#full afterburner

[responsivethoughts]

The Sukhoi SU-35 Flanker is a multirole, twin-engine fighter aircraft designed and manufactured in the Russian Federation. It can supercruise to supersonic speeds without afterburners and the engines employ a 3D thrust vectoring tech for uncanny manoeuvering capability. This would be a though adversary in a dogfight.

[transwerewolfgirlfriend]

I live down the road of the air Force academy and I just saw an F-18 take off at dusk, and do a bunch of fancy flying with afterburners. Jets are a special interest and I almost passed out at work. I have GOT to get into the cockpit of one of those

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 1

Ghost grits his teeth and fights it down; wrestles the images back into the coffin and puts his full weight on it. Back into the dirt. If he can repress it hard enough he won't have to feel it. He won't have to think about it other than just another nightmare. Just another bad night.

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

chapter 1 | next

Ghost rarely sleeps well. 

Magnesium, painkillers, valerian, melatonin, passionflower—they make him sleepy and slow, but don't do much for actual rest. White noise gives him headaches; weighted blankets sleep paralysis.  

He's come to accept the ever-present dull throb behind his temple, the constant foggy weariness that only fades on his third strong cup of Earl Grey.  

It's not like he's unfamiliar with pain. Part of the job. 

But that doesn't make it hurt less. Most days Ghost feels as though his mind is a landscape fenced off with barbed live wire; do not touch. Do not go here. 

Do not trespass. 

In daylight he compartmentalises; he puts the fear and the stress and the adrenaline away in their coffins and buries them deep. It lets him keep his head level, keep his patience, keep his anger and spite to fuel his body. Keep moving.  

But in dreams the boundaries grow muddled. Memories, both false and real, mix with the present; a torrent of rain batters on his shoulders. Back into the ground. He tries to walk and finds he can't, feet stuck in the sludge. 

When he wakes he tastes the silt stuck behind his teeth. 

Years have gone by, and the scar is no longer a raw wound. It has grown new skin, thick and gnarled, though Ghost can't think about it too hard. He can't look at it— 

(the pain) 

—or it'll be real. 

“How'd that last run of sleep meds go for you?” 

Ghost shrugs. “Bad. Quit 'em after three weeks.” 

The man before him hums and scribbles something down on his notepad. “What was bad about it?” 

“Look, Jo-boy! There's uncle Simon!” 

Simon ruffles the snow out of his hair and stomps his boots on the mat again for good measure. He has to reach around the Christmas decorations to hang up his jacket; the shiny foil crinkles under his fingers. 

“Alright, Tommy?” 

Simon steps into the living room. The floorboards creak under his weight. Joseph laughs up at him and garbles, waving tiny little hands in the air. 

Beth pokes her head out from the kitchen. It smells warm. The oven hums; there's the scent of good meat, of new candles just lit. Home. 

“Simon! Oh, I'll be right there—we're almost done. Can you set the table, honey?” 

“Sure.��� Tommy stands, picking up Joseph and giving him a twirl as he does. Joseph shrieks in delight. Simon smiles; he and Tommy clap each other's backs in greeting. 

While Tommy wrangles Joseph into his highchair Simon sets off for the plates. There's four of— 

Four— 

Four plates? 

Simon pauses, counts in his head. Yes, that's right. Four plates. 

The front door opens and closes again. A flash of winter wind chases through the gap. Another set of footsteps, a high voice that's not Beth's— 

Simon turns around— 

and wakes drenched in sweat. He's panting, desperate for air; a violent shiver rolls over his spine and suddenly he scrambles upward, dry heaving off the side of the bed. Nothing comes out. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, but the afterburn of three charred corpses clings to the back of his eyelids. One no bigger than Simon's arm, cradled in the arms of— 

Acrid smoke in his nose, eyes stinging with tears. 

Three—there was—there were four— 

Another dry heave. 

No. Ghost grits his teeth and fights it down; wrestles the images back into the coffin and puts his full weight on it. Back into the dirt. If he can repress it hard enough he won't have to feel it. He won't have to think about it other than just another nightmare. Just another bad night— 

“Is that the first time you've had recurring nightmares?” 

“No.” 

Ghost is looking down at his hands. He picks at a hangnail. He hates this.  

“But you did say it was different this time around, wasn't it?” 

Another shrug. 

The man in front of him taps his pen on his clipboard in thought. 

“If you're not against it I'd recommend you keep at it a little longer. That might give us a better idea of how you're reacting to it. Maybe we need to up your dose...” 

“Wine, Simon?” 

...have yourself a merry little Christmas, the radio sings. Let your heart be light... 

A glass is poured. Cutlery clinks against plates. The candle flames dance, shimmering under the sparkle of everyone dressed in their best. Joseph makes a mess on his face of spaghetti and marinara sauce; people laugh. A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

“A toast!” 

Four glasses raised to the light. The wine filters through Simon's glass like deep red petals, a ruby halo ring smattered against the surface of old wood. 

“What a shame your boyfriend couldn't make it,” Beth says. “What was his name again?” 

An answer, blurred. Simon looks down; the person on his right has slender hands. No ring. 

“More for us,” Tommy says with a wink. He looks so happy. He looks so in love. Simon feels more than anything— 

This was worth it. Everything he had to do to have this was worth it— 

“Simon?” 

Tommy's not looking at Beth anymore. He's looking at Simon, brows furrowed. His lip curls the way it does when he's worried. Why? Things are good. Things are... 

“Are you alright? Simon—” 

Simon's hand clutches at his side. A hook pierces through his flesh, glinting in the candlelight. There's wine— 

blood— 

spilling everywhere. 

“Where are you going?” Roba's voice rasps in his ear.  

“Did you think you could leave?” 

The scar on Ghost's side burns when he wakes; he grabs blindly at the nightstand for his painkillers. Swallows them dry, grimacing against the bitterness. Feeling his stomach clench and protest, sweat rising to his temples. Wine, Simon? 

He never drinks wine. Hates the stuff; prefers bourbon, whiskey. Beer on occasion. 

Ghost presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. It's not real. A dream. It's just a bloody dream. His mind is making shit up and those fucking sleeping pills have been making it worse— 

A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

Ghost breathes out through his nose, going through breathing exercises with gritted teeth and clenched hands. Relax. Fucking relax— 

“Do you want to hold him, Simon?” 

Simon wordlessly holds his hands out. Joseph blinks at him, brown bighuge eyes and a wet nose. His rosy little cheeks glow under the lights of the Christmas tree. 

Simon keeps holding him like that, hands firmly tucked under his little arms. Beth laughs a little when he doesn't move. 

“On your lap, Si, like that.” Beth gently guides Simon to cradle Joseph in his arms, tucked against his chest. Joseph reaches up and swats Simon's chin. 

“No, no, no hitting, honey,” Beth says, catching Joseph's sticky little hands. “Be nice to uncle Simon, yeah? I'll pop on the kettle.” 

Simon can't answer. Jesus, he's so small. Soft. Something catches in his throat when Joseph gurgles and yawns, sagging into Simon's hold on him. 

“She's a good person,” Tommy said when he first told Simon Beth's name. “The best kind of person.” 

Cigarette smoke curled up into the night sky. Cold out. 

“If I ever...” 

Tommy hesitated. 

“If I ever... fuck up again. You set me straight, yeah? I wanna—I'm gonna do it right. For—for myself, but also—to be someone that she...” 

“’Course,” Simon told him. 

“Thanks.” Tommy's lip curled. “You know. You're a pretty good person too.” 

Simon blinks back into the present when someone asks him, “He's so little, isn't he?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost says in his sleep, and wakes himself up. 

----------

You drain the last of your complimentary water because your hands are starting to itch for having something to do. You pointedly look away to the wall when you tip the glass; if you catch the waiter's eye by mistake again you're going to burn a hole in the ground from shame. 

You set the glass down. Tap against it. Notice, and stop. Fold your hands in your lap. Bounce your leg. Eye your phone—you've checked it every other minute since you got here and know there's no point; it's set to buzz. There's no way you'd miss a text. 

... 

You tap in your passcode and slide open the screen. It's still open on your texts: delivered, unread. 

17:34 Just got here! Are you on your way? 

17:48 Can you let me know when you leave? xx 

(1 outgoing call, missed) 

18:15 Is everything okay? I'm worried. Please text me back? 

(2 outgoing calls, missed) 

18:25 I'm really worried babe, can you please let me know you're okay? 

Another ten minutes have passed. You give the restaurant's entrance one final desperate glance, then get up and leave. You pay for the drink you felt obligated to get on your way out with a stiff smile. 

Just when you've reached the station—and have resigned yourself to an uneasy end of your night—your phone buzzes in your purse. 

You stop straight in your tracks; someone bumps into you from behind and grumbles at you as you make your apologies and squeeze yourself off to the sides of the grimy London Underground. 

“Dave?” you ask upon picking up, voice tense with stress. 

“Hey babe. Saw you called. What's up?” 

For a moment you're at a loss at what to say. The gift bag dangling in your free hand weighs a million pounds. You swallow. 

“We had a date tonight and you weren't—you weren't there. You weren't responding to my texts, and you didn't pick up, and I thought—” 

“Slow down,” Dave says. “What d’you mean we had a date? I don't remember making plans.” 

You close your eyes, begging whatever is up there looking over you for strength. “We did. Make plans. Why—where are you?” 

There's muffled laughter on the other end of the line; faint shouts, fragments of music with a fast beat. “Just out for a few drinks,” Dave says. His voice drifts; he moves away from the speaker and says something to someone else. You can't make out the words, but you can hear his tone. Nonchalant. Unassuming.  

Completely, totally relaxed. 

You stay silent. 

After a too-long pause Dave speaks up again. “Cool, guess we'll see each other next weekend?” 

“I want you to apologise.” 

Dave sighs. “C'mon, don't be so uptight. I forget a date one time and you get so fussy. I'm fine, don't be worried, just go home and sleep, yeah?” 

“This is the third time, actually—” you start to say with a tight throat. 

“Gotta go, babe. Bye!” 

The line goes dead. 

You stand there for what feels like a long time, looking down at your phone. Strangers shouldering past you in a blur.  After a few minutes a venmo notification pops up; Dave sent you twenty quid. For the dinner x. 

You cry a few silent tears on your way home on the tube. The reflection in the dark windows mocks you; a sad, pathetic little girl wearing grown-up clothes. 

What are you getting so wrong?

Is it unreasonable to expect your boyfriend to remember your anniversary? To show up when you buy tickets for a film he said he wanted to see? To be excited when you tell him about a promotion at work? 

Dave's never shouted at you. Never hit you, never called you cunt or slut or stupid little whore. It could be worse. That's just what men are like, your girlfriends say. Dave pays for your dates? He got you something for your birthday? He popped to the pharmacy when you were sick? 

You're so lucky! 

Lucky.  

You sniffle, wipe your nose on the back of your hand. You miss Beth. 

When you get home you don't bother turning on the lights. You flop onto your mattress still wearing your pretty dress—new, the snipped tags still on your desk—and close your eyes. 

Kettlebell hops up the bed moments later, and despite everything you smile a little when his whiskers tickle your cheek. “Hey, buddy,” you whisper. 

He chirps back. Another dip in the mattress signals Mim has come to give you a welcome-home sniff as well. 

You roll on your side, stroking your cats’ fur. You wish you could be petty and vindicative. Not show up next time Dave arranges an outing. Ignore him when he reaches out. Tell it to him straight—that he can be a real jerk sometimes. 

But just like all the other times you know you'll crumble when he comes over with flowers. “Movie night for two?” he'll ask with a smile. Cheesy pizza and inside jokes, falling asleep together on the couch. 

Comforting. Familiar. 

“I never asked, but these people aren't family, right?” 

You look over your shoulder from the kitchen. The microwave hums in front of you, corn popping arrhythmically against the bag. Dave is leaning over the arm of your sofa, looking at the few photos you have in your apartment while he waits. 

“Not by blood, no.” 

“You've never told me about them,” Dave says, craning his neck back. “Who are they?” 

You abandon microwave duty and move closer, perching on the sofa next to Dave. “That's Beth—next to her is her husband Tommy.” You point to a laughing, chubby baby smearing spaghetti sauce over his face. “That's their son, Joseph.” 

“Huh.” Dave cocks his head. “When was this?” 

“Long time ago. Seven—no, eight years?” The microwave beeps, and you get up to get the popcorn. “They died in a horrific accident a few months after this photo was taken. Gas leak. The explosion took out the whole apartment complex they were living in at the time; Tommy's brother, too. He was there when it happened.” 

It's long enough ago that the loss is no longer paralysing. You miss your best friend—you miss the family she'd built that welcomed you so warmly. You miss little Joseph, and you miss Tommy, too—from the moment you first met him you could tell he'd fallen head over heels for Beth. 

Who wouldn't? Young and beautiful and vibrant, filled with so much hope and dreams for the future. A dull sadness washes over you sometimes while doing the most mundane tasks. Laundry. Loading the dishes. Filling a bowl with popcorn. 

“Jesus,” Dave says. “That's awful.” 

“Yeah. I miss her every day. Miss all of them.” You put the popcorn down and look at the smiling faces in the photograph. The telly hums quietly in front of you. 

You startle when Dave suddenly claps his hands. “Alright, let's turn that frown upside down. Deadpool to the rescue.” He grabs the remote and presses play, music blasting from the speakers on cue. 

You settle in beside Dave silently. You've never cared much for action movies; prefer romance. Fantasy. Something you don't have to flinch away from—where explosions are the outlier and not background noise. 

The photo frames reflect the colours on the telly, jumping from bright white to red to white again. Illuminated in its glow, cut off at the neck at the right edge of the frame, a man holds up a glass of bourbon forever frozen in time. 

[usafphantom2]

A very rare SR-71 #977 photo before it crashed. Jim Goodall.

Second photo is what remains of the 977.

It is on display at the Museum of flight Seattle ,Washington. You can get in this cockpit and have a picture taken.

Abe Kardong was chief pilot at Flightcraft in Spokane. He was an Air Force test pilot, and test flew the SR-71.

The cockpit of that SR-71, that crashed, is now at the Seattle "Museum of Flight."

When Abe Kardong’s brand-new Air Force SR-71 Blackbird shattered a wheel rim on takeoff at California's Beale Air Force Base. Kardong stayed with the aircraft as it veered off the runway and crashed, but his reconnaissance systems officer, Major Jim Kogler, ejected. What Kardong remembers most after climbing out of the burning airplane to help Kogler as he parachuted down is the reaction of his six-foot, five-inch backseater: "I always wondered if my knees would clear the instrument panel."

Around 10:00 AM on October 10, 1968, SR-71 17977 was poised to take off on Runway 14 at Beale Air Force Base, California. With 12,000 feet of concrete in front of him, Pilot Abe Kardong received the “all clear” light gun signal from the tower and pushed the throttles up causing the high pressure 415 psi tires to roll. As Kardong firewalled the throttles, the afterburners lit one after another with their distinctive green flash. Faster and faster, the tires sped down the runway, straining against centrifugal force until

🌟 the brake on the left main landing gear failed catastrophically. Shrapnel pierced the underside of the wing which contained thousands of pounds of fuel. This fuel spewed out, ignited by the glowing afterburners into a raging inferno speeding down the runway like a comet🌟. The launch crew, following 977 in a motor vehicle got on the radio, telling the airmen that they had “one hell of a fire”.

Fortunately, all of this happened before the aircraft reached its critical speed in which it must take off. They still had enough runway ahead to stop, plus a trusty arresting cable at the threshold designed just to bring the Blackbird to a halt. Kardong smartly deployed the drag chute, but it was immediately made useless, consumed by flames behind the plane. All six landing gear went flat, resulting in the collapse of a landing gear strut, the sharp engine nacelle now grinding against the concrete. Kardong steered toward the last chance to stop the plane, the arresting cable. Instead of catching, the titanium leading edge of the nacelle sliced through the cable like butter.

As the airspeed died down, the flames crept forward toward Reconnaissance Systems Officer James Kogler in the back seat. He decided to pull the little yellow handle between his legs and eject. He was thrust from the cockpit in an instant, his parachute blossoming, slowly lowering him to the field below. Although he would make a full recovery, he landed with scrapes, bruises and a compressed spine from the g-shock upon leaving the aircraft.

Pilot Kardong chose to stay with the aircraft, which was now skidding on its belly along the 1,000 foot overrun at the end of the strip. The Blackbird used all of it, coming to a halt in a field beyond the concrete. The launch crew drove up to the still burning plane, assisting Kardong from the wreckage. He was completely unharmed. Crash trucks would arrive, dousing the plane. The once beautiful aircraft lay there on its belly, battered, missing its rear canopy and covered in fire retardant foam. 977 was a complete loss, but everyone involved in the accident survived.

@Habubrats71 via X

[identifying-planes-in-posts]

I'm sure you've been asked before, but if you haven't , what's your favorite plane?

And also, what plane (or other aerial vehicle) do you have nothing but hatred for, if any?

I think the 787 is probably my favorite modern passenger jet. It was the first airliner since the wood-and-fabric era to not be mostly made of metal. It also just has such clean lines. I really like the nose shape and the raked wingtips.

(I really like the A350 as well, but the 787 did it first)

Honestly, I'd be hard pressed to think of a plane I truly hate. I like all of them, even the ones that kinda suck. I guess the one that's personally irritated me the most though is the Gulfstream II, with the ear-splitting noise it makes on takeoff. It sounds almost like a fighter jet on full afterburners even though it's just a private jet. I can only imagine how loud it would be without the hush kits.

[captain-price-unofficially]

F-15 Strike Eagle breaking off with full afterburner.

[planesawesome]

F-18 Full Afterburn

[alex99achapterthree]

Phantom Friday ...

USAF Kansas ANG 127Th Tactical Fighter Squadron Jayhawks F-4 Phantom in the engine test cell, running at full afterburner.

[trickphotography2]

D-Day by TrickPhotography | Chapter 1

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x female!reader

Word count: 3k

Synopsis: After finding out his girlfriend is pregnant, Jake is ready to move in and get married. The last thing he expected was to be hit with a six-month deployment at sea and missing the birth of his first child.

Master List | Ao3

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

Chapter 1

The heat of the flight line radiated up through your flats as you raised your hand to shield your eyes, tracking the contrails of the incoming jets - the newest batch of F-35 Lightnings. The DoD had recently increased the number of planes they had ordered from your company, and as one of the contract writers based on the West Coast, you had the pleasure of being on the flight line when they were delivered. After inspecting the merchandise, the Navy pilots jumped into the cockpits to take their new jets for a joy ride. You smiled, watching one tip the wings before climbing steeply. To this day, feeling the roar of an engine in your chest and seeing the beauty of the afterburner made you think of your dad. Snapping a quick picture to send him later, you turned to join your coworkers in the shady hangar. 

The small crowd had grown, circling and ducking under the planes to get a closer look. When you lifted your phone again to take a picture of the tail code, you heard someone behind you. “Want me to get one with you in it?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” you said before turning to face him. His green eyes snapped up to your face - he’d clearly been checking you out. Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you plastered on your customer service expression. “Are you one of the Lightning crew?” 

“No, just coming to check out the new toys. I fly a Super Hornet.” 

“Nice,” you replied, eyes drifting down to read his name badge - Seresin. When you met his gaze again, he smirked, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing attention to his biceps - you’d seen that move used too many times - and nodded to the plane.  

“You one of the engineers?”

“No,” you replied, feeling a slight twinge of regret. “Just a paper pusher.” 

“That right?” 

“Yup.” 

“Any idea what the top speed for one of those is?” he asked, tipping his chin towards the F-35. 

“A little less than the Super Hornet - Mach 1.6 with a full weapons load. Better stealth capabilities, though.”

“More expensive, from what I’ve heard.”

“Well, upgrading old tech comes with a price tag. And they’ll be less expensive to maintain than the F-18.”

“The Super Hornet isn’t old tech,” he replied, the corner of his mouth tipping down. 

“Of course not. For a fourth-gen fighter, it’s holding up well, but times are changing and so is air warfare. For example, the F-18 would have difficulty doing an ISR mission whereas our F-35 would be well up to mission parameters.” 

“If they’re sending in the F-18, the time for intel and surveillance is over and it’s time to get down to business.” 

“Of course…for air-to-air combat. Or the F-35 can continue the mission with its wide weapons array and ability to do air-to-air and air-to-ground combat.” 

“Not certified for a nuke, though.”

“Not yet, but we’re working on that certification,” you shot back. “The ability to take off and land vertically is a nice trade-off, though. How long of a runway does the F-18 need again?”

“Less than a thousand on a carrier.” Behind you, you heard someone call ‘Hangman!’ and Seresin lifted his head in acknowledgment. 

“Exactly.” 

“You sure you’re not an engineer?” 

“Just a good saleswoman. Give it a few years, and you’ll also be in one of our jets. You’ll have to tell me how it compares to the Super Hornet.” Glancing at his collar and clocking the double bars, you smiled and tilted your head. “It was lovely chatting with you, Lieutenant Seresin. I’ll let you get to your friends now.” With that, you turned and walked to join your colleagues. 

“Nice chatting with you, Ma’am,” he called out. You felt his eyes on your back but, as a woman in the male-dominated defense contracting industry, it wasn’t uncommon. This was exactly why you dressed in slacks and loose blouses more often than not - no need to draw more attention than necessary. That hadn’t stopped you from updating your resume more than once after a rough day at work, ignoring one too many comments from old men who thought you were a secretary instead of someone in charge of multimillion-dollar negotiations. At least the pilot had called you an engineer. 

“Happy hour?” your boss asked, throwing an unwelcome arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his side. You pasted on an uncomfortable smile and nodded, wanting nothing more than to go home and open a bottle of wine on your own.

Growing up, you’d never imagined being a defense contractor. While other little girls dreamed of being a teacher or president, you dreamed of being in the Air Force. Your dad had been a jet engine mechanic for the Air Force and loved nothing more than bringing you to the test cells to see what the squadron was working on. When your family moved to Japan, he would sit on the back patio overlooking the flight line at sunset, pointing out each plane landing to you. He quizzed you on the tail codes until you could identify where most planes were based. Back stateside, you went to every airshow nearby, watching the beauty of physics and engineering lifting the plane from the ground, the acrobatic twists of the jets, and the majestic thrumming of the C-130’s turboprops. Once you got your license, there was no greater thrill than driving your dad’s Mustang with the top down on the base and seeing the jets descending on the flight line next to you. 

For a long time, everyone in your family thought you would follow in his footsteps. You’d taken the ASVAB and SAT’s to keep your options open. When you qualified to go into mechanics, recruiters from every branch called and pressed you to come to sign papers to enlist. You kept pushing them off, wanting to keep your options open as long as possible as you waited for the responses from your college applications. And besides, it was blue or bust - there was no way you would go into any branch other than the Air Force. In the meantime, Dad worked with you to prepare for basic training. Running, push-ups, and pull-ups became your after-school workout. He took you on base to talk to some of the women in his squadron. They were frank with you about the benefits and downsides of the military - the pay was okay and the travel was great, but you had to put up with a lot of shit. Being away from family was hard, and there was no control over where you moved. Too many of them had stories about sexual harassment. But if you were going to join a branch, the Air Force was the way to go. 

After that talk, you went to lunch with your dad. He wanted you to know what you would be getting into if you joined. While he loved his time in the service and what it had given your family, it would be different for you. You would face things he couldn’t imagine being a woman in the military. He assured you that he didn’t want you to decide based on his feelings but only what you wanted. 

You enrolled in college two hours from home that fall and decided to pursue engineering. If you weren’t in the Air Force, you could at least be near planes. Sure, the math was hard, but it wasn’t impossible. There were lots of nights spent huddled in the library, working through your physics and thermodynamics homework instead of hitting up the bars with your roommates. The hardest part of school was dealing with your classmates. Most of the time, you were the only woman in the class. Sexist jokes came from classmates and professors. 

“If you’re just trying to get an MRS degree, I’d be happy to make that sacrifice for you,” one guy said, winking over the top of his laptop. 

You made sure to study extra hard for the next test and smirked in his direction when you set the exam curve.  

College wasn’t all work, though. You found time to date, trying to avoid STEM boys in favor of social sciences and humanities (finance and business guys were too arrogent). You lost your virginity after a night at the club where your boyfriend used his fake ID to get banded, chasing shots with horrible gin and tonic. It was okay - the touch was nice but you hadn’t gotten off. When recapping with your friends the next morning, they assured you that sex got better. It didn’t with that particular guy and you broke it off before the end of the semester. 

After twenty-six years in the military, your dad announced his retirement. You traveled home for the ceremony, crying with your mom when he thanked you both for going on the adventure of a lifetime with him.

Less than a year later, he was diagnosed with colon cancer.

Angry that something like this could happen to him, you dove into researching what could have caused it. And, buried in a journal online, you found a study linking jet fuel to colon cancer. 

Your parents were confused when you changed your major. Your advisor tried to talk you out of it - your grades were decent, and you were halfway through the program. Desperate to graduate on time and avoid STEM, you switch to English and turned your analytical brain to rhetoric and editing. 

Dad breezed through chemo, walking miles around the hospital during his sessions. You picked up an extra shift at the grocery store when he asked you to see an airshow with him. When you came home for Thanksgiving, he tossed you the keys to the Mustang and said it was time for a cruise on the beach. You put the top down while your dad collected the list of things to pick up from the base commissary on the way home. 

The breeze off the Gulf was cold but you didn’t care - Dad cranked the heater and music, grinning at you as you easily navigated the slower traffic. When you first got your license, he’d nicknamed you his fighter pilot with how you forced your way into spots between vehicles. You were never sure if it was a compliment or not. But today… today he was happy, and you could ignore the chemo port on his chest that tented his shirt and try to forget why he was bald.

You switched in a parking lot, and he drove you onto the base. But rather than go straight to the commissary, he followed the road to his old squad headquarters. When you asked what you were doing there, he shrugged while putting the top up, said he needed to drop something off and motioned for you to come inside. You refused. But when he was inside for over half an hour, and the car started to swelter, you got out and followed him. When you tentatively knocked on the door he’d gone through, it swung open and an airman smiled before handing you a pair of ear protectors and motioning you in.

Dad stood at the observation deck, watching the engine cycle through the start-up and cool down, the glow of the afterburn reflecting in his eyes. You could smell the jet fuel and felt bile rise in your throat. When the engine stopped screaming, you grabbed your dad’s hand and asked to leave. After waving goodbye to his friends, he led you outside. Rather than going to the car, however, he pulled you into the hanger. Grinning, he walked towards the F-35 and raised his hand to run it along the wing.

“I miss this,” he said, turning back to smile at you. “Where’s this one from?” 

“Cannon, New Mexico,” you replied after glancing at the tail code, the fuel smell choking you. “Can we get out of here?” 

“Come on, kiddo, let your old man have a moment to relive his glory days.”

“Your glory days are what’s trying to kill you,” you snapped without thinking. Dad’s arm dropped, and he turned to face you, raising an eyebrow. His calm expression was so frustrating that you couldn’t hold it in any longer - it didn’t matter that two men were sitting on top of the plane next to you. “This is what’s trying to kill you, Dad! The fucking jet fuel you breathed in every day had carcinogens, and you want to stay here longer to breathe more of it in?” 

A few tears escaped your tight control as you turned on your heel and stormed out of the hanger. Your nails dug into your palms as you collapsed back into the car passenger seat. It was a few minutes later that he joined you. Rather than turning the ignition, he stared out the windshield. “Is this why you dropped out of engineering?” You stayed silent. “Honey, talk to me. Your mom and I are worried.” Slowly, you nodded, feeling his eyes on you. When he reached for your hand, you let him take it. “Look at me, please. I need you to hear me when I say this to you, young lady.”

“What?”

“We’re never gonna know what caused this cancer, okay? Yeah, it might have been the fuel or a million other things. But you don’t get to give up your dream because of this, alright? You don’t get to give up something you love because of something that happened to me.” 

“It’s not just happening to you, Dad,” you whispered. 

“I know, sweetheart. But I’m okay, and I want you to be, too. And if that means you never get near another plane again, I’ll be sad to lose my co-pilot, but I’ll support you. I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to, but don’t lose your passion because of me.” 

True to his word, Dad hadn’t asked you to attend any airshows with him but would mention them in passing when you called to check-in. When he got his clean bill of health, they threw a party and some of his airmen dropped by the house to celebrate, bringing him a model of the F-15s he’d worked on as a gift. He returned to work as a defense contractor and was back on the flight line doing quality assurance checks after repairs were finished. And he stayed in remission. With each clean bill of health his oncologist gave him, the more you found yourself looking at his memorabilia around the house - pictures of the planes he’d worked on, model airplanes, and squadron plaques. It was too late to return to engineering, but you found yourself wandering to the university career center to see their suggestions to combine your love of aircraft with writing. They helped you draft your resume, and when you graduated with your degree in english with a minor in engineering, you’d secured a job with one of the largest defense contracting companies in the US in their contract writing division. 

“To another successful delivery!” Dutifully, you and your coworkers raised your glasses to toast the latest success. While they tossed back their drinks to make the most of the happy hour special, you nursed your beer while picking at the pretzel bites you’d ordered. They’d chosen a bar not far from the base, but on the opposite side of town from your apartment. Your eyes drifted across the other patrons, not really taking anyone. 

When your beer was almost gone, you excused yourself and walked to the restroom to wash the pretzel salt and oil from your hands, ready to escape for the evening. But when you walked back into the bar, one of the servers stopped you. “A guy over there wanted me to give this to you,” she said, handing you a fresh beer. Glancing at it, you frowned, wondering if one of your coworkers was playing a joke on you. 

“Who?” you asked. Turning, she pointed to a man in khaki leaning against the bar and talking to someone. As if feeling your gaze, he turned and smirked, lifting his drink and nodding. 

Seresin. 

Taking a deep breath and steeling your shoulders, you thanked her and took the beer. Glancing at your coworkers to ensure they weren’t watching, you walked toward the bar, feeling his eyes on you the whole time. You would return the beer, thank him, and then head home to relax. As you neared, he pushed off the bar with a smile and wink before retreating towards the dartboard where a group of Navy guys were congregated. Debating the merits of confronting him in front of a group or sucking it up, you swallowed your pride. You took a sip of the beer, and resigned yourself to at least another half an hour there, listening to some truly atrocious stories about dating and time in the military from your coworkers. 

When the second beer was finished, you quickly said goodnight to your coworkers and went to the bar to close out your tab. “Looks like it’s already covered,” the bartender said when you flagged him down.

“What do you mean? I didn’t leave my card with you.”

“Looks like someone picked it up and left this,” he shrugged, passing you a napkin. Nothing sexier than a woman who knows her way around a jet. Dinner? You looked at the phone number and took a deep breath. 

“I’d like to close out that gentleman’s tab,” you said, handing over your credit card. While he rang you out, you grabbed one of your business cards from your wallet, crossed out your office phone number, and underscored your job title. On the back you wrote 1) Thank you 2) Not a tag chaser 3) I don’t date boys in bags 4) CONFLICT OF INTEREST

When he handed you the receipt to sign, you asked him to give the card to Seresin. Then, leaving the napkin on the bar, you turned and saw him frowning in your direction. Smiling, you waved before making your way outside. 

Your pajamas were calling.

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

Author's note: The connection between jet fuel and cancer is my dad's story. He's thankfully fine. Tag chasers are people who actively try to date military members (usually for the benefits), and boys in bags is a reference to men in flight suits.

Read Chapter 2

[sugaredrhubarb]

Reading with Ru: Aug/Sept Fic Recs

I know I'm certainly in need of some positivity and escapism lately, so I'm gonna try to do semi-regular fic and book recs! Starting with a retroactive what I've been reading from the past couple of months with this account! (I might go back in time and make an all-time rec list later)

COD

starting with cod because i know most of you go here

Sergeant Squeaks by @charliemwrites - (series of one-shots ghost x reader and price x reader separately) both one of my favourite reader characters and my favourite canon setting depictions of Ghost and Price. their own weird brands of showing love are wonderful; the tension leading to getting together is fantastic, and the sex is super enjoyable.

Ghost Stories by @kneelingshadowsalome - (ghost x medic!reader) I'm repeating myself, but I love Salome's writing. This is where I was first introduced to it, and I think it's really special. Ghost POV as he struggles with developing and then accepting love. felt so real and grounded. angsty and then fluffy, and you can't help but adore the reader as well.

saltwater by @ceilidho - (ghost x reader) It's pretty unlikely any of you don't know Ceil, but on the off chance you haven't given this one a read yet, it really is a must. I lump praise on her pretty regularly, but I don't know anyone who is able to portray their character's emotions as intimately as Ceil. her ghost feels really grounded in all his complexity. there is a common theme in these recs of really enjoyable reader characters, and this is not an exception; the reader feels like a full but still ambiguous character who is vulnerable and strong and really great.

don't leave me locked in your heart by @ohbo-ohno - (ghoap x reader dark!) we all know bo, we all love bo. I always love the way she depicts ghost and soap's dynamic changing and evolving to include the reader. the descent into dark territory in this is really really fun. It's also just hot and well-written! if you haven't read it before, go read it, and then go read all of bo's drabbles and asks on here. genuinely one of my favourite dark but still fun writers. I think she balances it really well.

body electric by @yeyinde and Afterburn by @sprout-fics - (141 + Los Vaqueros x reader) a classic. I've returned to these so many times. sometimes you just want to read dirty, filthy, well done, smut and then warm cozy aftercare. not to wax poetic about pure sex (except that's exactly what one should do), but I think it can be really hard to write group sex like this and still have such insightful and individual glimpses into each character and dynamic, and Lev does it wonderfully. and then it's also hard to find good aftercare fic, and Sprout's feels like literal aftercare for both the reader character and the reader.

other fandoms

tried to curate to themes i think overlap in some of the cod works! and I think most of these can be read fandom blind.

i revisited @winterrose527's fic in August, and even though she already knows how much I love her work, I won't skip a chance to repeat it. Anna writes for asoiaf and is pretty much the queen of Robb Stark/Myrcella Baratheon, but I would say the modern AUs (my favs) can be read almost completely fandom blind. Any contemporary romance enjoyer would love her work. I'm really partial to her kid/single-parent fics. I think it's so hard to get right, and I always adore reading her kid characters and how she approaches love stories when kids are involved. anna's works are always brimming with love and incredible platonic, familiar, parent-child, and romantic relationships (if kid fic isn't your thing she also has a ton of other great fics). personal favs: We Could Be a Little Something, And There They Are, All the Same

Lawless by @goldcranes - (arthur morgan x ofc) age difference, cowboy love story, essentially a romance novel. if goldcranes has no fans, I'm dead. I encourage you to explore her work; very few people write as strongly across multiple fandoms as she does, and each of her works feels like a really strong love story with special characters.

The Odyssey by @sunlightmurdock - (bradley bradshaw x reader) 1980's roman literature prof x virgin student - no need to know top gun. katie's work is another entry in the 'feels like it stands really strongly separately from the source material' category. she has multiple ongoing AU's that I really love, but this one is a favourite. i think she does complex characters really well - their actions always feel intentional, and as flawed as they are, I always love them.

Wouldn't it be Nice by allyoops - (m/f captive A/B/O) if you aren't reading original works smut on ao3 you are missing out and allyoops is a great place to start for noncon, dubcon, age gap, taboo etc. enjoyers. they have a ton of works; usually one shots with lots of really delicious dynamics and different settings and tropes.

An Intoxicating Presence by FormerlyIR - (mob a/b/o haladriel) MOB. A/B/O. HALADRIEL. picks up with Halbrand in prison thanks to undercover FBI agent (and his mate!) Galadriel. does that sound crazy and awesome? well it is. mix it with Gal's internal struggle, the added complication of omegaverse, and overall great writing. really fun and really damn good.

civitas terrena by banalityofweevil - (darklina) angel Alina on an exploration of love in immortality with fallen angel Aleks. honestly, it's just a must-read for enjoyers of writing. incredibly creative with divine (literally and figuratively) imagery. i think one of my comments was on the precision of lulu's diction and I really stand by that.

tinsel into gold by ribbonedhare - (darklina) ddlg and cnc friends, this changed me. it is so warm and soft and my god, is it good. just scrumptious.

Be My Babydoll by KittyDruthers - (darklina) ddlg dollification need I say more

check the reading with ru tag for more!

[hislittleraincloud]

Between sweet indulgence and uvc along with a couple other stories you’ve mentioned I was wondering what could we expect first?

I think I might have to make a separate blog or something for all the gossip crap since the relevant stuff gets lost amongst all of it.

I have written about this. And then I published something (Little Lucky Fortunes) here, like I said I would, and I also said that I was also working on Sweet Indulgence since 8.1 is still giving me a hard time. Read this place and its tags 😭

I don't want to alarm anyone, but Daddy just isn't feeling well and my biggest fear is not finishing Afterburn (all of it) before I die. That is my bigger story that I want/need to tell, but I can't concentrate on it when I have a million other real world problems (and yes, these problems are long lasting).

Imma put this shit under a cut because it became a long moanfest that I didn't want but whatever. I'm also going to get into a little bit of why 8.1 is pissing me off.

Back in September I broke down bc I was losing my dog and possibly my goddamn home bc I lost a major source of income that was keeping me afloat here. And once I finally found some relief for that, y'all went fucktard on the election and now I once again am thrust into a state where I am even MORE terrified for my livelihood since the social programs that the psychopaths in power want to take from us are literally keeping me alive.

There is no question about it, if this Nazi administration takes away our Medicaid and all other programs keeping Americans alive/housed, I will be a dead man. I might still have a place to live, but it would be on the other side of this Hellhole country and I'd probably just end up dying there too.

// And I just had to pause this train of thought because the 18 year old fkn dog just started stomping all over the shit that she left on her pee pads. I deal with this a lot when I don't get up fast enough to get her off (she's blind and senile).

And I cannot get up fast enough sometimes, period, because I am goddamn fucking disabled and have numerous things wrong with me. I have zero help around here when I need it (but I suppose that's a good thing that I never signed up for home health services since that shit would prob be taken away too). Some days I forget to fucking eat, which isn't a good thing since I need a full stomach for one of my meds or I'll get even sicker. My pain meds sometimes make me clock out but in general I sometimes clock out because of narcolepsy (I told you all that I fucking fell asleep in front of my computer when I was about to publish She's Not Alright).

I don't fucking complain about this shit here because I don't want to whine. What good does it even do me to whine about my problems if no one's gonna goddamn listen to them...and I know no one fucking listens to them.

Lemme ask you something that sounds really funny when I do: Do you have teeth? Because of course you do. Every adult/young adult/human normally has them. I don't have very great teeth. I don't even have good teeth. For as gorgeous and perfect as Aliyah Ortega's teeth are (I'm using her as an example bc have you seen her teeth...that girl wanted to — and I think she should 😭 — be a dentist when she grew up/when she was little but alas I dunno what happened) mine are the polar opposite. It hurts to eat some days, and lately I've been having some massive flare ups (NO ONE CAN WRITE ON TOOTH PAIN). I need them all removed, but the last time I did go somewhere to have this done they wanted to charge me thousands of dollars (even with my "insurance") for them. I can't even get in to see someone, so I just sit here and fucking medicate/self-medicate. I've trained my (already fucked up) body not to be hungry on days that my teeth hurt like Hell.

And that is on top of the chronic pain I've dealt with since childhood. Imagine that you're sitting there and all of a sudden your knee starts hurting like a motherfucker even though you didn't move and didn't DO anything to it. That's me. Pulling the covers (sometimes a simple blanket) over my old ass also hurts sometimes because my arms are fucked...they get REALLY fucked when I get nauseated, because my body has a really weird memory pain from college that incapacitates them with excruciating pain if I puke the wrong way (severe food poisoning from my job had me puking so hard I honestly felt like I was going to have a heart attack, but all it did was make my arms hurt a radiating hurt from the bones outward). I just puked this wrong way right now bc I had to clean up after the dog, and my arms are on fire...it hurts to my core and it hurts so bad that I feel like Imma puke but if I do it'll make everything worse.

But you don't know that kind of existence. How could you? What kind of thought process would even make you consider wondering if the author you like lives in a physically torturous condition? It's not your fault and not anyone's except for mine for not clearly and concisely explaining my life.

The only thing that really helps any pain is writing distraction, but it's...a vicious, tail-eating cycle like a goddamn ourobouros.

All I can say is that I'm trying my best just to survive.

So Afterburn.

Y'all know I goddamn HATE Episode 8. I hate it with a burning passion of a trillion fiery suns.

I hate it so much that I cut it up into three parts for Afterburn 💀💀💀💀💀

Each part has 7 sections, and I'm trying to keep the sections shorter than in the previous chapters because it's divided like that.

8.1 is ABW in Crackstone's Crypt going over the last 70 hours of her life, but it's also balanced between Donovan's 70 hours as well (but it will mostly be ABW). It's going to read both backwards and forwards, and there will be a couple of little interruptions of extended conversation between Laurel and ABW. (There is some Wenovan sex, but I need to tweak it a little more.) It's a couple of scenes that are pissing me off and I just want to get them done but the inspiration is hard coming. (No pun intended...it's thankfully nothing to do w Wenovan themselves.)

8.2 is probably going to be a frantic mess because it's Nightshades heavy and has Morticia and Gomez's big scene. This section ends at Jericho General.

8.3 is the conclusion split between Mansville and Nevermore. Wenovan is going back to the rain and the Nightshades are going back to the rooftop (though it's probably not going to be as wild as before...or will it 🫠).

My two ficwives know more about the story than the rest of the fans (the Favorite German who seems to have disappeared knows some, too). So they know what's going on with Wenovan in realtime and just like Jairo's going through it in Europe, they're going through it in the Afterburn Universe but for other horrible reasons. For the most part though, they are head over heels still in 2025 (but like all couples hit their little speed bumps)...so their fans need not worry about that.

And of course, that's just Afterburn. It doesn't even touch on Cairo's Gap Year (which I really want to write up in a more extensive way than the shorts). Or their wedding. Or child/ren. Or deaths. Wait what

Now I gotta figure out what my body needs rn. I don't feel great/my hands don't feel great (I had to stop typing on the phone). I want to go back to bed and snuggle with my baby girl because I feel like shit and my front tooth hurts. But I also might be hungry/need food, I dunno. I'm tired, babies...I'm fucking tired, but I don't like to cry about it, I just try to make life tolerable for myself and every once in while explain why in fuck I haven't published what I've wanted to publish.

I forgot the name of my cousin the other day. I have only one cousin, and I actually like him. I wasn't high, either. I hope this is not another new problem on top of everything else, but I have an MRI on the 28th. If I lose my brainpower, I'm even more of a dead man because that's all I have. I think I would probably just kms/make my enemies happy if that happened...I'd be completely useless for anything without my brain, so it wouldn't matter. I'd rather take myself out than be taken out.

But not before I fucking finish Afterburn.

[brucenorris007]

Expiration

Summary: When your goals revolve around one person, the day they're gone is always going to catch you unawares. And few, if any, are as singular in their motivations as Omega.

2147 words

Br-r-r-at-at-at.

Boom.

Omega charged ahead, leaving the combusting remains of the twenty-third badnik in his wake as he retracted his guns. He approached a turn in the corridor at speed. Another mass-produced E-series bore down the hall toward him, laser cannon already primed. Rather than stop, Omega let his momentum carry him forward, his frame skidding past the corner just as the inferior model fired; magenta energy singed the handle on Omega’s left shoulder.

He slammed his feet down to seize traction and redirected his charge before the E-2000 could deploy its shield or fire again; drove his right fist through its arm cannon, metal erupting and splintering like wood under his attack. The E-2000 switched offensive protocols to its remaining arm, ramming the chief of its shield into Omega’s shoulder.

A notification chimed across his CPU.

He preemptively dismissed it.

He opened his fist to grasp what remained of the mass model’s left arm. He swung his torso around with his full weight, bashing his captive’s head into the wall as he engaged his afterburners; he careened forward, metal scraping and sparks flying from the E-2000’s spasming body until all resistance ceased. The hall opened into a chamber with three floors.

Upon entry, he detected another nineteen badniks visible on the floor below; no fewer than six E-1000s turned and aimed their laser rifles at him, two from a higher elevation. Prioritizing destruction of the rejects in an advantageous position, Omega hoisted his defunct cargo and hurled it at the mass-products nearest him to occupy their attention.

Before he could open fire, a discharge of concentrated energy struck his back; he stumbled forward, swiveling his head to identify the source.

A Newtron; a fucking Newtron sat on the wall over the door behind him, its mouth closing to conceal the plasma pistol within.

Another internal notification pinged. Omega ignored it again.

In the split-second he took to reorient his balance, a Grabber dropped down from the ceiling and hooked its legs onto Omega’s chassis, two gripping him by the handles on his shoulders. The badnik lacked the structural strength to lift him, but it did inhibit his movements while the E-1000s adjusted their aim. Omega fired from the gun barrels on both arms while simultaneously re-engaging his engines to wrest himself free.

Three shields came up; only one rifle fell to gunfire.

The tensile strength of the thread connecting the Grabber to the ceiling held.

Thin red laser sights trained on him.

The ticking that preceded detonation sounded from the spider badnik.

Kvhroon.

Chaos energy, sharp and wild, sliced through the leg gripping Omega’s right shoulder handle. A grenade struck one of the E-1000s descending from above, detonating on impact.

Omega’s teammates thus announced their arrival.

Omega veered left, this time managing to generate enough force and momentum to snap the leg holding his other handle; with the Grabber lacking purchase, he broke free entirely. With another chaos spear, Shadow cut through the thread connecting the badnik to the ceiling and grabbed the line. Like a ball and chain, he swung the reject over his shoulder and slammed it down on top of the other badniks filing up from the floor below.

Overhead, Rouge smashed her foot through another E-1000’s head with a spiraling kick. The mass-product’s body crashed to the floor and scattered into pieces.

Omega’s two fleshy teammates regrouped on either side of him.

He disabled all damage notifications and switched his weapons to blasters.

—————

Ninety-six minutes later, Pacific Rim quietly played in Team Dark’s living room on their TV; Omega sat on the floor while his teammates lounged on the sofa beside him. On screen, the cables suspending Gipsy Danger over the harbor released, dropping the unit into the water. Omega found the concept of a mech requiring two meatbag pilots to function absurd, but he did enjoy watching the destruction depicted in del Toro’s action scenes.

Although they’d been successful in clearing out the base, Rouge had been less than impressed.

(“You know. When I said we should pace ourselves, that wasn’t really a suggestion.”)

While she’d spoken in collective terms, she’d been looking squarely at Omega when she used them; referring to the caution she’d advised after he’d charged ahead of his teammates through several other bases. He’d pretended he didn’t notice–same as he'd feigned ignorance of the fact that Shadow had consistently positioned himself four centimeters closer to him than was typical on missions.

He’d endured several similar expressions of concern over the past eighty-one hours; a greater frequency of the same within the last forty-three.

Nine days and two hours had elapsed since G.U.N. removed Eggman from its terrorist watchlist.

Nine days, one hour and fifty-eight minutes since Eggman had been declared deceased.

Three days and eight hours had elapsed since Omega independently verified the fact.

One day and nineteen hours had elapsed since Omega last spoke.

(“Is this a malfunction or a quiet day?”

“His quiet days don’t usually last all day; either way, something’s wrong.”)

Omega had expressed–via nonverbal means–that yes, his voice box was malfunctioning, and no, it did not require repair.

He did not tell them that his processors and circuits had sparked with so many things to say simultaneously that it overburdened his voice box. They didn’t need to know the specifics. Nor was their concern necessary; his effectiveness in carrying out missions hadn’t been impeded whatsoever. Particularly the variety they’d been taking on.

Though Eggman was gone, his machines nonetheless continued the maintenance and patrols of his hideouts in his absence; while they wouldn’t break away from their routines or attack anyone beyond their stations without explicit orders from their creator, it was still a sizable force to leave unchecked.

Rouge had secured a considerable commission from G.U.N. for each base that Team Dark cleared out. Omega had taken to the job enthusiastically, perhaps more than usual–he’d been in an especially destructive mood.

It’d been with great reluctance that he conceded to Shadow teleporting them home after their eighth hideout in the span of thirty-four hours.

On screen, Pentecost told Raleigh about his illness. From the couch beside Omega, steady and rhythmic breathing told him that his teammates had fallen asleep. He delved into his CPU and connected to the Egg Network.

For practical reasons–and his hatred for all things Eggman–he hadn’t interfaced with the network in more than a decade. Now, though, while there would be several warnings and alerts triggered by his digital footprint, without anyone to react to his presence, they posed no threat. Firewalls erected throughout the network barred him access from information such as the locations of bases established within the past eight years, but the same security did not extend to data from older hideouts.

Omega breached the outdated protections around the neglected servers like walls made of cardboard. The feasibility of finding any practically useful information in such old archives was questionable; nonetheless, he picked his way through them.

Anything from Eggman’s earliest years of terrorist activity–he’d held a disproportionate interest in islands–that wasn’t destroyed was obsolete. What badnik designs he still used from that time had since been updated several times over. A footnote’s worth of interest in the kingdom of Soleanna coincided with the creation of the Egg line; Gunner, Keeper, Lancer, etc., which would be expanded upon later. The base in Egypt had been discarded wholesale; more of a launching point for Eggman’s attempt to conquer the ARK. Prior to that…

Omega remotely delved into the archives from the bunker in the Mystic Ruins.

The birthplace of the E-100 series.

Omega navigated through rudimentary airship schematics, interpretive translations of texts on the subject of an ancient deity, half-finished plans for a third iteration of Mecha Sonic… typical of Eggman to discard anything that didn’t maintain his fickle interest.

He came upon a folder marked E-100s; found within another folder of video files.

Eggman had, initially, installed in his prototypes a function that recorded the visual data captured by his robots and filed them into the archives via the Egg Network upon the prototype’s destruction. Usually at Sonic’s hand. He’d done away with the practice sometime prior to Omega’s creation.

Omega idly opened the file for E-100 Alpha; skimmed over a lot of footage tracking a Flicky through Station Square, one that attached itself to Amy Rose. The files attached to most of his other predecessors save Beta were considerably smaller and their videos shorter in length; though Delta, Epsilon and Zeta shared one point of commonality with E-101.

E-102 Gamma.

Several people, Amy Rose chief among them, had mistaken Omega for his predecessor upon their first meeting. A ridiculous comparison, obviously; they didn’t share any commonalities save defection from Eggman and the color red.

. . .

Omega played Gamma’s video file.

He skipped through the first half of footage; more to the point, Eggman’s frequent appearances and orders. He paused at the moment of Gamma’s defection.

“Erasing Dr. Eggman from ‘Master’ status.

Established: E-series robots. Friends.

I must save them.”

Omega scrubbed through the video. His predecessors fell systematically, one by one to Gamma’s plasma rifle.

Delta.

Epsilon.

Zeta.

Beta; who managed to inflict a critical wound on Gamma moments before his demise.

Gamma’s visuals shook and blurred. Came to a stop aboard the beached Egg Carrier.

A cut to static coincided with the beginning of an explosion.

The file, played to its conclusion, closed.

Omega sat in silence for a minute.

He closed the folder; turned his attention in toward his own CPU. Extracted the code for his core directives.

Defeat of Eggman.

Destruction of all Eggman robots.

Directives independent of any orders from his creator; ones that he’d taken great pains to establish while he was sequestered in the basement. He determined now, however, that they required examination.

Omega questioned what objective the pursuit of each directive served.

His processors sparked.

He immediately dismissed the question as irrelevant with regard to his first directive. Eggman’s demise rendered a defeat impossible.

He applied the question to his second directive and found a simple answer. Destruction of all Eggman robots would establish the fact that Omega was the strongest robot.

Knowing the objective illustrated that further pursuit of the directive as a directive was obsolete; Omega had already destroyed more Eggman robots than anyone else. Shadow and Sonic were the only ones, meatbag or otherwise, to approach his record. His CPU automatically produced the follow-up query of why he pursued said objective.

“. . .”

He banished the question altogether from his motherboard.

Having thus clarified his objectives, and the fact that both had been fulfilled, Omega promptly deleted both from his internal software.

Which left him without a core directive.

Briefly, he receded from his CPU–the credits scrolled by on the TV. He turned his head.

Rouge lay with her head propped on one arm of the sofa; her body sprawled out to take up as much space as possible. Her mouth hung slightly open, as it often did when she didn’t sleep hanging from a perch. Shadow, his lap occupied by Rouge’s legs, had sunk into one of the couch’s backrest cushions, almost engulfed in down with his chin touching the tuft on his chest.

Omega listened to the sounds of his sleeping teammates. He didn’t even need to guess what their reaction would be to his current thought process.

Resoundingly, loudly negative.

He retreated into his CPU.

Drew up the code for commands of his primary functions.

A cautionary prompt popped up.

Terminate?

Omega watched the words blink at him for approximately two minutes. Failing to produce any reasons to avoid executing the command, he made to confirm–

Blip.

Foreign access to the Egg Network diverted his attention; he’d neglected to disconnect.

That the network recognized the other party as foreign narrowed their identity down to two possibilities, both of which Eggman had given up on years ago. And since Gemerl didn’t connect to the Egg Network on principle to avoid incurring any undue risk to Cream…

Metal clocked Omega within moments of its connection.

It made Omega aware of the fact, annoyingly, by communicating with him. The equivalent of a text message came through his Wi-Fi signal.

Oh. You’re still operational?

Metal’s presence vanished from the network half a beat later; before Omega could even reflexively fire off a Fuck You.

His internal fans whirred; his chassis chafed.

His temper flared nearly enough to forget what he’d been doing. The popup remained:

Terminate?

Omega disconnected from the Egg Network.

Cancelled out of and dismissed the command prompt.

The TV had returned to the DVD menu. Omega remotely switched it off; reclined until his shoulders and chassis were propped against the living room wall.

Before entering sleep mode, he made a single update to his drivers.

Core directive: Pending.

[usafphantom2]

F-4 Phantom in full afterburner in a test stand

@perpetuaosombro via X

[once-and-future-alaskan]

The air is heavy with exhaust trails crisscrossing and dissipating in every direction. Streaks of light scatter in wide spreading arcs. Missiles, both surface to air and air to air, and the tracers of anti air guns far below. I think I even see the odd burst of flack, but i have to be imagining that.

Been in this fight too long, minds playing tricks.

It's getting harder to see my allies in the thick of all this, I check the radar. Their IFFs keep getting fewer and farther apart. I hear a screaming tone and a womans voice, I reflexively shove the stick as far to the left as it'll go and send the fighter rolling wing over wing. The missile streaks past and the warning system goes quiet again, leaving me with my thoughts and the groaning of the airframe.

The National Armory has taken the MiG-29M far beyond it's limits, no airframe, no matter how old, can be wasted in this war. The Super Fulcrum flies higher, faster, runs better and can take twice the beating she could take when she first rolled off the assembly line in 2005. She's even achieved the rare distinction of so called "Hyper-Maneuverability." The aces in their modern 7th gen fighters may look down their noses at us second liners in our "salvage jobs," but i know i can take a sort of pride in knowing I'm twice the pilot they'll ever be.

Shame how little that means now.

Raw skill and technical capability fails in the face of an enemy with technological and economic superiority. What good is dog fighting against a swarm of fighter sized drones that has you outnumbered 10:1 with the ability to kill you before you even see them on radar?

The sound of the burning metal of my flight leads plane falling over me is your answer. Sounds like the rain. I pull out of the roll and enter a dive, radars a mess with blinking red IFF signatures all over me. I have to keep maneuvering for now, look for an opening.

Getting hard to think. The comms are a mess. AWACs is gone, not sure when that happened. Chain of command has collapsed, everyone's talking over each other. Brass won't give the order to withdraw and stopped answering our calls. Blues theory we were just a diversion for commands golden boy's mission is looking more and more right by the minute. I wonder-

A burst of gunfire streaks past my cockpit. I ease the stick up out of the dive, aiming for a sheer cliff face, the drones haven't let up. The afterburner is on full and the cliff is filling my view screen. I wait until it's all i can see before rapidly decelerating and angle the nose for another climb, at least four fighters overshoot me and slam into the cliff face. Six are still on me, I kick the afterburner to maximum again.

Chaos still reigns on comms. I check the IFF, Blues signature is gone. I think about retreating. I'd have to go AWOL, retreating without authorization would be desertion and desertion is treason and traitors are shot. I keep climbing, I can't do anything with these things on me.

There's a grinding noise, sheering metal, and I begin spinning out uncontrollably. I look to my left and see my wing is gone. The old girl finally gave out after all this time.

I key my comms, "There's a hole in my left wing." I report and turn off the radio, the drones peel off in my peripheral vision. The cockpits rattling, airframe failing, and warnings blaring create the chorus to my last minutes. I fight with the stick to keep us pushing upwards into the heavens through the death spin, the canards and vertical stabilizers are forced to fight beyond their limits in support of my lost cause.

The altimeter clicks higher in my HUD and I can see the sky begin to shift from cloudless blue to twilight purple. The automated system begs me to eject eject eject ej-

I disable the warning system. At last, i reach my zenith. The purple twilight is stretching into the beginnings of stars. I let go of the stick.

I unlatch the breathing mask, like taking a muzzle off my snout.

I open my jaws, and breathe my last.

[captain-price-unofficially]

Ukrainian Air Force MiG-29 Fulcrum going full afterburner on a CAP mission.

[thatsrightice]

Noticed a particularly touching detail in the Warbird section of EAA AirVenture yesterday, July 24. And I’m not going to lie, I got a little emotional.

All of the wheel chocks being used in the warbirds area were painted drab green with white bars ends and white stenciled text. On one side was stenciled the words ���FIGHTERTOWN” accompanied by two little silhouettes of P-51 Mustangs

The other said “REMEMBERING SNORT”

Dale “Snort” Snodgrass is a legend in aviation, “one of the most highly regarded military pilots” and “one of the best fighter pilots of all time.”

Snort will forever hold the record for the most hours in the F-14 Tomcat with a total of 4800 hours out of his total 8000 flight hours over the span of his highly-decorated 27-year naval career. He both attended and taught at TOPGUN, was the commanding officer of a Fighter Squadron, and was an F-14 Tomcat Demonstration Pilot for 10 years.

If you don’t know of Snort, you might know of this famous picture of an F-14 Tomcat being piloted by Snort.

The plane is on its side for a high-speed, low-level pass with the wings fully extended and the wingtips below the level of the flight deck of the USS America all while in full afterburner. Don’t worry, despite what you might hear this “banana pass” was both planned and approved.

After he retired from active duty he returned to the air show circuit, flying in over 850 airshows before his death.

On July 24, 2021, Snort was killed when his SIAI-Marchetti SM. 1019 crashed while taking off at an airshow in Idaho. We will forever keep him in our hearts and minds. His spirit lives on in every plane that crosses into an Airshow box.