of these cars,” you say, swinging your head around as you try to locate the nearest vehicle.

“Don’t waste your strength or your time,” Russ protests.

“Enough of that, Russ,” you gently scold. “We’re both getting out of here, okay?”

“I’m not. Fractured pelvis, flail chest... Even I couldn't save me, and... you don't know me, but I'm good.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I’m better,” You argue, finding a nearby car door. You open it. “Hang in there.”

“I’m not gonna make it,” Russ coughs. You rush to his side, and it looks like he’s spitting up blood. “Help's not coming. Not in time, anyway. So, please, my kit. The morphine. Give me a bolus.” He coughs and moans a little. “Oh, make it three.”

“I'll give you one, just to keep you comfortable, but we're not giving up, okay?” You say as you begin rifling through your bag.

“Are you married?” Russ asks.

You shake your head. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Well, I was,” Russ explains. “She was always worrying that I wouldn't... make it back home to see her. Decided maybe it's better if I just stopped coming home altogether. I think maybe she was... onto something.”

You’re drawing up the last little bit of morphine when Russ goes quiet. You drop the syringe and shake his shoulders. “Russ?! Russ!”

You put your fingers to his neck, but you know you aren’t going to find a pulse. His eyes are already glazed over, his face totally relaxed.

You throw the syringe of morphine as hard as you can, curling up into a ball. “Dammit.”

You stay like that for a while, probably longer than you should. A few silent tears stream down your face. You eventually wipe away your tears, close Russ’s eyes, and continue forward.

You go for as long as you can, but the air gets so thin that it becomes hard to breathe. At some point, you stumble to your feet, leaning back against some rubble behind you. You take in a few deep breaths, and you exhale them as sobs.

Wiping at your eyes again, you reach for your phone. It’s something you never wanted to do, but it feels like the right decision. When you find your phone, you click into the voice memo app.

“Hey, Bobby,” you say, letting out a cough. “I’m sorry you have to hear them this way, but you deserve some last words from me, so here I go: working with you has been the greatest pleasure of my life.”

You record one for each of your co-workers, your family members.

“Chim, I always thought of you as a mentor…”

“Hen, your friendship has meant the absolute world to me…”

“Eddie, I haven’t known you for long, but I’m glad I got to meet you…”

“Pretty Boy,” you laugh, then cough again. “Evan Buckley… where do I even start with you? I’m not gonna lie: I really didn’t like you when we first met. And that’s funny, because now, you’re probably one of the most important people in my life. You definitely proved me wrong, man: you were good. You are good. And you have to keep being good, okay? I might not be there to see it anymore, but you should still do it. Do it for the both of us, will ya?”

A few tears fall from your face as you end the recording. You take a few deep breaths before marching onward.

Ch 5

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

Endings and Beginnings - Rooster

Pairing: Rooster / Fem!Reader (Wife!Reader)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Pregnancy, Second Person POV ("You"), No Physical Description about Reader

This work, all of my other works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only.

Summary: It's Maverick's retirement party but Rooster's far more concerned about you, his pregnant wife, than anything else.

A.N. Rooster is retired in this story and it's set a few years after TGM.

Edit: Part 2 is now out!

Master List

Maverick was officially retiring from the Navy. Or finally, depending on who you asked. The Hard Deck had been cleared out for the party and several generations of naval aviators, active and retired, and their families were spread out around the space. Drinks were poured continuously, there was pizza and snacks and even a cake with a Tomcat on it for later.

“Are you sure that you’re okay to be here?” Rooster asked you softly, grabbing your hand.

“I’m fine,” you assured your husband. “Just pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” Hangman added, causing Rooster to glare over at him. Phoenix whacked Hangman on the arm your behalf, causing the blond to huff and complain. “What? It’s true!”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, squeezing Rooster’s hand. “I’ll sit down if I need to and there’s plenty of water and snacks that I can eat.” You released his hand and nudged him in the direction of Maverick, who was chatting with a few pilots his own age. “Go, mingle. Shoo. It’s a party. Party.”

“Only if you promise to let me know if you need to go home or to the hospital or—”

“—Rooster, I’m fine. The baby isn’t coming for another two weeks. Now, go. I think Mav’s been trying to subtly introduce you for an hour now.”

“Keep an eye on her for me,” Rooster told the others before heading over to Maverick.

The newly retired pilot was all smiles as he chatted with his old friends. But as soon as Maverick spotted Rooster walking over, he quickly moved to pull him over to the older crowd of pilots.

“She finally kicked you over here?” Maverick asked, referring to you.

“Apparently, I’m hovering too much,” Rooster joked with Mav.

“Well, it’s a perfect time to reintroduce yourself to everyone.”

Maverick gestured around the half-circle of former naval aviators. Slider, Hollywood, Wolfman, Chipper, Sundown, Merlin, and Viper all nodded to Rooster and Rooster shook their corresponding hands. It had been a long time since he saw any of them, what with the whole paper incident, but Slider still dragged him in for a noogie like he was eight-years-old.

“So, you were Maverick’s RIO in that whole business?” Merlin asked, referring to the mission.

Even though the mission was still highly classified three years later, the fact that Maverick and Rooster had barely made it out alive wasn’t. Well, that and word got around when an old smashed up Tomcat was unloaded off of a carrier.

“How was that?” Merlin continued.

“Most terrifying experience of my life,” Rooster responded, half-joking, half-serious.

“I understand completely,” Merlin mused, causing Maverick to smile and shake his head.

“That’s not why you turned in your wings, is it though?” Viper asked with a knowing expression.

“No, no,” Rooster replied immediately. “When I got married and my wife and I started to plan for having our family, I decided that I wanted to be there for every step. And I didn’t want her to worry about me coming home at the end of the day. So, I finished up my service requirements and retired.”

And, well, for a kid who lost his father to the Navy, Rooster’s reasoning didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Every naval aviator knew the risks involved in their line of work and while technological advancements helped decrease training accidents and fatalities, they were still always a possibility.

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let his child learn about him from pictures, like he had to with his own father.

“And Maverick says that you’re switching to commercial?” Wolfman spoke up.

“Yeah, I have one more test to take and then I’m ready to fly, but I probably won’t start until we’re settled with our baby,” Rooster explained, nodding along.

“Your first one?” Viper guessed with an all-knowing smile.

“How could you tell?” Rooster inquired, earning a chuckle from the other fathers in the group.

 “You got that look in your eye.”

“Not too different from the rookies at flight school,” Hollywood added with an amused smile.

“It’ll pass eventually, but the first one always gets you jittery,”  

“Being a father is like learning how to fly—utterly terrifying at first, and there’s definitely a learning curve to it, but once you’re up there and you’ve leveled out, you won’t even remember what it was like before you learned in the first place.”

“I keep telling him to relax. He’ll be a natural,” Maverick spoke up, squeezing Rooster’s shoulder.

Rooster glanced through the crowd to check on you and found you sitting at one of the tables with your feet propped up on the opposite chair. You looked calm, but uncomfortable—though you’d told him that ‘nearly nine months pregnant’ and ‘comfortable’ did not go together no matter the situation.

“But speaking of, I should probably go check on my wife,” Rooster replied, his nerves and ‘Mother Hen’ tendencies, as Hangman called them, shining through.

“Of course.”

“Don’t let us keep you.”

“It was an honor to meet all of you again,” Rooster offered in goodbye, before checking on you.

The retired naval aviators watched him go and then turned to Maverick.

“God, he looks just like Goose,” Slider replied quietly.

“And with the mustache and the Hawaiian shirt too,” Wolfman agreed, sharing looks with the other retired naval aviators.

“Yeah, he does,” Maverick stated softly, watching Rooster weave through the party. “Just wait until you see him at a piano.”

Rooster slid through the crowd over to the back tables. You were still sitting with your feet propped up, a full glass of water in front of you, and your usual easygoing smile on your lips. Bob, Phoenix, and Hangman were keeping you company and spread out around you.

“You alright?” Rooster asked, walking to your side.

“I’m fine. Just wanted to sit down for a little bit. Baby Bradshaw seems a little excited about the party,” you stated, your hands resting over the swell of your bump. Rooster placed a hand under yours, where Baby Bradshaw tended to kick for the last few days. “How’s Mav doing?”

“I think he’s enjoying himself a lot. He hasn’t seen his old TOP GUN buddies in a while, so it’s nice for them to all come out to see him.”

“Well, Penny can be very convincing when she wants to be,” you mused with a smile.

Wordlessly you moved Rooster’s hand to the side, where the baby was pressing on you. Though you were growing tired of being pregnant, you didn’t think that you’d ever get tired of the way that Rooster just flipped a happy switch whenever he felt your baby.

“What are you all doing over here?” Rooster asked, turning back to the others.

“Actually, we’ve got a poll going about the baby,” Bob explained to Rooster.

“What are the votes?”

“I think it’s a girl,” Phoenix declared confidently.

“Which means that it’s a boy,” Hangman stated, just as confident.

“You only said that after you found out that Rooster and I think it’s a girl,” Phoenix retorted, causing Hangman to shrug his shoulders.

"So what?”

“I think that it’s a boy too,” you offered up. “The way that I’m carrying says that it’s a boy.”

“It’s not an exact science,” Rooster pointed out.

“No but call it mother’s intuition.”

“I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“God, you’re so whipped,” Hangman grunted, earning an elbow to the side from Phoenix.

Rooster and you ended up leaving the party among the first wave of people—mostly elderly and people with small children. But not before you received a whole bunch of random baby gifts from all of the people who missed your shower a month earlier.

“Do you want a hot bath when we get home?” Rooster offered, glancing over at you as he drove home.

“Maybe,” you sighed, shifting in your seat.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable. Nothing either of us can do for that.”

“You want more of that tea that Penny got you then?”

“Yeah, maybe that’ll help,” you murmured, leaning back in your seat. Your hands rubbed up and down your bump, trying to soothe yourself. “I think that Baby Bradshaw just got a little overexcited about meeting everyone all at once. But maybe some tea and a bath will help.”

“Coming right up,” Rooster assured you.

You pulled into the driveway and Rooster walked around to help you out. Usually, yo would just push his hand away and insist that you were more than capable of getting yourself out of the car, but this time you happily accepted his help.

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Rooster asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” you replied, pecking his cheek. “Just slow.”

Rooster walked with you to the front door, keeping a protective arm around your waist. You walked into the kitchen and Rooster instantly moved to heat up some hot water for your tea. You leaned on the countertop, just looking completely uncomfortable with your existence.

“I’ll grab the bags out of the car and then I’ll start your bath,” Rooster promised, pressing a loving kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you.”

Rooster jogged down to the car and gathered whatever bags were sitting in the trunk. He left the go bag in the car, just in case, before heading back into the house. He wasn’t even completely through the door when he spotted you waddling towards the stairs.

“I’ll run your bath, babe, just sit and relax.”

“I’m not going to take a bath,” you called back, moving up the stairs slowly.

“You need help?”

“No, I just need to change.”

“Oh, okay,” Rooster replied, setting down the bags.

“Also, don’t walk through the kitchen yet,” you warned him, grunting a bit as you walked.

“Why?” Rooster asked, moving to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

“There’s amniotic fluid all over the floor and I haven’t gotten a chance to clean it up yet.”

“Amniotic . . .” Rooster trailed off before the realization hit him like 10 G’s all at once. “Babe!?”

Part 2

[romcomxdd]

AU where Mav n Ice managed to convince Bradley not to join the Navy.

(stick with me there’s hangster in here i promise-)

Instead of pulling Bradley’s papers, Mav and Ice sat down with Bradley and explained his mother’s wishes and their concerns. Really, they just had an adult conversation about it. Of course, Bradley was pissed, but more so at his mum than Maverick or Ice. Eventually he agreed, much to the older men’s relief, though Mav did feel a bit guilty about it. He knew Goose would have loved to see his son take after him.

Bradley took a few weeks to explore some other career options, he knew he still wanted to fly in some capacity. With his dads all being pilots, he’d had plenty of off the book lessons from them and all his honorary uncles. He had a knack for it. And he knew he wanted to help people. He had volunteered at his local fire-station for a few years and had acquired his basic first aid qualifications through that. But beyond that, he was lost.

Until he heard about Wilderness EMT’s. It was at at a careers expo Ice had dragged him along to after school and he really didn’t want to be there.

They wandered the expo for a while, until the first responders area caught his eye. Bradley looked through the police and fire rescue stalls first, took some pamphlets and asked a few questions, but nothing really struck him.

As Ice wandered off to look at the Navy section out of curiosity, Bradley lined up to look at the Paramedics stall. As he talked to the lady at the front for a bit, they got onto the topic of the specifics of her career. Before she had taken a job in recruitment, she had been a Wilderness EMT, basically a branch on paramedics where she was trained in search and rescue, providing medical aid to remote areas. This immediately sparked Bradley’s interest, it had the adrenaline he had been looking for, all whilst making a real difference for real people.

By the time Ice had returned, he had quizzed the lady for almost an hour and to say that he was excited was an understatement. The teen was practically bouncing out of his seat on the drive home.

‘I just need to get my general EMT certification, then do a wilderness specific training course as the basics.’ Bradley was grinning ear from ear. ‘Then from there I can do swift water, high angle rescue training and disaster response training. And a bunch of other short courses- but I can do those quickly- And that’s not even the best part!’

Ice bit his lip and kept quiet. He was happy for Bradley, of course, it was nice to see him so excited about something, but this sounded dangerous. It wasn’t the Navy, but still.

‘She said I can finish getting my pilots license and use that for search and rescue. And if I can get my helicopter license I can still fly!’ He grinned. ‘And it’s not gonna be dangerous like your job, but it’s still so cool.’

Ice nodded, still worried, but Bradley seemed serious about this. They’d already stopped him from one career opportunity, if they told him he couldn’t do this, Bradley may never talk to them again.

And as it turned out, he was dead serious about it. Within three years, Bradley had flown through his Paramedics degree, and got a job as a regular EMT. Whilst he worked, he continued with his helicopter license, and began ticking off the required courses. Another two years later, he was a fully qualified Wilderness EMT.

It had taken a while for Mav to get on board with the idea, but after seeing the fufillment in Bradley’s face when he came home after saving a life, he could help the pride that flowed through him. Goose would have been over the moon.

Bradley quickly excelled at his job, showing just how disciplined he was, both in the field and with the patients. His bedside manner was impeccable and had an incredibly cool head under pressure. He progressed fast, becoming a team leader in no time. There wasn’t as much room for advancement as there was in the Navy, but Bradley did what he could.

He loved his job and though it had one of the highest burnout rates in the country, he couldn’t see himself quitting anytime soon. He lived for the adrenaline of his work. Every day was different, he could be providing help to flooded communities, or hiking mountains in search of a missing person. It could be anything from pulling someone from an avalanche, or airlifting someone who’d twisted an ankle and didn’t feel like walking out.

And the sense of satisfaction he got after saving a life. Made him feel like he was in control. Like he could make a meaningful difference in someone’s life by getting them home safe.

Of course there were hard days. When someone died in transit, or they just couldn’t get them out in time. When their missing person just didn’t turn up. It could be traumatising, but he made sure to talk with Ice and Mav about it, or his work friends, there were so many people around him who knew how to cope. He figured it out pretty fast.

One day Bradley’s team got called to a pretty notable rescue. An F18 had gone into a flatspin during training somewhere over a mountain and the pilot had ejected. A pilot by the name of Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin. Hangman had ejected safely, but the descent through the trees had fucked up his ankle, and he couldn’t walk.

The Navy’s equipment hadn’t been advanced enough, so they had called on the WEMT’s, whom for this kinda mission was their bread and butter. (shush i’m taking creative liberties)

They found him quickly and Bradley was the one to cut him out of his parachute and bring him up to the helicopter. Just imagine Jake being half unconscious as a handsome moustachioed angel leans over him and tells him everything’s gonna be alright.

The ride back included an ever exasperated Bradley and a lovestruck delirious Hangman who had decidedly not injured his mouth and would not shut up. As they reached the hospital, Jake asked him out. Bradley surprised even himself by agreeing to it, he hadn’t been in a serious relationship in years, it could be nice to get back out there.

They grew close, fast. Though Bradley never explained why he knew so much about Jake’s job. Not until Jake was finally invited around to ‘meet the parents’. Just imagine his surprise when he walks into the Admiral Kazansky’s home, who is apparently married to his instructor. Bradley thought the look on his face was hilarious and he would bring up the moment at any opportunity for the next few years.

[aleksiej]

does rottmnt donnie dislike touch?

i have rewatched all of rottmnt and am ending this debacle once and for all (at least for me lol)

based on the two seasons, the movie and the comics (tho the comics don't really bring anything to this conversation) i think i have the answer to one of the more controversial topics in this fandom

(no, it's not the yuichi vs usagi debate, usagi obviously wins that no sweat)

so, does donnie dislike touch?

in the series, he is shown being fairly touchy with his siblings throughout the series, with some exceptions i will try to list now, tho not with proper episode names as i am not looking them up, sorry not sorry:

pilot episode, captured by draxum in a cacoon with mikey he's visibly uncomfortable and tries to get away

mikey's solo mission, he doesn't look at any of the and in response to a hug he pats mikey's head with a metal arm from his battle shell.

glued together, he's showing visible discomfort at being forced into close (touching) proximity of his brothers, tho that discomfort is somewhat elevated when they do a second go-round after the sticky foam ball got crushed

that time splinter caught everyone in a trap hanging in the lair (i think it's the forest survival episode?), he's, again, uncomfortable and the first to find a solution to their entrapment, be it on his phone

there's probably more, but that's what i remember from the series and spread out on about 60 episodes it's noticeable, but not a deciding factor, especially since donnie's also seen being fine with touch. now, the movie offers us even more of a look into donnie's relationship with touch. this list will include every instance presented i can think of, in no particular order.

during leo and raph's fight after they lost the key, donnie jumps on raph's back in an attempt to stop him from advancing in the fight, as mikey tries to shield leo. it's a very quick decision and doesn't seem to particularly trouble donnie.

after the kraang come through the portal and the turtles escape-pod out, mikey's panicking and grabbing cj, also causing him distress. donnie grabs mikey under his arms like a plushie and is shown to carry him until leo gets back with a panic attack and news of raph, upon which leo starts at cj with a fight in mind and donnie and mikey keep him away. again, no distress is coming off of donnie, no more than the regular situation call for (although he gets more logic-minded and quiet as the movie goes on with only small donnie moments breaking it up, which seems to be how he reacts to stress, but that'll be in another fever post)

he's touching mikey sometimes during the subway battle, but it's most likely he either didn't notice or didn't care, considering everything else happening in that fight (ps the kraang train is my favorite villainous entity in the franchise, give me more of the kraang train and i will give you my soul)

he's shown very visibly having sensory issues (very relatable) throughout the whole movie because of the kraang. not necessarily to do with touch, oh except for the part when he had to get EATEN BY THE TECHNODROME THROUGH HIS BARELY TOUCHED AT ALL SOFT SHELL which is shown to be a sensory nightmare and awful to touch and yes, i had night terrors if that, thank you very much.

at the very end, they all hug with no visible problems except for the fact that they are on staten island. that is to say, there's one important scene still, it happens before the end, but i wanted to have space to gush about it so here we go.

the famous scene of raph grabbing donnie and mikey flying through the air, yelling "don't worry donnie, it's not a hug, it's a rescue". probably the most important thing said in accordance to donnie's relationship with touch.

in my personal opinion, donnie doesn't mask (i mean look at his behavior) or if he does, he does it, rarely in public and even rarer with just his brothers. so every one of the hamato clan knows at least the most important of donnie's boundaries, especially related to the autism, as it's handled well within their family structure (both donnie's and mikey's autism is) . so, if raph calls out to him to warn about the hug he's giving donnie and treats it like a potential bad thing, there are really only two conclusions we can get to.

one, donnie doesn't like/hates physical contact. disputed by just about everything else in the show, except for the listed above exceptions.

two, donnie being open to touch or not is conditional. and considering the mentioned exceptions and raph's rescue from the movie, there's one similarity we can notice between them.

the touch affecting donnie is happening without his consent and without a form of escape.

(except for when donnie's hugged by mikey in his solo mission episode, but considering he's already kind of detached, i'm assuming he's just not up to it and so he uses his robotic extra arms to give comfort instead of ignoring his little brother which aww)

that's the uncomfortable part, the unpredictability and lack of a way to detach himself. aka, donnie's just like me for real. lmao.

donnie probably doesn't mind touch and welcomes it, but needs to be in control of the process and be able to leave if he gets overwhelmed. and his family knows that, hence raph's words in the movie that led so many people astray...

this might just be another evidence of how well donnie is written as an autistic character, both with his low empathy not being demonized and not preventing him from creating bonds (tho sometimes making it difficult) and the fact that the most common opinion of autistic people (that they hate touch, which is something a psychiatrist brought up as evidence of me not being autistic) doesn't apply to everyone.

as a summary, rottmnt donnie is probably the best version of donnie right now and he doesn't hate touching, he just has to touch on his own terms. extremely valid, extremely relatable.

[uniquetigertheorist]

How Aviation Training Helps in Becoming a Commercial Pilot

Becoming a commercial pilot requires structured aviation training, including theoretical knowledge and practical experience. From flight simulations to real-time aircraft handling, learn how aviation training prepares you for a rewarding career. Proper training ensures pilots meet global aviation standards.

[c1qfxugcgy0]

adventures in QA

(previous post in this series)

My shop in Advanced Midbody - Carbon Wing (AMCW) at Large Aircraft Manufacturer (LAM) is at the very end of the composite fabrication building. Hundreds of people carefully lay up a hundred foot long slab of carbon fiber, cure it, paint it, and then we totally fuck it up with out of spec holes, scrapes, primer damage, etc. The people who write up our many defects are from the Quality Assurance (QA) department.

Every single screw and rivet on a LAM aircraft can be traced back to the mechanic who installed it. Back when even everything was done in pen and pencil, it was joked that the paper used to produce an aircraft outweighed the plane itself. Now that everything is computer-based, of course, the amount of paperwork is free to grow without limit.

(Haunting the factory is endless media coverage of an emergency exit door plug popping out of an Advanced Smallbody - Upengine (ASU) plane during a routine flight a few months ago. Unlike that airframe's notorious problems with MCAS, this was a straightforward paperwork screwup by a line worker: the bolts were supposed to be tightened, and they weren't.

As a result the higher ups have visited hideous tribulations on non-salaried workers. Endless webinars, structured trainings. Here at the Widebody plant we have received a steady flow of refugees from the Narrowbody factory, hair-raising tales of receiving one hundred percent supervision from the moment they clock in to the second they clock out from FAA inspectors who can recommend actual jail time for any lapse in judgement.)

A single hydraulic bracket Installation Plan (IP) is around four brackets. The team leads generally assign two bracket IPs per mechanic, since each bracket set is something like a foot apart, and while working on the plane is bad enough it's much worse to have another mechanic in your lap.

Let me list the order of operations:

One: Find where you're supposed to install these brackets. This is harder than you might think.

Firstly, it's a hundred foot long plank of carbon fiber composite, with longitudinal stringers bonded to it to add stiffness. The stringers are pilot drilled in the trim and drill center, a truly Brobdingnagian CNC mill that trims off the composite flash at the edges and locates and drills part holes for us. But there's a lot of holes, so you must carefully find your set.

A minor difficulty is that the engineering drawings are laid out with the leading edge pointing up, while the wing panels in our cells hang from the trailing edge. Not so bad, you just rotate the paper 180 when orienteering, then rotate it back up to read the printed labels.

A major difficulty is that the drawings are from the perspective from the outside of the panel. But we work on the inside of the wing (obviously, that's where all the parts are installed) so we also flip the drawings and squint through the back of the paper, to make things line up.

Large Aircraft Manufacturer has a market cap of US$110 billion, and we're walking around the wing jig with sheets of paper rotated 180 and flipped turnways trying to find where to put brackets.

Oh well, we're paid by the hour.

Two: Match drill the aluminum brackets to the carbon fiber composite stringer. I can devote an entire post to the subtleties of drilling carbon fiber, but I can already tell that this post is going to be a miserable slog, so I will merrily skip over this step.

Three: Vacuum up all the carbon dust and aluminum swarf created during this process. This step is not optional, as your team lead will remind you, his screaming mouth clouding your safety glasses with spittle at a distance of four inches. LAM is very serious about FOD. Every jet airliner you've ever ridden in is a wet wing design-- each interstitial space is filled with Jet A. There is no fuel bladder or liner-- the fuel washes right over plane structure and wing hardware. Any dirt we leave behind will merrily float into the fuel and be sucked right into the engines, where it can cause millions in damage. No place for metal shavings!

If you are nervous about flying, avoid considering that all the hydraulic lines and engine control cables dip into a lake of a kerosene on their way from the flight deck to the important machines they command. Especially do not consider that we're paid about as much per hour as a McDonalds fry cook to install flight-critical aviation components.

Four: Neatly lay out your brackets on your cart, fight for a position at a Shared Production Workstation (SPW) (of which we have a total of four (4) for a crew of thirty (30) mechanics) and mark your IP for QA inspection as Ready To Apply Seal.

Four: Twiddle your thumbs. Similarly, we have three QA people for thirty mechanics. This is not enough QA people, as I will make enormously clear in the following steps.

Five: Continue waiting. Remember, you must not do anything until a QA person shows up and checks the box. Skipping a QA step is a “process failure” and a disciplinary offense. From the outside, you can observe the numerous QA whistleblowers and say “golly, why would a mechanic ever cut a corner and ignore QA?” Well...

Six: QA shows up. Theoretically, they could choose to pick up the mahrmax you prepared for them and gauge every single hole you've drilled. But since we're three hours into the shift and they're already twenty jobs behind, they just flick their flashlight across the panel and say “looks good" and then sprint away. Can't imagine why our planes keep falling out of the sky.

Seven: Apply the seal to the bracket. P/S 890 is a thick dark gray goop that adheres well to aluminum, carbon fiber, fabric, hair and skin. Once cured, it is completely immune to any chemical attack short of piranha solution, so if you get any on yourself you had better notice quick, otherwise it'll be with you as long as the layer of epidermis it's bonded to. LAM employees who work with fuel tank sealant very quickly get out of the habit of running their hands through their hair.

Eight: Now you wait again. Ha ha, you dumb asshole, you thought you were done with QA? No no, now you put up the job for QA inspection of how well you put the seal on the bracket. Twiddle your thumbs, but now with some urgency. The minute you took the bottle of seal out of the freezer, you started the clock on its "squeeze-out life." For this type of seal, on this job, it's 120 minutes. If QA doesn't get to you before that time expires, you remove your ticket, wipe off the seal, take another bottle out the freezer, and apply a fresh layer.

Nine: Optimistically, QA shows up in time and signs off on the seal. Well, you're 100 minutes into your 120 minute timer. Quickly, you slap the brackets onto the stringer, air hammer the sleeve bolts into position, thread nuts onto the bolts, then torque them down. Shove through the crowd and mark your IP "ready to inspect squeeze out"

Ten: Let out a long breath and relax. All the time sensitive parts are over. The criteria here is "visible and continuous" squeeze out all along the perimeter of the bracket and the fasteners. It is hard to screw this up, just glop on a wild excess of seal before installing it. If you do fail squeezeout, though, the only remedy is to take everything off, throw away the single-use distorted thread locknuts, clean everything up and try again tomorrow.

Eleven: QA approved squeeze out? Break's over, now we're in a hurry again. By now there's probably only an hour or two left in the shift, and your job now is to clean off all that squeeze out. Here's where you curse your past self for glopping on too much seal. You want to get it off ASAP because if you leave it alone or if it's too late in the shift and your manager does feel like approving overtime it'll cure to a rock hard condition overnight and you'll go through hell chipping it off the next day. You'll go through a hundred or so qtips soaked in MPK cleaning up the bracket and every surface of the panel within three feet.

Twelve: Put it up for final inspection. Put away all your tools. (The large communal toolboxes are lined with kaizen foam precisely cut out to hold each individual tool, which makes it obvious if any tool is missing. When you take a tool out, you stick a tool chit with your name and LAMID printed on it in its place. Lose a tool? Stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, pal, because the default assumption is that a lost screwdriver is lurking in a hollow "hat" stringer, waiting to float out and damage some critical component years after the airplane is delivered.)

One tool you'll leave on your cart, however, is the pin protrusion gage. There is a minimum amount of thread that must poke outside of the permanent straight shank fastener's (Hi-Lok) nut, to indicate that the nut is fully engaged. That makes sense. But there's also a maximum protrusion. Why?

Well, it's an airplane. Ounces make pounds. An extra quarter inch of stickout across a thousand fasteners across a 30 year service life means tons of additional fuel burnt. So you can't use a fastener that's too long, because it adds weight.

On aluminum parts, it's hard to mess up. But any given composite part is laid up from many layers of carbon fiber tape. The engineers seemed to have assumed that dimensional variation would be normally distributed. But, unfortunately, we buy miles of carbon fiber at a time, and the size only very gradually changes between lots. When entire batches are several microns oversize, and you're laying up parts from fifty plies and an inch thick, you can have considerable variation of thickness on any given structural component. So you had better hope you had test fit all of your fasteners ahead of time, or else you'll be real sorry!

And, if you're really lucky, QA will show up five minutes before end of shift, pronounce everything within tolerance, then fuck off.

And that's how it takes eight hours to install eight brackets.

[diejager]

How would each of the monster 141 react if hunter were like- straight up killed in front of them. Like no wiggle room “oh they might be alive and just unconscious” but just straight up dead. Sorry I am a sucker for angst and I feel like this would be a fantastic read considering how bonded and feral they all are to protect hunter. Thanks in advance! Love the blog! Keep it up 👍

Are you trying to get me killed? Do you want me to have a heartattack?

End of the line Cw: death, suicidal thoughts, angst, mention of suicide, blood, injury, tell me if I missed any.

It had been a mistake, a costly one, but still a mistake. In that moment, everything had lost its point, the mission, the goal, the enemy and the celebration were pointless, forgettable. Time slowed, lagging behind in minutes when the shot rang out, booming in your restless minds until all they could hear was a loud thump, a body slumping down.

It was a rookie mistake made by their eagerness to return home, bodies bruised from the last deployment and still sore, skin painted in black and purple, but you pushed on, being sent from one end of the planet to the other. They were hanging on a thin thread of perseverance and training, practiced to live on perpetual soreness and exhaustion.

But that didn’t ease the pain, the open wound in their hearts. They watched you slump over, blood pooling from the wound in your chest —shot center mass. They dropped everything, Rudy rushing to turn you over, hands shaky and eyes blurry, he choked down a sob and a tear slid down his cheek. You were unresponsive, eyes glazed and dull, the light that they all loved gone in a breath. You upper torso bled, a bullet pierced through your kevlar vest, the bullet’s calibre higher than anything they expected.

Ghost joined Rudy, desperate to see if there were a chance to resuscitate you, to bring you back to them. His hands were frantic, tremors wracking his whole body as he loomed forward, trying to find a pulse, hand pressing against your still warm throat. He felt his fears surging forward, the dark voice at the back of his mind grinding out words, terrors that followed him at every step. It was like the last Christmas, when Tommy and Beth died, when Joseph and his mom were shot, when the people he cared for were killed.

Ghost felt his voice leave him, croaky and dying, it made him unable to utter a single word, and so was Rudy, mind blank. So Alejandro was the one to tell the verdict, but they hadn’t needed him to tell them to know. Soap, König and Horangi heard your heart stop, the powerful muscle in your chest explode from the bullet and grow silent. The pain clawed at their hearts, the overbearing weight on their chest made their retreat harder.

However much Price wanted to cry, to fall to his knees as cradle your body against his chest, he was the TF’s leader, he had to bring the rest of them back home. He ordered Gaz back from his perch for the sniper after he dealt with it, Gaz’s advanced sight catching the glint of the scope. Holding the title of a Task Force’s captain meant a lot, it placed a certain amount of responsibility on his shoulder and he couldn’t let his men down. Price could let a few tears slip, but he had to hold it in until he had a moment to himself in the silence of his office.

Gaz was silent during and afterwards, watching your limp body being carried in König’s arms until you reached the aircraft piloted by Nikolai who shared an equally heartbroken and saddened expression as them. His voice died with you, unable to voice his mind or his sorrows, confining himself to his room in silence. Although he lost himself, he had the others to bring him back like you did when Ghost wandered too deeply into his mind, bringing back up memories.

Soap did what he knew best, throwing himself into the fray, overworking himself with solo mission and spearheading other joint work. He almost worked himself to the bone until Horangi pulled him back, scuffing him and beating your wishes into his mind, telling him that you wouldn’t want them to break away like this, to wither away as if they were never here.

Despite helping Soap, Horangi suffered the same as the werewolf did, silently crying himself to sleep, fingers clawing at his head in desperation to quiet down the loud screeches in his mind, degrading words thrown at himself for failing you. He knew you didn’t want him to hate himself, but how could he quell the bleeding wound in his heart when you weren’t here to ease the pain away? The memory of you did.

Alejandro tried his best, acting and trying to feel better until it ultimately failed, he wasn’t in the right place to see you nor talk about you to others, murmuring your name when he slept and woke up with a start. He wasn’t as lost as Ghost was, didn’t shut the world around him down and closed in on himself, but he was following closely behind if he didn’t have the Task Force.

Rudy was the most human out of them, he felt more strongly but couldn’t cry. His mind was blank, the beat in his chest loud and erratic, yet his mind was silent, a ground of deathly quiet. He couldn’t do anything, work became hard, waking up exhausting, and taking care of himself harrowingly difficult. You’d scold him if you saw how he was behaving, how little care he had for himself —to near hunger and insanity. He hung onto your words, your confession, the three words you gave them as a parting gift, that’s what forced him out of his shell.

While the rest worked through their pain, to reach a stalemate together, none fell as hard as Ghost and König, both having a difficult childhood and a harder time following their enlistment. The lost themselves easily, becoming much more violent and deranged in their kills, ripping men in half and swallowing them whole, leaving all but a puddle of blood behind. The only thing that stopped them from ending their pain, to reaching out towards the knife that hung on the side of their thighs were your words, the handwritten words on your will and a message for everyone.

You wanted them to live, to be happy without you being there and that you’d be waiting for them on the other side until eternity. You were patient after all. At least a part of you hung from their necks, your ashes shared between the eight men and your items spread equally.

“I love you.”

Tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[luvvictoria]

The Mission That Changed Everything

+ pairings. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader

+ tags. romance, heavy (?) angst, slow-burn, action-packed military romance with angst and tension

+ summary. A skilled Air Force pilot is assigned to provide air support for a mission alongside Task Force 141, specifically working with the infamous Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley. You immediately feel the tension in the room, as Ghost is cold, distant, and unapproachable. Despite the pilot's efforts to be professional, it’s clear that Ghost doesn’t trust easily, especially not outsiders. The mission itself is simple — clear the skies while the ground team breaches a weapons facility — but the dynamic between you and Ghost is far from smooth. Your mutual dislike is evident.

+ materialist ; prev. part ; next part.

+ a/n. Reblog with your favorite line! It would help me to grow my account !! Thank you in advance. Thank you so much for your support ! It means very much to me! Also if you want to take a little peek at the next chapter here is my ko-fi !!

The mission was a disaster. A complete, overwhelming disaster. The kind of disaster you couldn’t see coming, but the moment it hit, it shattered everything.

One moment, you were slicing through the skies, the hum of your jet’s engines a steady rhythm, your fingers dancing over the controls as you executed the flawless maneuvers you had perfected over years of training. The air was clear, the mission parameters as simple as they came: provide air support, neutralize hostile targets, ensure the ground team could complete their objective. But the next second, the world went to hell.

A sudden, violent jolt rocked the cockpit, throwing your body against the harness with a force that left your chest heaving. The world flipped upside down, disorienting you completely. A flash of fire filled your peripheral vision, bright and blinding, followed by a gut-wrenching screech as metal collided with metal in a way that was almost deafening. The jet’s frame shuddered violently, groaning under the brutal assault, and the overwhelming sensation of chaos washed over you. Your hands were glued to the controls, but the jet seemed to have a mind of its own, fighting against your every attempt to regain stability. Your heart pounded in your chest, blood thundering in your ears. You could feel the vibrations reverberating deep into your bones, every tiny tremor amplifying the danger you were in. The pressure of the impact intensified everything — time seemed to stretch and bend, and your vision blurred in the haze of panic. The cockpit felt as though it were collapsing around you, the warning lights flashing in a strobe-like effect, further disorienting you. The world outside the glass cockpit was a haze of flames and smoke, and you couldn’t tell up from down.

Alarms screamed — louder than the deafening roar of the jet’s dying engine. It was a shrill, unbearable sound, drilling into your skull, pounding relentlessly, and making it impossible to think clearly. You could feel the shrieks vibrating through your teeth, a physical sensation that made every nerve in your body stand on end. Red lights blinked frantically across the console, flashing in a chaotic frenzy, illuminating the darkness around you like some twisted, warning beacon. The acrid scent of burning fuel seeped into the cockpit, thick and suffocating, and you could taste it in the back of your throat. It was like inhaling poison. Your eyes watered as the smoke began to fill the confined space, but your focus remained fixed on the instruments, trying desperately to read them, to understand what was happening. Your brain struggled to process the data flashing in front of you, but it was a blur, impossible to make sense of. The dashboard flickered and sputtered, flicking between life and death, before finally going black. It was a final warning. The jet was done.

Then, the adrenaline hit. It surged through your veins like a live wire, electrifying every muscle, every nerve in your body. It shot through you with such force that it made you dizzy, sharpening your senses to a level of clarity that was both terrifying and necessary. Every fiber of your being was alive with panic and instinct, the fight-or-flight response taking over completely. Your hands were already moving before your mind could even fully comprehend the danger. There was no time to waste. The instinct to survive kicked in, and everything else — everything else that was even remotely important — became secondary.

You didn’t think, you just acted. Your fingers fumbled, trembling with a mix of terror and resolve, as you grabbed the ejector seat lever. Your palms were slick with sweat, but you didn’t hesitate. You pulled it. The world around you exploded as the ejector seat launched you violently from the cockpit. Your body jerked so hard it felt like your bones might snap, the force of it slamming against your ribs. The breath was knocked out of you, a harsh, gut-wrenching gasp escaping your lungs. The world outside became a blur of motion. The air rushed by you in a deafening whoosh, the speed and force of the fall too fast to process. For one split second, you felt like you were suspended in time, weightless, as if the world had gone completely still. There was nothing but you, the terrifying feeling of falling, and the jagged edges of the chaos you had just escaped. Your body trembled in the void, your senses still reeling from the jolt, your mind scrambled as you tried to focus on the parachute deployment. But it was as though time itself had frozen, and every movement, every breath, every heartbeat felt too loud, too real.

Then came the chaos of descent.

The world seemed to explode around you as your parachute deployed with a deafening snap that tore through the air, a sound so loud it rattled your bones. The violent jerk yanked you upward, your body suddenly weightless before it was yanked down again with an immense force that tugged at your very core. The harness dug into your shoulders and waist as the chute unfurled, but it wasn’t enough to steady you. You were tossed into a wild, uncontrollable tumble through the air, spinning, twisting, the ground below still far too distant but rapidly approaching. Every second felt like an eternity. The wind ripped at your body, biting at your skin and pulling at your limbs as though trying to tear you apart. Your clothes flapped against your body, the parachute above you billowing and flapping in defiance. You felt your muscles scream in protest as they strained against the g-force, your arms and legs struggling to adjust to the intense pressure.

The air, thick with the bitter scent of smoke and fire, tore at your face, stinging your eyes, making it impossible to see anything clearly. The pressure against your chest felt like it might crush you, but there was no time to think about that. The wind was like a living thing, battering at you, pushing you in every direction. Each gust threatened to throw you off course, each violent movement of your body felt like a mistake, like something more was trying to go wrong. You couldn’t control it. You couldn’t stop it.

The trees below rushed toward you, their jagged, skeletal forms appearing far too close, far too fast. A thick forest of sharp edges and twisting trunks, a maze of branches, waiting to snatch you from the sky. You couldn’t outrun them. You couldn’t avoid them. Every breath felt ragged, torn from you by the sheer speed of your descent. The trees loomed larger with every passing second, their dark outlines becoming more defined, their dangerous spires more menacing.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, each beat a loud echo in your ears as the ground below you—the earth, the rocks, the forest floor—rushed up at you with terrifying speed. The ground was coming for you fast, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. No more time for maneuvering, no more time to brace yourself. The world spun uncontrollably, a dizzying blur of green, brown, and sky.

You braced for impact.

But when it came, it was worse than you had imagined.

The ground hit you like a violent slap, a crushing blow that rattled every bone in your body. Your back slammed into the earth with such force that it stole the breath from your lungs. Your chest felt like it might cave in, a sharp pain shooting up your spine, and your legs screamed with a burning ache that was almost unbearable. The parachute tangled around your body like a cruel, suffocating vice, pulling you and twisting you into the dirt. For a moment, the world went dark with the sheer intensity of the hit, the pain radiating outwards, too much to process, too overwhelming to think through.

Your body was an alien thing—heavy, unresponsive, bruised. Each breath felt like a labor, every gasp like a struggle against an invisible force trying to keep you down. The air was thick and heavy in your lungs, the sharp smell of dirt and pine piercing the haze in your mind. You could feel your heart racing, each beat thunderous in your chest as you forced yourself to sit up. Your vision was swimming, the edges of the world flickering as you tried to focus. The trees above you were swaying, as though they were the ones in motion, not you.

It was a slow process, forcing your limbs to obey, to move, to pull you out of the wreckage of your parachute. Your head felt heavy, your thoughts fogged and slow, but you had to move. You couldn’t afford to lie here. The world felt like it was spinning, the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins, but beneath it all, a sickening realization crept in: you were deep in enemy territory. Alone. Stranded. And if you didn’t move now, you might not have another chance.

The world exploded into pain. The canopy of your parachute tangled in the branches, jerking you violently. You slammed into the ground, the earth unforgiving, and your body was jolted like a ragdoll. Every inch of your skin screamed in pain as you hit, your head spinning from the shock. There was no moment of clarity, no time to adjust. Your arms and legs felt like they were made of lead, useless weights in your effort to regain control.

Your body felt wrong. Every part of you ached — throbbing, burning, sharp pain radiating through your spine. Your ribs felt bruised, your knees scraped and raw. You took a gasping breath, and pain seared through your chest. Your hands were slick with sweat, trembling from the shock. Everything inside you told you to stay still, to breathe, but your mind was already working overtime. You couldn’t stop now. You were deep in enemy territory, alone, and that realization hit harder than the crash itself.

You fumbled for your comms device, fingers trembling and slick with sweat, the sharp sting of panic clawing at your chest. Each movement felt sluggish, heavy — like you were dragging yourself through thick mud. Every breath was ragged, strained, the aftershocks of the crash still reverberating in your bones. Your chest tightened with each passing second, fear creeping into your mind, suffocating the clarity you desperately needed. The line crackled and hissed, the static scratching in your ear like nails on a chalkboard, and for a moment, all you could hear was the echo of your own breathing and the deafening silence of your surroundings.

Then, a voice came through, low and firm, cutting through the fog of panic with a force that made your heart skip a beat.

“Pilot, do you copy?”

It was rough. Harsh. Too familiar. It was Ghost.

You froze for a moment, relief washing over you, mingled with frustration. You could hear the underlying tension in his voice even through the crackle of the comms, and a knot of unease twisted in your stomach. He was still out there, still alive, and that fact alone kept the fear from drowning you. But you knew you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, not even for a second. Not here. Not now.

“Ghost?” You managed to rasp out, voice hoarse and strained, the words barely escaping through the fog in your head. The adrenaline was still pumping, but your body felt like it was shutting down around you. Every muscle ached. Every breath felt like a battle. "Yeah, I copy. I’m... I’m down."

The pause on the other end felt too long, stretching into something heavy and suffocating. You could almost feel the weight of his eyes on you, though you couldn’t see him. The silence felt like an eternity, each second stretching longer than the last, until your chest tightened, your pulse quickened.

“You’re a damn mess.” His voice was harsh, a sharp observation, just like before. It cut through the air, but there was something beneath it. Something deeper. A flicker of concern? Or maybe annoyance? The words stung, but they didn’t carry the usual coldness. It was the first time in all the chaos that you’d heard a crack in his usual detached demeanor.

You swallowed thickly, the bitter taste of adrenaline and smoke still in your mouth. A strained, breathless laugh bubbled up from your chest, more out of reflex than humor. The sound was harsh, raw, and it left a bad taste on your tongue. “Yeah, well, I don’t crash on purpose,” you said, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. Your body screamed at you to rest, to lie still, to let the pain fade, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t afford to. Not when you were alone, stranded in enemy territory, with only the faintest thread of communication keeping you tethered to the world you knew.

You tried to shift your position, desperate to free yourself from the tangled parachute that had caught around your legs like a vice. But every movement was agony. Your body was stiff, unresponsive, each small action sending another wave of pain crashing through you. The weight of your parachute pulled at you, the fabric constricting, making your limbs feel heavier, less cooperative. Your head swam, dizziness threatening to overtake you, but you gritted your teeth and pushed it back, forcing yourself to focus.

Survival. That’s all that mattered now.

Your hands shook as you gripped the parachute, struggling to free yourself from its suffocating grip. The forest around you was eerily quiet, the stillness of it all adding to the unease that settled over you. Your mind raced — how much time did you have before the enemy found you? Where was Ghost? Could you trust him to get to you in time?

But for now, you couldn’t waste time on questions. You had to keep moving. Had to keep fighting.

You needed to survive.

The line crackled again, and this time, when his voice came through, it was softer — more deliberate, but still carrying the weight of something unspoken, something buried beneath the surface.

“I’m coming to get you. Stay put.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a split second, your chest tightened with the force of them. The sound of his voice — rough and steady — cut through the haze of panic that had clouded your mind. For the first time since the crash, you allowed yourself to breathe. A shaky exhale left your lips, almost like you were afraid to believe it. But you did. You had to.

Relief came in slow, uncertain waves, fragile and trembling like a leaf caught in a storm, but it was enough to quiet the panic gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. For a moment, everything slowed, and you realized you were not alone. And despite the edge in his tone, despite the usual distance he kept, there was something solid, something unwavering in his promise. It wasn’t just words — it was a commitment. He was coming. He wasn’t leaving you here.

You didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear it until that very second.

"Understood," you whispered, barely above a breath, your voice strained and raw from the physical exertion, the tension still clinging to every word. The faint crackle of his breathing was the only thing on the other end, but it felt like more. It felt like an unspoken bond, something connecting you beyond the battlefield. The distance between you was vast, and yet, for that fleeting moment, you weren’t as alone as you thought. It wasn’t just survival now; it was the odd comfort of knowing you were not completely abandoned out here in the chaos.

You let your head fall back against the dirt, your body still trembling violently from the crash. Every inch of you screamed with pain, like your bones were made of shattered glass, your muscles too raw to move without protest. You knew you needed to move, to get up, to find shelter, but it felt like the world was pressing in on you. Each breath was a struggle, your lungs aching, the air thick in your chest, as if it was harder to pull the oxygen into your body. You could feel the ground beneath you, rough and uneven, but it gave you something to anchor yourself to. Your fingers dug into the dirt, desperately trying to keep yourself grounded, to ignore the dizziness threatening to overwhelm you.

The silence that followed felt almost suffocating, the only sounds the low rustle of wind through the trees and the occasional shift of your weight against the forest floor. But it wasn’t peaceful. It was oppressive. Every snap of a twig, every distant murmur of movement, had your body tensing, your muscles locking in place. You didn’t know where they were, how close the enemy might be, or how long you had before they found you. But you knew one thing, something that burned like a truth carved into your bones: you couldn’t afford to be found. Not now. Not like this.

You had to stay alive.

You had to stay awake.

Your heart was still hammering in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears, louder and louder, a constant reminder of the fragility of this moment. You could feel the adrenaline still pulsing through your veins, keeping you on edge, keeping your senses heightened. It was a curse and a blessing — your body was running on pure instinct, but it left you feeling raw, exposed, as if every nerve was too sensitive, too alert.

The air around you smelled thick with pine and earth, the forest surrounding you alive with quiet tension. But it wasn’t a peaceful quiet—it was the kind of stillness that came before something terrible, the calm before a storm. Every second stretched into eternity. Every movement had you on edge, your breath catching in your throat with each new sound. You couldn’t tell if the footsteps you heard were the wind or something much worse. Every shadow that flickered at the corner of your vision made your body stiffen, your pulse rising.

You weren’t safe here.

And despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, you forced yourself to move, to shift your weight, to get a sense of your surroundings. The ground was uneven, the forest thick with undergrowth, and you knew staying where you were would make you a sitting target. But every step felt like an insurmountable effort, every shift in position sending new waves of pain through your body. You had to stay alert. You had to keep your head clear.

There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not in enemy territory.

You couldn’t afford to die.

In the stillness that surrounded you, with your thoughts still reeling from the crash, your mind couldn’t help but wander back to Ghost. His words, cold and clipped as they were, had taken on a new weight. I’m coming to get you. The promise had hung in the air between you like a lifeline, offering something you hadn’t expected—a shred of reassurance. You had always seen him as the silent, unapproachable figure, the one who stood apart from everyone else. Cold. Distant. Untouchable. His mask wasn’t just for protection — it was a barrier, one he used to keep others at arm’s length.

But in that moment, when he’d said he was coming for you, something had shifted. Maybe it was the way he had said it, or maybe it was the tone beneath the words — something unspoken that made you wonder if there was more to the man behind the mask. More than just the soldier. You tried to push the thought away, but it clung to you like the weight of the wreckage pressing against your chest. Maybe, just maybe, there was humanity beneath the layers of war and duty he wrapped himself in.

But you couldn’t afford to dwell on it now. Not in a place like this, with the silence pressing against you like a vice. Survival. That was all that mattered. The weight of the present — the pounding in your chest, the searing pain in your body, the relentless fear that wouldn’t leave your mind — demanded all of your focus. There was no room for distractions. No room for thoughts of what Ghost might be, or what he might feel.

You shifted again, biting back a wince as the sharp pain shot through your spine. Every muscle screamed in protest, your body stiff with the aftermath of the crash. You gritted your teeth, trying to ignore the dizziness that pulled at your senses. The forest around you felt suffocating, every rustling of leaves, every creak of a branch, amplifying the tension in your veins. Stay still. You couldn’t afford to move too much. Every rustle, every shift in position could give your location away. You had to stay hidden. You had to stay alert.

But somewhere, buried beneath the fear and the pain, there was a glimmer of hope. It was small, fragile — more like a whisper than a shout — but it was enough to give you strength. Ghost was coming. He had promised. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe it. You weren’t alone. Not completely.

You forced yourself to settle, to breathe deeply, even though every breath felt like it tore through you. The pain was a constant companion now, but you wouldn’t let it take over. Not yet. Not until you were safe. You pulled yourself together, even as your body screamed for rest. You needed to stay awake, to stay aware, to keep the focus sharp.

Survive.

And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

tah list : @jajouska @hao-ming-8 @pinkpookiebear

[blurredcolour]

The Only Truth... | Part One

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

While your journeys are very different, fate brings both you and Major John Egan to Stalag VIIA in Moosburg, Germany.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Descriptions of Aerial Combat and Plane Crash, Reader Injury (2nd Degree Burns), Death, Blood, Gore, Angst, John Egan Injury, Forced March, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7531

-------------------------

January 8, 1945

A cacophony of thunderous explosions and shrieking metal shredded your restful state where you lay perched on the bottom stretcher in the back of a C-47, desperately trying to recover from the routine 0400 wake-up that came on mission days before your arrival at the advance airfield where some eighteen wounded men would come under your care. As the plane lurched and shuddered again, you bolted upright, cracking your head on the middle stretcher above you with a sharp expletive as the rows of jerry cans that you had helped load to fight off pre-flight jitters rattled against the floor where they were strapped down.

You had never experienced flak before. You had trained for the possibility of it at the School of Air Evacuation in Bowman Field, Kentucky, but the reality of it was something entirely different. Watching pinpricks of daylight appear through the alarmingly thin skin of the aircraft flooded your mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline, your heart pounding violently as it prepared to fight or flee – but given that you were thousands of feet in the air, neither of those options were really available to you. Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled along the narrow path between the supplies that had been crammed onto the plane to be left at the front, to be traded for wounded patients on landing, and tried to get to the nose of the plane. Tried to get to cockpit where Major Roy and Captain Mercer were, pilot and co-pilot – the senior officers. They would surely know what to do.

Grateful for the decision to add your sheepskin flight jacket and gloves to your uniform of olive drab jacket and slacks with shirt and tie, a garrison cap pinned onto your sensibly styled hair, you still felt a shiver run through you despite the added warmth as you neared the radioman Warren and the brand new, baby-faced navigator Schmidt. With brown eyes wide as saucers and freckles splattered haphazardly across his face, you would not have believed the boy to be a day over fifteen. Given the fact that the plane had wandered into the range of enemy guns, your suspicions were growing all the more likely. Turning to see the back of your surgical technician, Fitzgibbons, blocking the entry into cockpit, you were about to tap his shoulder when a shower of wet, hot viscera splattered across you from the left – the only trace of Warren that remained, as a ragged hole in the fuselage now replaced his radio operator’s position.

You were vaguely aware of someone screaming, not realizing the haunting and horrified noise was emanating from your throat until Fitzgibbons grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you firmly.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted, seemingly exasperated with you. “Are you hurt?!”

Snapping your mouth shut, you smeared your hands across your face and down your body, shaking your head as the acrid smell of fuel flooded your nostrils, returning your senses to you. You quickly looked to Schmidt on your right, worried he might have been in the line of fire, and frowned to see him trying to yank a sizeable piece of metal from his shoulder.

“No, don’t!” You shouted firmly and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall above him, quickly padding the penetrating object with gauze and wrapping it, finding the purpose and procedure of it steadying. “It’ll keep the bleeding slow, ok? Keep it in, Schmitty.” You offered what you hoped was a reassuring smile, but with the remnants of Warren, mixed with the contents of the fuel tanks, splattered across you, who was to say what image you presented in that moment.

“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault Ma’am, we shouldn’t even be here, got lost in the clouds an…” He began to blubber, and the plane shuddered and lurched again as Mercer tried banking out of the hail of flak, fairly dumping you into his lap.

“Easy now, easy…” You cleared your throat as it began to burn with irritation, lifting your head to see smoke billowing in from the hole in the fuselage.

“That’s it, we’re bailing out!” Roy yelled from the cockpit as he hit the bailout bell and Fitzgibbons quickly collected your parachutes, but you insisted on sending Schmidt down the aisle and out the door behind the wing first, given that he was injured.

“You know what to do Schmitty, try not to land on that shoulder.” You nodded firmly as you strapped your parachute on, fumbling slightly due to shaking hands and your thick gloves, but the repetition during your training paid off with your eventual success.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded before seeming to vanish out the side of the plane.

“Sergeant.” You turned to Fitzgibbons, but he shook his head.

“You may outrank me Ma’am but you’re still a lady.” He muttered stubbornly, gesturing insistently toward the door.

“Get a move on!” Came Mercer’s impatient cry from the now-distant cockpit and you glared at Fitzgibbons.

The smoke that had been curling around you ignited then, a wall of flame licking through the air, fixing to separate Fitzgibbons from the door. A look of pure terror crossed his face – in a plane loaded with fuel, carrying dozens of jerry cans and tanks of oxygen, fire was certain death. Gripping the doorframe tightly with your right hand, you flung your left forward in advance of the encroaching, fierce heat, somewhat protected by the leather you wore, though the searing pain on your wrist assured you the flames had still found a way through. Grasping the surgical technician by the collar, you yanked him toward you just before the oppressive wall of fire sealed off the front half of the plane, checking that he nor his parachute were alight before shoving him out the door. You did not wait long to follow him.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as the sleeve of your jacket was smoldering, the leather hardening and shrinking, the fleece on the inside trapping agonizing heat against your flesh. But your first priority was gravity. Yanking on the ripcord, you cried out at the sharp jolt from your midsection as the parachute caught the air and flung you upward before you began a gentle descent. Then you were able to begin frantically smacking at your coat, trying in vain to stop further injury. But it was not the leather itself that was burning, rather the fuel that coated the surface of it, and it refused to be put out. You had to get the damn thing off.

At last the disorienting cloud gave way to mercifully flat Italian farmland, the ground rushing up to meet your feet. You punched the harness free from your chest, yanking off your gloves, and wrestling free of your coat before stumbling forward toward the sound of a nearby stream, collapsing onto your chest to submerge the screaming flesh of your arm into the icy water. The relief of it drew a soft sob from your throat. The sliver of skin that had been exposed between your sleeve and glove was already starting to blister, would surely scar. You could not see the rest of your forearm trapped beneath your uniform sleeve, but it might have faired somewhat better.

You could have happily lay there for all of eternity, numbing the agonized nerve endings in your arm, but the sharp press of a rifle muzzle between your shoulder blades brought an abrupt end to your moment of bliss.

“Up.” A sharp command was issued in an angry, accented voice and you carefully, if awkwardly, raised up onto your knees with your hands in the air, turning to face the man.

The German soldier’s eyes widened, and his jaw hung slightly open for a moment, his shock more than evident as you revealed yourself to be a woman, before a hardened mask fell over his features once more. He gestured sharply with his rifle for you to rise to your feet and you were quick to obey. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to search you and then stopped, once again looking to your face.

You had read a pamphlet once, on what to do if you were captured. At the time, the situation had seemed utterly preposterous and unlikely, but standing face to face with a German solider in the middle of occupied Italy, you were suddenly grateful you remember something of what to do. You gave him your name followed by,

“Second lieutenant. N-741432.”

“Leutnant?” He muttered, nose crinkling, but his gaze moved to the gold butter bar on first your right shoulder and then your left, the second lieutenant’s insignia. His eyes narrowed further to see the silver wings on your left breast with the prominent N denoting your status as a Flight Nurse. “Schwester…”

The first bit of German was easy to extrapolate, sounded very much like the English version of your rank, but the second sounded like ‘sister’ more than anything else and you were not entirely certain what he was trying to communicate. He seemed finished with the conversation when he motioned to the left with his rifle.

“Go.”

And so you went, keeping your arms raised despite the arching protest of the left, past the still-smoldering remains of your flight jacket and your gloves, past your parachute tumbling across the field on the icy breeze, towards a group of two more German soldiers who seemed equally shocked as your face came into view. You supposed the slacks and loose fit of your jacket made it difficult from a distance to determine that you were a woman, but each of them was quick to smother their reactions as soon as they were revealed. One of the new fellows, so blond he barely had eyebrows, motioned for you to drop your hands and you were barely able to conceal your pain in doing so.

A flurry of Germany left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow in confusion before he gestured at the wet sleeve of your jacket. “Hurt?”

Nodding emphatically, you swallowed, pulling the fabric up slightly to reveal some of the blistered skin. The three men turned to one another, and a rather heated debate ensued, or at least that was the impression you gleaned from their tones of voice and body language, before the loudest among them seemed to prevail.

“You, come, medic.” He grasped your uninjured elbow and led you through the field on a slightly different vector toward a semi-ruined barn where several German soldiers were receiving treatment.

A soldier bearing a white armband with the Geneva cross came over when your guide beckoned and after their brief exchange, gestured for you to take a seat on an old barrel. Taking a pair of scissors, the medic carefully cut through your jacket and shirt, revealing angry, blistered skin all the way up to your elbow. Very gently, your arm was bandaged before he offered you a couple of pills that you did not recognize, and you refused them with a soft shake of the head. He shrugged and tucked them back into his pocket.

“Go, schwester.”

You frowned and pointed at yourself. “Schwester?”

The medic nodded and pointed to your golden nurse’s Caduceus insignias pinned to the lower lapels of your jacket and your eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, nurse.” You muttered quietly and stood. “Thank you.” Nodding to the medic, you followed the soldier out of the farmhouse as you rolled up the ruined ends of your sleeves to keep them from flapping obnoxiously.

What followed was a seemingly endless amount of walking, your entire body beginning to shake with cold and shock, as the soldier sought out his commanding officer. Everything felt surreal, the sound of battle so close at hand, German soldiers all around you, casting repetitive glances your way – it felt as though you had stumbled into the wrong side of a John Wayne film. When, at last, you plodded into the correct house on the outskirts of a small village, you were unspeakably grateful for the fire roaring in the hearth behind the desk of the imposing German officer who glared down his nose at you.

“Too bad you’re a woman…” He muttered in startlingly good English, making it your turn to look on in shock as your legs threatened to give out. “I suppose you also only know name, rank, serial number?”

Clenching your jaw, you nodded stubbornly, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart lurched hopefully at the word ‘also’ and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You can put the contents of your pockets in here.” He held out a small burlap sack and you frowned, but obediently surrendered your favorite tube of lipstick, the four spare hairpins you always carried around, and your change purse – things all stored in your uniform jacket as you found the pockets of the flight jacket too unreliable for storage anyway. Satisfied you were carrying nothing more, he nodded to the man behind you and issued an order in German.

It was difficult to convince your legs into motion again as you were led down to a grimy root cellar with a dirt floor and only one window letting in little light. You had never seen a more welcome sight in your entire life as Schmidt and Mercer lifted their faces to meet you, their equally grimy and worn-out but elated expressions quickly blurring behind tears of relief that mortifyingly flooded your eyes. Dabbing them away, you quickly moved to Schmidt’s side and frowned to see he still had the remnants of your hasty bandage job and the piece of shrapnel in place, seemingly not afforded the same medical care you had been.

“Shit, Schmitty, they didn’t do a thing for you did they.” Kneeling beside him you began to unravel the bandages and gauze. “This needs to come out, then. Captain, would you mind holding him still, sir?”

“I’ve got him.” He nodded and grabbed the boy’s hands as you took a steadying breath.

Wrapping your fingers around the protruding end of the warped, jagged piece of metal, you began to carefully pull it from his shoulder, angling it forward as an uneven, wider piece was revealed on the end. Schmidt did an admirable job of relegating his protests to whimpers and murmurs of ‘oh god,’ only letting out one great yelp as you pulled the last of it free. You would have preferred to flush the wound with something, but there was no water available. Encouragingly, though, there was no great gush of blood.

“You did so good, Schmitty.” You smiled broadly and frowned a moment at the filthy bandages you had removed from him before beginning to unravel the relatively clean ones from your own arm.

“M…Ma’am!” He protested, voice cracking as he saw the state of your skin.

“You’re at much higher risk of infection than me, Sergeant, I won’t take any argument.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Captain Mercer arched one of his rather elegant, black eyebrows and you swallowed.

“I’m sorry sir, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Besides, they went out of their way to bandage me once, maybe they’ll do it again.” You muttered and tied off the dressing on Schmidt. “Let me know if it gets hot or more painful, ok?”

He nodded quickly, settling back against the wall and you followed suit, feeling quite fatigued, sore, and to your surprise, hungry. Resting your throbbing arm atop your knee, you leaned your head back against the bricks of the foundation, closing your eyes to listen to the scuff of jackboots across the floorboards above you. Your mind wanted to whirl like a top, to turn questions over and over like ‘Where are we?’ ‘What will they do with us?’ ‘How long will they keep us down here?’ ‘Where are Fitz and Roy?’ but it would just be a waste of energy. Your fate was no longer in your hands and what would happen next would come no matter how hard you dwelt upon it.

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping across the worn floor had all three of your heads snapping up as three sets of feet tromped down into the cellar. It was difficult to hold back your smile as Fitzgibbons peered out from between two German soldiers, the first gesturing for him to join you all on the floor while the other set down a tin plate of thick slices of dark bread covered with thin smears of margarine and four mugs of bitter smelling, black coffee. The first soldier crouched down and pointed at your arm, speaking in German.

“I needed bandages.” You pointed at Schmidt, and he frowned, either not understanding, or unimpressed. Perhaps both.

He straightened with a huff before digging around in his woolen jacket to produce a thick, rectangular bundle, tossing it at you. The two of them then retreated upstairs, shutting the door firmly behind them. Fitzgibbons was on you almost immediately, grasping the folded bandage to unravel it curiously.

“This does not look good, Lieutenant.” He looked at your arm pointedly and you huffed.

“Schmitty was worse off, Fitz, needs must.” You muttered but held out your arm without further protest as he quickly familiarized himself with the foreign bandage and carefully wrapped as much of your burn as he could.

“Thank you for what you did, Ma’am.” He murmured, voice barely audible, and you shook your head quickly.

“You’d have done the same.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, gaze filled with a vulnerable uncertainty, and you squeezed his shoulder with your free hand.

“Let’s eat something you two.” Mercer chimed in once he had finished bandaging you and the four of you descended on the plate of food, which tasted a lot better than it appeared. The coffee was just as bitter as it smelled, but was hot and that was entirely welcome.

After the plate was emptied, Fitzgibbons looked to Mercer slowly. “Roy?”

The Captain shook his head and you swallowed your gulp of coffee painfully – of the six of you that had left the airstrip outside Rome that morning only four had made it. Two of you were injured, and your journey had most certainly only just begun now that you were captives of the German army.

As the slim shaft of light that penetrated the cellar began to fade, your companions were fetched one by one for individual questioning by the German officer who had greeted you upon your arrival. When it at last came to your turn, the sun was well set, and though you tried to pay more attention to the detail of the rustic country house, it was hard to pick out much in the low light of the sporadically placed candles.

There was a chair waiting for you opposite the desk this time and you sank into it gratefully, every muscle in your body tight with pain as it felt distinctly like someone was rubbing sandpaper over your superheated flesh with every movement you made.

“I’m terribly sorry about your radioman and pilot, must have been horribly shocking to see such things. What a terrible day you’ve endured Lieutenant.”

Shifting quietly in your chair, you shook your head as he offered a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes – surely confiscated from one of your crew members as they were not so readily available in occupied Italy.

“Is there anything I can get you to ease your discomfort? Blankets? A coat? More bandages?”

Pressing your lips together in a thin line you dropped your gaze to your lap, focusing on filling your lungs to a count of three before slowly exhaling, then repeating the process. Each offer of comfort, each word of kindness was horridly tempting and yet the source also filled you with revulsion.

“It’s a far cry from Lido De Roma where you’re going, no beaches or sea air…” Your head jerked up in shock and a slow, devious smile curled onto the German officer’s thin lips as his mention of the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron’s posting finally garnered a reaction from you. “I hope you like the Alps, Lieutenant. You will see them on your way by.”

Tears of shame pricked the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away furiously, looking to the side. Slamming his leather-clad palms flat onto the desk, you jumped and eyed him warily as he stood slowly. “If you have nothing of value to add, then?”

Inhaling slowly you repeated your name, rank, and serial number one last time – much to his ire – before he barked out an order to have you removed from the warmth of his office and returned to the cellar. This process was repeated several times at random intervals throughout the night, the four of you taking turns resting and watching for the unfriendly arrival of an errand boy soldier to haul you upstairs for another ‘chat’ with their English-speaking officer. Sometimes he was friendly, other times he was intimidating. Once he simply sat opposite you in the near-dark and glowered.

Eventually, time or patience ran out and just as the grey light of dawn began to permeate the misty winter morning, the four of you were marched as a group up the stairs and loaded into the back of a canvas-covered truck partially filled with crates. Wedging yourselves into what open spaces you could find, you had barely sat down before the vehicle lurched into motion and began its long and jolting ride to your next destination. The sun was much higher in the sky by the time you arrived at a small train station, emerging into midday, the mists long burned away. Herded across the tracks towards a cattle car, you were startled to see a group of other American soldiers – infantrymen, being loaded in.

“Up.” Came the command from the German soldier at your back and you reached up gratefully for the broad hand of corporal already in the car who helped hoist you inside.

“How the heck did you wind up here?! Ma’am…” He quickly tacked on, and you could not help but laugh a little at the bewildered expression on his face, shuffling further into the car as the last of your comrades were loaded in.

“Well the long and the short of it is, we ran into a bit of trouble during our flight…”

Captain Mercer scoffed as he came to stand behind you. “You could say that again, Lieutenant.”

The space was suddenly plunged into darkness as the door was slid shut and barred closed. You nearly toppled over as the train jostled forward, thanking Fitzgibbons as he steadied you. You embarked on a seemingly endless journey in darkness as the train ascended and descended, stopped and started, climbed and came down across unknown landscape. It was nigh impossible to see through the thin gaps between the slats of the car itself, but you knew from your ‘conversations’ with the officer that you were crossing the Alps. Could feel the air grow cold as you huddled closer to the men around you for what warmth you could glean as your breath hung from your lips in foggy exhales.

Your bladder ached until you could no longer deny needing to use the squalid bucket in the corner. Mercer, Fitzgibbons, and Schmidt formed a human wall with their backs to you, loudly clearing their throats as you took quite possibly the longest piss in the history of womankind. With that basic need met, the ravening hunger set in. Those slices of bread were long digested by the time the train came to a stop and disgorged the lot of you, blinking into the daylight like mole-people, squinting for signage.

“Moosburg.” Mercer muttered under his breath, and you hugged your arms tightly around yourself as you stumbled through the snow to form two lines as instructed by new soldiers whose uniforms sported the double lightning symbol of the SS.

You would had never thought it possible to envy a dead man, but standing there shivering in the snow as cruel-faced men in well-cut uniforms marched up and down the lines with their snarling dogs, you wondered if perhaps it would not have been better if that piece of flak had taken you out at the same time it had struck Warren. You were not entirely certain if you were strong enough for what was to come.

 ------------

April 11, 1945

Every step was an agony. It was remarkable, really, how many injuries two goons had managed to inflict on Bucky’s body in the brief moments between Buck’s escape and Lieutenant Colonel Clark’s intervention. At least two of his ribs were cracked by the butt of that rifle, severely hampering his ability to breathe properly. Then there had been the sharp kick to the back of his calf, wrenching his knee. The coupe-de-grace had been the left hook to his jaw, shredding the inside of his lower lip across his teeth and flooding his mouth with blood. If Clark had not called them off with the threat of riot, Bucky was not entirely sure he would have made it out of that village.

As it was, he had barely made it off the floor of the church the next night, requiring a great deal of prodding from DeMarco. Teeth gritted against the raw ache in every limb, every joint, he had risen to his feet through sheer force of will, knowing the alternative was a bullet to the brain. Somehow even though Buck was well on his way back to the American lines – by god he truly hoped so – Bucky could not face the thought of disappointing him by dying like that and so he had persisted. Had kept putting one foot in front of the other as they had trudged through the mud, crossing the Danube, putting another twenty kilometres between them and Nuremberg.

It had not made it any easier to keep up, however. Bucky had felt himself slowing, felt his body refusing to keep pace with the rest of the men. Every time he had lifted his eyes from the boots of those in front of him plodding through the endless muck, he had been surrounded by different faces. As he had neared the back of the group, lightheaded from pain and lack of oxygen, he had taken a second glance as he realized the faces around him were those of Brady, Cruikshank, DeMarco, Murphy, and Hamilton – all men from the Hundredth. All had been keeping pace with him.

“We’re almost at 20, Bucky.” Brady had murmured quietly under his breath, glancing back at the pair of goons bringing up the rear.

“Keep it up.” Cruikshank had nodded encouragingly.

By some miracle he had made it into the half-collapsed warehouse, crawling into a corner that was still partially covered by its patchy roof and had promptly fallen asleep. There had been a gentle prodding against his shoulder sometime later, daylight filtering in through the dust motes drifting thickly in the air and an offering of bread had been waved in front of his face. He had pushed it away clumsily before falling back asleep. Bucky’s next return to consciousness had been with his arms slung across the shoulders of DeMarco and Brady, a great amount of protest falling from their lips about the size of him.

It had been dark again. Darkness meant more walking and so he had awkwardly planted his feet. Relieved sighs had filled his ears from both his companions as the three of them worked together to propel him out of there and down the muddy road. Night had yielded to the hazy light of dawn and at last a sea of barbed wire fences, clapboard buildings and canvas tents came into view. Bucky had quite honestly never been so pleased to see a Stalag in his entire existence.

“Almost there.” Groaned Hamilton, who had since switched off with DeMarco, though the stalwart Brady had yet to budge from beneath his right arm.

As they stepped through the gates into the main courtyard, Bucky lifted his head to eye Clark blearily. “Guess they’re not gonna process us.” His words were slightly slurred as he tried to present his usual level of joviality, but the man’s brows only furrowed deeply in response.

“Get him to the hospital immediately.”

There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and some hesitation before Hamilton and Brady got their bearings, but then they were on the move again. Bucky’s legs were barely responding by this point, toes mostly dragging through the incessant muddy landscape that seemed a consistent feature of every Stalag he’d had the misfortune of visiting thus far. As his vision began to go fuzzy, black dots eating away at it while it simultaneously began to dim at the edges, Bucky began to worry this might be his last camp.

“Put him right there please.”

Bucky tried to swing his head towards the most musical sound he had heard in over a year, but Hamilton and Brady were turning him to lay on his stomach, rambling about the broken ribs on his back and all he could see were worn wooden floorboards. Until suddenly your gorgeous face flooded his vision as you knelt beside his cot, your shockingly feminine fingers cradling his face to gently turn it and ensure he was not smothered in the pillow.

The style of your hair, the lashes framing your eyes, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip – the unmistakable womanliness of you; it made his heart ache.

“Must be in heaven…” He slurred as there was certainly no way he could be alive anymore. Women did not exist in this reality of underfed men and murderous goons.

“They got you good, Major, but you’re still very much with us.” You smiled warmly up at him, and he groaned out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re killing me, angel face.” He wheezed, lips clumsy and barely responsive, before promptly blacking out.

------------

Your heart plummeted as you watched his eyelids fall, shuttering those stunning, if exhausted, blue eyes, terrified you had lost another one before you even had the chance to try and save him. Fingers delving beneath the collar of his shirt, you were greatly relieved to find his strong pulse. Holding your cheek in front of his notably plush lips, the bottom one all the more pronounced by his recent injury, you were even more encouraged to feel the caress of his steady breathing. Sitting back on your heels, you nodded up to his mismatched pair of friends reassuringly.

“Did he just call her ‘angelfish?’” The blond one with angular features and a mouthful of gold muttered as they watched over their friend protectively but also seeming shocked, as everyone before them had been, to find an American woman in a POW camp.

“Maybe he was going for ‘angel face?’” The brunette with sturdy eyebrows replied in a hushed voice.

“Are you gentlemen in need of anything?” You asked, fighting hard against the amused smile that wanted to break through. They were truly a distraction when you had a patient in need of attention before you.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Ma’am” They shuffled off to leave you to your work.

Taking a moment to assess the length and breadth of your patient, you carefully worked off his leather flight jacket before untucking his uniform shirt and undershirt to reveal the deep purple bruises on his back. His friends had been very right to be worried about broken ribs – at least three by the span of the contusion. Kneeling back down you looked over his face once more, gently lifting his head to inspect both cheeks and confirm the bones were all intact. There did not appear to be anything in need of bandaging. It was most likely that undernourishment, the march, and the broken ribs all compounded to extreme exhaustion.

“What do we have here, Nurse?”

You looked up as Major Chalmers, a British surgeon, and head of the hospital emerged from one of the exam rooms. He had been a resident POW of Stalag VIIA for nearly eight months when you arrived in January, happily surrendering one of his exam rooms to become your separate quarters in return for your work in the camp hospital. It was an arrangement that benefited both of you, kept you safe and out of the male population and occupied the long and lonely hours that seemed to pass at their own pace in this place.

Chalmers had done what he could to care for your burned arm, re-bandaging it daily. However, by the time he had been able to start giving it proper care, the damage had already been done. The skin was now permanently mottled by scars, unnaturally smooth, with a texture akin to crumpled cellophane. You were always very mindful to keep your mended sleeve down to your wrist. It was not all that difficult to cover your shame when the rest of your wardrobe consisted of standard men’s POW wear from the Red Cross – the sweaters draping over half your hands and the winter coat blissfully warm but nearly swallowing you whole.

It was only due to Chalmers’ temerity that anyone walked away from the camp hospital at all. With supplies chronically low, men were dying of the most preventable and treatable things. All you could do most of the time was put on a brave face and hold their hand, give them a little comfort at the end. Even Schimdt, despite your best efforts, had found his shoulder wound quickly beset with infection in the less than sanitary environment. Penicillin was non-existent here and he had faded fast, lost in a feverish delirium as you held tight to his hand, watching the light fade from his burning eyes. Your brave façade was second nature to you by this point, showing itself more often than your real, bedraggled self who only showed her face in the cold isolation of your locked exam-room-turned-solo-combine at night.

“Newly arrived American Major, force marched over eight days, beaten two nights ago. At least three broken ribs, damage to lower lip, abrasions to the face and contusions to the back but nothing else I can see. Pulse is strong, breathing is steady, but lost consciousness almost as soon as we laid him down, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Chalmers made a noise of displeasure at the last and conducted his own exam, digging out one of the makeshift charts to add some notes before glancing at his watch. “Do we know when he last ate?”

“No, sir.” You shook your head.

“Alright, I want you to sit with him and keep an eye on his vitals. Hopefully, he’s simply sleeping this off, but I want you to get some water and broth in him as soon as he wakes up alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Collecting the requisite liquids, you settled onto the sliver of floor space between the Major’s cot and his neighbor’s, working at folding some boiled and dried bandages, now ready for re-use. The actual hospital itself was unspeakably crowded, men nearly stacked atop one another around a small cast iron stove. Originally built for 10,000, the camp’s population had been well over that when you had arrived in January and seemed to multiply every week now. Things had become so dire, a tent hospital had been erected adjacent to the building you lived and worked in to allow for the treatment of more men. It was crowded and ripe, and even surrounded by all these humans you still felt alone as the sole representative of your sex.

As you pulled each strand of once-white fabric from the basket, carefully rolling and tucking the ends to form neat bundles, you studied the unconscious man’s face. Errant dark curls were dangling across his tall forehead and the most absurd and yet endearing dusting of hair graced his upper lip. Clearly, he was going for a Clark Gable, but it was not quite there. Even with one ear poking a mile out to the side, however, you swallowed tightly as you realized you would not change a thing about him. Taken individually his attributes seemed odd, yet combined to make an incredibly handsome whole. Not to mention his feet were dangling off the end of his cot, his shoulders barely contained by the sides of it. If he woke up, no when he woke up, he was going to be a devastating sight to behold.

Reaching the midway point of your task, you slid forward onto your knees to check his vitals, pleased they were holding steady and noting so on the chart, before settling back onto the floor. You had nearly reached the bottom of the basket when a pair of boots entered the hospital. Not German, you had long since become familiar with the way jackboots reverberated across wooden floorboards. Most likely American or British. Peering around the end of the bed your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of a silver oak leaf – a Lieutenant Colonel! That was the highest rank you had yet to encounter in camp.

Struggling to disentangle yourself from your laundry and not kick over your patient’s waiting fluids in the process of trying to rise to your feet and accord the man the proper greeting that his rank entitled him, you looked up startled as he addressed you first.

“At ease, Nurse.”

He was the first man to seem utterly unfazed by your presence and you somehow found that unspeakably reassuring.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“How is Major Egan?” He peered down at the still very much asleep man.

“Major Chalmers, our Surgeon, is certain it is no more than a case of exhaustion and he will recover with rest and fluids upon waking. He’s just down the hallway behind you there if you’d like to speak to him yourself, sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder before looking back to you. “The Red Cross knows you’re here?”

“I filled out the card when I arrived in January, sir.” You nodded.

“Where have they put you?”

“Converted one of the exam rooms, sir. I eat, sleep, bathe separately.”

“Good.” He nodded in return, seeming quite satisfied with your answer. “Name’s Clark, please find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you very much, Colonel.” You smiled warmly, feeling strangely fragile as the warmth of it actually emanated from deep inside you rather than a mask plastered on for the comfort of the recipient.

Dismissing himself from your presence with one sharp nod, he turned to follow your directions down the hall, most likely in search of Chalmers. Turning back to eye your patient, Major Egan, you sighed a little as he remained blissfully unconscious, lips parted against the thin pillow to allow heavy exhales to fall rhythmically. There was little change to his condition as the sun made its way across the sky before hovering at the horizon, preparing to set. Your dinner was delivered to the bedside and there was a rather heated exchange between Chalmers, Clark, and a few of the guards before they conceded you could remain unlocked for the night to keep an eye on your fragile patient. This Lieutenant Colonel was obviously not someone to be trifled with.

You waved off Chalmers when he asked if you were up to the task, taking advantage of his presence to make a quick bathroom run and fetch a blanket before returning to your post. It was your first night spent amongst others in months, their soft snores and nightly noises combining with the sound of rain pattering onto the ramshackle roof to do their very best to pull you under into sleep. The downward slide of your eyelids was halted abruptly by the first vocalization from Major Egan since his contested term of endearment – angel face? Angelfish? Whatever it had been, silence had since reigned over his mouth until he began to mutter and emit soft sounds of protest, his features tense and furrowed. Shifting up onto your knees, you lay one hand over his clenched fist, trying to smooth the crease in his brow with the thumb of your other.

“It’s alright Major Egan, you’re safe.” You soothed in a hushed whisper, hoping to dispel whatever unseen terror was plaguing his thus far peaceful sleep.

He shifted slightly in response, lips smacking a little as his hand moved with alarming speed to engulf yours in a tight grip and hold it close to the side of his chest. Barely smothering your gasp of surprise, you held your breath a moment until he stilled completely, features relaxing and breath evening out as he slipped deeper into sleep once more. Exhaling slowly you gnawed on your lip a moment before shifting to sit on the floor with your back against the cot, hand still very much held captive by his. Allowing yourself to drift a little more, quite certain any movement on his part would now alert you to his wakening, you barely noticed the hourly checks the goons were making on you – clearly uneasy about having you roam free amongst the hospital patients, but for whatever reason Clark’s demands had been honored and it was a refreshing change around here.

It was just before dawn of the following day when Major Egan began to shuffle and groan behind you, your hand slipping free from his. You straightened stiffly, turn to watch him roll onto his uninjured side and take stock of his surroundings.

“Good morning, Major, have a good rest?” You asked quietly, hoping not to wake the others sleeping around him.

His head immediately snapped down towards you and he eyed you in bewilderment once again. “I thought you were a hallucination.” He rumbled, voice roughened by disuse.

You smirked slightly and nodded. “I got that impression. Thirsty?”

He bobbed his head in a small nod, and you slid to your feet, grasping his elbows to help him sit up. Grabbing the mug from the ground, you offered it to him, only allowing him to take a small sip before pulling it back. He blinked at you sluggishly for a moment before you offered him the mug again. After three limited sips, which he clearly found frustrating, you allowed him to keep hold of the mug as you wrapped your fingers around his thick wrist to track his pulse.

“How long was I out?” He asked once you were finished noting your findings on his chart.

“Almost a day. Seems as though you really needed the rest. Ready to try a little broth?” You smiled as he nodded once more and picked up the other mug from the ground. “I saved you some, I’ll get it warmed up.”

He slowly lay back down as you took the mug of broth over to the stove in the centre of the room and set it on top, swirling the liquid until it was steaming and then decanting it into his now empty water mug so it would not burn his hands. As you returned to his bedside, he leveraged himself up with barely concealed, painful effort and you frowned as you set the mug in his hands.

“I’m here to help with that, Major.”

“Please,” he took a sip of the steaming liquid, “call me Bucky.”

You smiled and introduced yourself properly as well before your lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “But do feel free to keep calling me angelfish, I certainly haven’t gotten that one before.”

He choked a little on his next sip, giving you a rueful albeit lazy smirk. “Kick a man when he’s down why don’t ya, angelfish.”

You were unsuccessful in smothering your answering giggle, several of the men around you muttering and tossing restlessly as you had accidentally woken them. Bucky pressed a long finger to his lips teasingly before turning back to his broth, slowly finishing it before setting the empty mug on the floor beside the low cot.

“I uh, am sure the facilities are lacking but…” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully and you swallowed, gesturing for him to follow you, and assessing his movements with your medically trained eye.

It was of course a test, of his balance, pain level, and energy to see how he moved across the floor and into the rustic patients’ washroom. You, of course, left him to his own devices in there, but walked him back to the bed, noting how he grew stiffer with each step.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything for the pain.” You whispered when he lay down once more on his stomach, small grunts of discomfort escaping him.

He shook his head. “S’fine, angelfish.” He mumbled softly, sleep tugging at him again already as you tucked him in with the worn blanket.

“Rest then, Bucky.” You soothed, relieved that he was quite cognizant, able to keep his food down, and resting well.

This one might make it.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747

[iloveboysinred]

Miracle [Keith Kogane]

18+ angst|Keith Kogane x reader

synopsis; During a battle with the Galra you and Keith are cornered, you give up your life to save Keith, and leave him a gift to remember you by.

cw; fem reader, angst, character death, sad Keith, mentions of blood, violence, strangulation, stabbing, heavy grief, survivors guilt.

this will probably be the last angst request I'll write given that I'm not the best at it and i hate putting out work I'm not proud of ;/. Hope you enjoy anon!

masterlist - ask

Adrenaline pulsed through your veins as you ran down the dark halls of a Galra ship. It was an endless labyrinth of walls and turns, the darkness suffocating. You'd swear you were running in circles; every time you thought you'd found another way, you were just met with another band of sentries, shooting at you, chasing you, hunting you down. You tried to keep up with Keith, his hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, but your legs were starting to get tired, and your mind was foggy and confused. You didn't know how much longer you could endure. "Lance? Pidge? C'mon guys, where are you?" you heard Keith shout, trying to reconnect his damaged helmet to the others, but to no avail.

Your mind flashed back to Earth for a second. To when you and Keith were garrison trainees. You were close, seeing through his cold exterior and becoming friends quite quickly. From then on, you have always been there for each other. Supporting each other in training and comforting each other through the good and the bad. So of course, when he had come to you for support after he caught wind of Shiro's re-appearance, you had gone with him. Never expecting to be where you are now, fighting a galactic war and constantly putting your lives at risk.

"Fuck!" Your heart dropped to your stomach when you stopped, staring up at the wall in front of you. It was a dead end. You glanced behind you; they were gaining. Keith pulled you behind him, activating his bayard. You stared in fear when the sentries parted, a large Galra soldier advancing towards you. "It appears the universe has granted me a gift," he sneered, stopping a few feet away from you and Keith. His ugly yellow teeth peeked out from under his lip in a menacing snarl, his glowing yellow eyes pinning you with unsettling malice. You felt Keith tense, his grip on your wrist falling, raising his bayard defensively. "Lord Zarkon will be pleased when I bring him the heads of the red lion's paladin and his co-pilot." He got into his own defensive stance. He was big, standing about 5 feet above you; his body was strong and muscular. His teeth shone in the dim lighting, sharp as blades. "This will be fun. I think I'll take you first, Paladin. Your death will be just the beginning of the end for Voltron. How will your pathetic band of earthlings form Voltron if they're one paladin short? It'll make it all the easier to take you out one by one." You narrowed your eyes, reaching into the band of your boot and gripping the concealed dagger you'd made sure to bring, just in case the situation got dire.

"Cmoooon Keith. Let me drive!" You whined, leaning over Keith's back, trying to reach for the controls of his cruiser. "No way, y/n. Knowing you, you'll drive us into a cliff. "Oh,  come on! You doubt my skills that much??" Keith gave you a blank look, shrugging you off. You grumbled, sitting down and wrapping your arms around his waist. He smirked, revving the engine and taking off. You flew through the desert, sand spraying in your wake. The air whipped your hair at the speed you were going exhilarating. You grinned, blood roaring in your ears. "Oh shit!" you cheered every time Keith dodged an obstacle. You gripped his waist tightly, pressing your chest against his back. 

"Keith? Keith!" You heard Lance's voice ring through his helmet, the connection glitching. "Lance! Where are you guys!? We're kind of in a situation here. The Galra have me and you cornered." "Don't worry, we know where you are. We're coming to get you in just a tick." The connection cut off once more, the radio chatter blocking out anything else being said. The Galra soldier ran towards you, swinging a large blade right towards you and Keith.

"Y/n.. I have something important to tell you." You and Keith sat in front of his house; the night sky was clear, and the moon was shining down on you. "yeah?" You looked up at him from your bowl of noodles, your cheeks full to the brim. Keith's eyes softened in adoration. "Well, I've been picking up a lot of chatter on my radar. A space vessel is approaching Earth, and I think it might be Shiro." Your eyes widened, and you swallowed your mouth full, leaning toward him intently. "Really? that's great! But... what do you think you should do?"" "Well, I was hoping we'd find the landing sight and go see for ourselves." Keith blushed at your close proximity, looking away from you, bashful of your eagerness. "Oh my gosh, we totally should! When do you think it'll land?" "My guess is that in two days, will you come with me?" You gaped at him in disbelief. "Of course I will! Are you kidding?" Keith smiled at you. You leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss on his cheek. "We're in this together, okay?" "Okay."

You flinched as Keith's body hit the floor, quickly blocking the Galra's attack with his bayard. He had him pinned to the ground, his face a few meters away from his. "I have to admit, you do put on a good fight. I wouldn't expect anything less from a Paladin of Voltron," he snarled, bearing his teeth in a sneer. His tail slapped the bayard from Keith's hands, the weapon clattering as it hit the ground a few feet away. The sentries aimed their weapons at you, stopping you as you tried to run towards them. You stood there, helpless, as you watched Keith struggle. Then, the ground shook as the wall behind you suddenly rumbled, the blue lion appearing from a newly made gap. "Cmon guys, we don't have much time. Galra fighter jets are coming quick!" Your eyes locked on Keith, and your heart raced as the blade inched closer and closer to his throat. Grabbing the dagger, you ran at the soldier, narrowly dodging a sentry blade. Using as much weight as you could to knock him off Keith, trying to give him time to escape. You slashed as much as you could, drawing blood from any skin you reached. "y/n!" Keith shouted, running to try and come to your aid, but a sentry slashed at him, causing him to fall back, holding his side where he had been hit. "K-Keith! Go! Get out of here!" you screamed, trying to hold the Galra soldier down as best you could. "No! Not without you!" he grunted, trying to stand up. You felt your body hit the ground as the soldier flipped you off of him. The air escaping your lungs from the impact. You couldn't catch your breath; the soldier was holding you down by the neck. All you could hear between Keith's shouts and the footsteps of more sentries crowding you was the fast beating of your heart. "KEITH! WE HAVE TO GO!" Lance's voice rang in your ears, but you couldn't move; your neck was starting to ache. You kicked and scratched at the galra, but the lack of oxygen was starting to weaken you. Mustering as much strength as possible, you clumsily gripped the dagger, driving it into the soldier's side, but it did little to penetrate the armor covering his body. "Even if I can't bring him the corpse of your little boyfriend, Lord Zarkon would be just as pleased knowing it's one paladin down. Ever closer to wiping out all of Voltron," the soldier purred, putting more weight down on your neck.

"You know I love you," you murmured, pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss. Keith turned his head, pressing his lips harder, holding you close to him. You threaded your fingers through his hair, smiling as you pulled away. "I love you more," he whispered, gazing into your eyes with so much emotion that it made your heart flutter. "Pfft, big softy." He glared at you, pulling you to his chest and laying back on his bed with you.

"y/n! We can't leave her, Lance! we can't-" "Keith. We don't have time. You'll bleed out; we have to go!" You felt your vision begin to blur, and the grip on your neck felt heavier. You glanced over the Galra soldier, watching as Lance hauled Keith into the blue lion's mouth, shooting at any sentry he could. "Lance, let me go! Let me fucking go!" Keith shouted, struggling against his hold. But he was weakening; the blood streaming out of his wound was making him dizzy, and his movements were uncertain. As his vision became more and more unclear, his panic increased. Where were you? what's happening? The last glimpse he got of you was your unmoving body and the sentries crowding around you. His eyes teared as he struggled against Lance weakly, his fists clenching when Lance pulled him into a hug, constricting his arms. His vision blurred both from his tears and the blood loss. Sobs racked his body as the blue lion's mouth closed, flying out and away from the ship.

You glanced blankly at the ceiling, refusing to look the soldier in the eye as your life slowly faded. "I love you, Keith; don't worry, I'll see you again," you thought, your body going still when your breathing ceased, your heart's beating coming to a stop.

Keith might as well have been dead himself. At least that's how he felt. His heart was hollow, his mind swirling with thoughts of you and how you had passed—to save him. He couldn't even hurt anymore; he didn't feel anything most of the time. Most days where he was stuck in his head about you, he would feel pure, unbridled rage, lashing out in training sequences, pushing himself harder than he ever did before. On nights where he suffered your absence the most, he felt cold grief grip his heart so strongly that he struggled to breathe, becoming inconsolable. Tears fell heavily from his eyes when he cried. He would scream, gripping his chest through his shirt. Shiro would rush in, enveloping Keith in his arms, and he would thrash around in his hold, slightly settling down when he started to tire. Shiro comforted him, assuring him it was going to be okay. Keith couldn't hear him, zoning out and staring blankly at the ceiling with glistening eyes. Going on missions felt like torture. His attacks were uncoordinated, and the team had to make up for his lack of focus. The arguments that ensued between him and Lance almost broke into full-blown fights, Keith's heart only building more and more resentment for everyone in the castle.

Months later, here he stood, watching as Allura pressed a final kiss to Lance's lips, tears falling from their eyes, trying to savor whatever they could before they ran out of time. "Keith, look," Shiro whispered, placing his hand on Keith's shoulder. He paused for a second, the bitterness of the situation making it hard to care about what Shiro was saying. But he glanced up anyway, tears rising along his waterline. The Paladins of old—Allura's father and Zarkon's family—stand right in front of them. He felt his heart squeeze as you appeared from behind the crowd, smiling sweetly at him. You looked so beautiful. A sight for sore eyes to Keith. He ran towards you, his eyes shining with so much love and so much pain. You welcomed him into your embrace. Holding him close as he hugged you, burying his nose in your hair. You quickly pulled him into a kiss, savoring the feel of his lips one last time. "I miss you so much, Keith," you whispered, cupping his face in your hands. Keith felt his heart stop, drinking in every feature of your face, knowing he wouldn't see it for a while. "I miss you every day of my life. I love you, Y/N. So much," you smiled, pulling away from him and keeping his arms in your hold. "I love you more." "I wish you could come back to me. I should've been there with you. I'm so sorry." you shushed him. "We'll be together again. Hopefully not any time soon though!" Keith chuckled, the weight of his grief making his voice shaky. "But I've got to go, Keith. I have a gift for you. Please, heal, and forgive. I'll always have you in my heart." Keith's chest ached as you pulled away from him, taking your warmth and scent with you. "I love you." You smiled at him sweetly, Allura following you. Slowly,  you disappeared again, dissipating into the air and leaving everyone feeling bittersweet.

Keith was taken aback when he felt something shift in his arms, looking down to see a moving bundle of cloth. He heard muffled babbling, making him hurriedly unravel the bundle in shock. A pretty baby girl stared up at him; somehow she looked like you, having his dark hair and nose but your eyes, lips, and eyebrows. He gaped down at the baby, holding it close to his chest. "What ?? Where did that baby come from??" Pidge asked, coming up to peer down at the child. "Y/N left her; she's the gift." Keith whispered, his eyes crinkling in a bright smile, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead. "She's mine. The baby's mine," he whispered, rocking the baby in his arms. The little girl glanced up at him with wide eyes, soft babbling and cooing coming from her as she happily laid in her father's arms. "How is that even possible?" Hunk whispered, glancing down at the baby, adoration in his heart. "It's a miracle." Lance whispered, standing next to Keith. Keith glanced at him for a second, mixed emotions coursing through him. He felt resentment and hatred for the man. Grief still swelling in his chest, but your words echoed in his mind: "Heal, forgive," and he gave Lance a ghost of a smile. "Yeah, she is."

The story of both you and Allura's sacrifices became sensational, with old allies of Voltron helping construct statues of you and the Altean princess standing side by side. Every once a year, the team would unite and visit the statue, sharing updates on each other's lives and recounting old missions. At every meeting, Keith would bring his daughter, making sure she was present for every story the team would share about you. "Y/N and Allura should be here. But it's because of them that we can all continue to keep peace in the universe. I can't imagine anyone braver than them." Coran sighed, glancing up at the statues with bittersweet love in his gaze. Everyone solemnly agreed, toasting to both you and Allura's legacy. Keith glanced down at his daughter, snuggled up next to him in her own chair, staring up at the statues with shining eyes and wonder. He smiled, knowing that as long as he had his miracle, he had something to live for, and some piece of you was still with him here on earth.