#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.

[genderfluidwerewolfgirlfriend]

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

[dark-night-hero]

「Echoes in the Sky」 Caleb (ii)

       ↳ A grounded pilot with no memory of the past is drawn back to the sky, to the people who never stopped waiting for them. In the quiet of a small pub and the open sky above, fragments return. Not through words, but through flight, instinct, and the ones who still remember. (10.5k)

They said no.

Too high-ranking. Too political. Too far removed from the cockpit to be of any use to the new generation of Top Gun pilots. A lieutenant colonel doesn't volunteer for frontline training. Others were assigned. Younger men. Hungrier ones.

But Caleb had read the roster. He'd seen the name halfway down the page, and the world tilted.

Your brother.

Call sign: Echo.

Sharp. Fast. Reckless in a way that felt familiar.

And just like that, it came rushing back. The distant thunder of afterburners overhead, the shrill cut of your laughter through comms, the way you used to fly like gravity was an insult.

The past didn't speak in full sentences anymore. It came in fragments. In static. In moments stitched together by grief.

It came like echoes in the sky.

You had been the best, his best, and when you went down, the silence that followed never really left. They called it a crash. He called it the day the world stopped making sense. They buried an empty casket, folded a flag, handed him a medal he never touched. You were gone. Officially. Professionally. Completely.

Except not really. Not to him. You lived in the students who flew too close to the edge. In the way their hands danced over throttles. In the heat that rolled off the tarmac. You lived in every ghost that screamed past at Mach 1.

So Caleb returned. To Miramar. To Top Gun. To the echoes. He told command it was strategy. Experience. Protocol.

But the truth?

He heard you in the sky again. And he wasn't ready to let go.

🍎

The hallway was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't last long at Miramar. Caleb had always liked this stretch of corridor. Tucked behind the briefing rooms, just out of reach of the noise.

It used to be where pilots came to breathe between flights. Where you once leaned against the vending machine, helmet tucked beneath your arm, eyes gleaming with something louder than adrenaline.

He did not come here to chase ghosts. But they followed him anyway.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Caleb turned, expecting a recruit, maybe another instructor. Instead, it was him. Your brother. Flight suit sharp. Call sign stitched in crisp white, ECHO.

The irony stung. The name was a legacy. Maybe a curse. Maybe a middle finger aimed at fate.

He hadn't seen the kid in years, not since the memorial. He was older now. Shoulders broader. Jaw set in that same stubborn tilt you used to wear whenever you didn't want to talk about something. Caleb straightened.

"Lieutenant." He said and your brother didn't stop walking. He didn't slow. Just brushed past without so much as a glance. The silence was louder than any answer and Caleb doesn't blame him.

You had been wingmates. Closer than blood. Caleb flew lead. You followed him into everything. Until one day, you didn't come back. He knew what your brother must've thought. What most people probably did. You trusted Caleb with your life. And he lost it.

He exhaled as your brother disappeared around the corner, boots steady, back stiff. No confrontation. No words. Just that cold, deliberate kind of silence that said. I know who you are. I haven’t forgiven you. And I’m not going to pretend I have.

Caleb leaned back against the wall. Let his head rest against the concrete, eyes tracing the ceiling. You used to say the air up there didn't judge. That the sky had no memory. But the people left behind? They remembered everything. Even the things you couldn't.

🍎

The smell hadn't changed. The mix of coffee, jet fuel, old chairs and pressure washed concrete hit Caleb the moment he stepped through the door. It pulled at something buried deep, something quiet, something sharp before he'd even spoken a word. It was the scent of pressure. Of anticipation. Of young pilots trying to carve names into the sky.

They were waiting for him now. Twenty of them lined in neat rows. Uniforms crisp. Eyes too sharp for their age. Postures wound tight with ambition. The next generation of Top Gun. The best of the best. He'd been one of them once.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Caleb Xia. Call sign: Caleb." He began, voice flat but clear, eyes sweeping over the room. "You don't need to like me. You don't need to impress me. But if you want to fly out of here with that patch, you'll learn to out think me.”

A few of them smirked. Confidence blooming in their expressions. The cocky kind. Already calculating where he might rank on their mental kill boards. Caleb let the silence stretch. "The men and women who've stood where you stand now. They earned it by knowing when to listen, and when to lead. That starts today."

Then came protocol. He opened the floor to clarifying questions. A few hands rose. Standard inquiries. "What's your policy on push-throughs in a vertical dive?" "Will we be rotating instructors per module?" He responded in clipped, mechanical answers. Efficient. Professional. Distant. Then a voice floated from the back row, not loud. Curious, maybe even a little bored.

"Sir, did you come through Top Gun yourself?" Caleb's gaze swept across the room. The speaker didn't identified themselves. Still, he gave a single nod. "Class of '37." Another voice followed, different, but close enough in location to suggest they were friends. "Anyone we'd recognize from your cycle?" Light laughter stirred across the classroom, unforced and easy. But Caleb felt something catch in his chest. A small hitch.

There it was. A thread. Waiting to be pulled. But his tone didn't waver. "One or two. But they're long gone." The laughter died quickly. A different kind of quiet took its place. And then your brother stood. No fanfare. No attitude. Just the weight of a question he already knew the answer to but had to ask anyway. "Was Echo one of them?"

The name didn't go unnoticed. A few students glanced at each other, expressions shifting. Some recognized it from simulator recordings or whispered hallway stories, rumors about a pilot who should have become a legend but didn't. The atmosphere changed. Barely but unmistakably. Caleb felt it settle into his bones.

He looked at the young man now standing at the rear of the room. Back straight. Boots anchored. Composure exact. His features held the same controlled intensity Caleb remembered from a different face, yours. He was your brother. Of course.

He hadn't spoken to Caleb since orientation. Not during roll call. Not even a nod. He had been colder than protocol required but not openly hostile. Just silent. Deliberately so. Until now. Caleb met his gaze and didn't look away.

"Echo was in my class." He said. "And my flight team." He added. Not his sibling. Not his wingmate. Just facts. Clean. Impersonal. "They were one of the most gifted pilots I ever flew with." It should have ended there. But your brother didn't sit. Didn't blink. He watched Caleb like a man reading static, hunting for the signal underneath. "They never graduated, though. Right?"

The words dropped like a weight. Heavy. Sharp. Ugly with truth. Caleb's jaw tightened. Something flickered behind his eyes, just a second of something raw but he buried it before it could surface. "No." he replied quietly. "Their last mission was classified. They didn't come back." And that was it. The moment everything shifted.

The air thinned. The hunger in the room turned tight, uneasy. Like everyone had taken a breath they suddenly couldn't justify holding. Your brother sat down. Said nothing more. But the space between them, the quiet, deliberate space spoke louder than anything else in the room.

It said. You were there. And they’re not. So what the hell went wrong?

And Caleb? He felt it all over again. Your voice cutting in through comms. "I've got this, Apple. You're clear." Then the silence that followed. And now, a new silence. Louder. Heavier. Filled with someone else's blame.

🍎

The mission briefing had labeled it a standard three plane engagement. Guns only. Kill lock disables. No allies. But everyone in the hangar knew better. This wasn't training. It was a measuring stick.

Commander Caleb Xia had launched into the air like the sky still remembered him. He flew like it owed him something, ruthless, precise, terrifying in the sheer efficiency of his control. Angles bent for him. Altitude folded into advantage. Every maneuver looked less like strategy and more like instinct forged in fire.

Some of the students whispered about the past. About how Caleb had flown with the original Echo, the pilot whose name now rode on his helmet. Most didn't say it out loud. Not around him. He hadn't asked for the callsign. But once it was assigned, he never let it go.

"Big name to take on." One of the instructors had muttered months ago, a casual comment not meant to stick. Echo's answer had been quiet. Unshaken. "It's not about the name. It's about reminding the sky who it lost."

Now he was climbing fast. Six thousand feet and rising. The sun cut across the canopy glass in streaks of copper and blood. He could feel the jet tighten beneath him like a living thing, hungry for altitude. And just like that, Caleb disappeared from radar. Again. Too fast. Too smart. Too familiar.

His fingers curled around the throttle. Jaw tense. He muttered under his breath. "You always disappear when it gets real, Colonel?" No reply. Of course not. It wasn't personal. Not officially. But ever since Caleb's name had gone up on the instructor board, something inside him had coiled tight and never let go.

They hadn't spoken. Not really. A line here. A nod there. But Echo knew. He knew. Caleb had been in the air that day. The day Echo One didn't come home. His sibling. Gone. The sky silent. The official report, redacted. And the one constant in all of it? Caleb Xia.

Sudden tone. Lock warning screamed through his headset. Too late. "Guns. Echo, you're dead." Colonel Xia's voice cracked through the comms like cold steel. He pulled the stick into a high-G roll anyway, refusing to die easy, even in simulation. Chasing a ghost that had already taken him down. Too slow. Too far behind. Tagged clean. He leveled out.

Silence returned to the radio. The other student would be debriefing soon, probably spinning some excuse. But Caleb remained aloft, circling above like a hawk that had never learned how to land. Echo opened his mic. "Where you there?" A pause. Static. Then Caleb's voice can be heard. "When?" "The last mission. The one where Echo One didn't come back."

He didn't say my sibling. He didn't need to. There had only ever been one Echo One. The reply came after a breath. Measured. Controlled. "Yeah. I was there." "And?" "They flew solo. I wasn't on comms when they went down." His grip tightened on the controls. "But you were in the sky. Weren't you?"

Silence. No confirmation. No denial. Just the cold air and the sound of his own breath. He stared out through the glass, eyes burning. "You fly like no one can touch you." He said. "Like you're the end of every fight before it starts." Still nothing. Only the faint sound of engines above. Caleb's jet cutting quiet arcs through open sky.

"So if you were in the sky that day..." His voice cracked, just once. "Why didn't you bring them home?" The comms went dead. No beep. No farewell. Just silence. Final.

Above, Caleb's jet leveled out and climbed higher. Alone. A silhouette against the glare of sun and haze. Echo didn't chase him. He couldn't. He just watched. Watched that machine vanish into white gold light and felt something tear in his chest. Not anger. Not even grief. Something worse.

Recognition. He hated the man and respected him. And yet couldn't forgive him. And worst of all, he understood him. Because if he had been in that sky… if it had been him on your wing, with your voice crackling through the comms. He would've torn the sky open. He would've shattered heaven itself to bring you home. Wouldn't he?

🍎

The door slammed open, hard enough to shake the hinges. The sound cracked through the locker room like a cannon blast. Caleb didn't flinch. He sat on the bench head down, helmet balanced on one knee. Sweat still clung to the collar of his flight suit. The flight had ended but whatever was about to begin between them. This wasn't over.

Echo stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he hadn't taken a full breath since landing. He looked like a storm barely contained by skin. Fists clenched. Shoulders locked. And for a long, breathless second, all he did was stare. Then he saw it.

Inside Caleb's locker, partially hidden beneath a cracked nameplate and a curling flight checklist was a worn, sun bleached patch. ECHO. The original. Yours. The breath caught in his throat like shrapnel. "What the hell is that doing there?" Echo snapped, the words low and shaking. Anger, disbelief, grief. None of them could stand on their own, so they came together like glass splintering.

Caleb looked up slowly. His entire body stiffened. He didn't need to ask what Echo meant. "It's theirs." Caleb said, voice steady but ragged. "It stays." "You don't get to hang their name like a trophy." Echo took a step forward, heat rising in his chest like fire through a sealed cabin. "You don't get to keep them like they were yours."

Caleb rose quietly, deliberately like standing wasn't just a motion but a choice to meet the storm head on. "I didn't keep them." He said, jaw tight. "I lost them." "That right?" Echo's voice rose, cracked at the edges. "Because the way you fly, the way you carry yourself, you act like you walked out of that wreckage a damn hero."

Caleb stepped in close, until they were eye to eye, breath to breath. "I walked out of that wreckage alone." he bit out. "Do you know what that feels like? Looking down at fire and twisted steel and knowing the only person who ever mattered to you is gone?"

"You don't get to talk about mattering." Echo snapped. "You weren't blood." Caleb's expression shifted. Like the words hit a place still bleeding. "No." He said quietly. "I was worse." A pause. "I loved them." The air collapsed between them. Echo blinked.

"What?" He asked, almost like a whisper. "I loved them." Caleb repeated, louder now, voice cracking as the words clawed their way out. "And don't stand there acting like I didn't. I would've burned the goddamn world to bring them home. You think I didn't try?" "You were there!" Echo's voice broke as he pointed, hand trembling. "You were in the air! Why didn't you go after them? Why didn't you stop it?"

"I did!" Caleb roared. The word echoed off the tile like thunder. "I flew back. I broke protocols. I crossed into restricted airspace, I ignored orders, I-" His voice fractured. "I got there too late." The silence that followed was unbearable. Thick. Violent in how gentle it became. Echo's chest rose and fell, shallow and fast. So did Caleb's. No movement. Only pain.

"You think you're the only one who grieves them." Echo whispered, his voice thick with rage and something deeper. Wounded, unfinished. "But you got to fly with them. You knew them. I grew up chasing their ghost and all I ever heard was (Your name) this, Echo that. Like I was supposed to become them. Like I was some kind of replacement."

Caleb looked at him. This time, the fury in his face faded. It cracked. Pain replaced it. Something hollow and old and aching. "You were never supposed to live in their place." He said softly. "They weren't supposed to die." The locker room was silent again. The kind of silence that made you feel like the whole world was holding its breath.

Then Caleb turned away and slammed the locker door shut. The metal rang through the room like a warning. Or a goodbye.

"I see them every time I close my eyes." He said, not turning back. "Do you understand that? Every mission. Every time I'm in the air. I hear them. Laughing on comms and for half a second, I forget they're gone. And then it comes back. The crash. The report. The sky that should've given them back."

Echo felt it. Deep in his ribs. A burn that wasn't fury this time, but grief with nowhere to go. He blinked hard. His vision swam. And for the first time. He saw Caleb not as the myth, a legend. Not as the flawless pilot or the man who didn't fall apart. But as someone gutted still flying through wreckage.

"...They loved you too." Echo said, voice thin and broken. Caleb stopped. Echo swiped at his face with one hand, as if trying to force the tears back where they didn't belong. "They told me once, over a phone call. Quiet. Like it was some secret they weren't supposed to say out loud." He exhaled. "Said you made the sky feel different. Said you made them believe in more than just flying." The words landed like a punch to the lungs.

Caleb inhaled sharply. It was like hearing your voice again, only from someone else's mouth. A ghost speaking through blood. And just like that, the fight dissolved. No punches. No apologies. Only the silence that comes when two men realize they've both been standing in the same crater, just on opposite sides. Broken. Still chasing the echo of someone neither of them could let go.

🍎

The pub was quiet, even for a Thursday. Not empty, just slow. The kind of night where everything felt softer. The sound of glasses, the quiet music playing, and the occasional noise of a motorcycle outside. You were behind the counter, wiping glasses, serving drinks. This was your routine. It was simple. Comfortable. Safe. The door creaked open.

Then the door opened, and three Navy pilots walked in. You could tell right away. The flight jackets, the loud voices, the way they carried themselves, they were Top Gun or wanted everyone to think so. They dropped onto the stools like they'd just landed and needed to get flying out of their system. Trouble, in other words. The three Navy pilots stepped in like they owned the place or at least needed to convince themselves they did.

"Two beers." Said the blonde one, already grinning. "And something dark for the serious one." The so called serious one didn't argue. Just started scanning the shelves behind you like he already knew what he wanted and was giving the bottles a chance to impress him.

You poured. Quiet. Efficient. "So what's your story?" Asked the second one, taller, leaner, full of that relaxed arrogance you'd learned to spot from a mile away. "You a veteran?" You gave a short nod. "Retired." "Pilot?" Another nod. You didn't offer more. Didn't need to. The way you moved said enough.

"Damn." The blonde said, sitting up a little straighter. "Top Gun?" You hesitated for a moment then. "Yeah." That changed the air around them. A couple low whistles. Raised brows. The kind of impressed reaction that still made you uncomfortable, even years later. "Seriously?" He asked. "What class?"

You turned slightly, picked up a glass to polish. "I don't know." He blinked, thrown. "Wait, what do you mean?" "I was injured." You said, your voice even. "During a mission. I don't remember the details. I don't know who I flew with. Don't remember the op. Just that I didn't come back from it the same."

That quieted them. The tone shifted. Not pity at least, not exactly. Just a kind of weight settling in the space between their drinks. The third one, who hadn't said much until now, leaned forward. "You lost everything?" You shrugged. "Not everything. Still remember how to pour a drink." That earn a few chuckles.

The tall one cleared his throat. "But you remember your callsign, right?" You nodded again, slower this time. "Echo." That landed hard. A pause stretched out, tense and sudden. The three of them exchanged quick looks, something unspoken passing between them. "That's... weird." One said finally. "There's a guy in our class right now. Callsign's Echo too."

Your hand paused mid wipe. Barely. But enough. You set the glass down slowly, kept your back turned to hide the way your spine stiffened. "He's good." Said the quiet one. "Sharp instincts. Flies like there's something personal in it." "Yeah." The blonde added. "Like the sky took something from him and he's up there trying to take it back."

Your hand twitched. "He's got a grudge.” The third one continued. "Especially when it comes to Colonel Xia." That name. It didn't spark anything clear in your mind, but something under your skin shifted. A subtle, instinctual response like your body recognized a name your brain couldn't place. "Xia?" You repeated.

"Yeah. Lieutenant Colonel Caleb Xia. Instructor. One of the old guard. Still flies like he's trying to outrun something." You kept your hands moving, wiping the same spot on the bar for far too long. "Think they knew each other?" You asked, careful not to sound like it mattered.

"Maybe." One said with a shrug. "People say Sir Caleb lost someone. A pilot he flew with. Think it was a student." You didn't reply. Just listened. "And now I don't know. Feels like Echo reminds him of whoever that was. Like something got left unfinished." The third one took a sip, leaned back, then tossed the question out like it didn't mean much.

"So what about you? What kind of pilot were you?" You exhaled through your nose. Thought for a second. "I don't remember the missions." You said. "Or the aircraft models. Or even the base." That got their attention. "But I remember the feeling." They quieted. "What feeling?" The blonde asked, voice softer.

You leaned against the bar, eyes drifting for a moment, gaze unfocused. "You're up there. Just you, the stick, and the wind. And for a few minutes nothing else matters. Not gravity. Not names. Not memory. You're flying like your soul knows something your body forgot." The words hung in the air, fragile and real. The pilots didn't say anything for a while.

You finally looked at them again. Steadier this time. Tired, but not broken. "I know I flew solo. I know something went wrong. I know I woke up in a hospital with a folder of half redacted charts and nobody waiting." You said it plainly. Without bitterness. Just what it was.

They didn't know what to say. You didn't expect them to. "Anyway." You added, pushing off the bar. "The skies are yours now. I've got my boots on the ground." You smiled. It didn't quite touch your eyes, but it passed for one. They mumbled thank yous and respectful nods. The topic shifted, football, missions, girls back home. They moved on. You didn't.

Later, when the bar had emptied out and the neon signs clicked off one by one, you stood alone behind the counter. Same rag in your hand. Same glass. Wiping a clean surface for no reason. And under your breath, soft and private, you said it again. "Echo." Like a name not yet done with you.

🍎

The hangar wasn't loud but it was alive. The kind of noise that settled in your bones after years on the job. Low voices, the clank of gear, the soft whir of tools, the distant cough of an engine winding down. The sun was nearly gone, dipping behind the stacks leaving the place drenched in gold and shadow. End of day.

Caleb stood on the upper level, leaning against the railing with a lukewarm mug of coffee in his hand. He wasn't really drinking it. Just holding it like habit. His eyes wandered the floor without much focus, watching people move, watching the shift change. Same as always.

He liked this hour. Not for any deep reason. Just that it was quiet. It gave him room to breathe. Below him, two younger pilots were posted up near a deck cart, still in flight gear, helmets under their arms. Their voices carried up a little too easily.

"You been to that new place off base?" One of them asked. "The pub?" The other said. "Yeah. Went once. It's quiet. Old school. Feels like time stopped in there." "Owner's a veteran" The first added. "Pilot, apparently." Caleb kept his eyes ahead. No reaction. Not yet.

"Top Gun too." The kid said. "That's what someone told me. But they don't talk about it much. Just keep to themselves. Pour drinks, stay out of the way." The second one frowned. "You know what squadron?" "Nope. They said they don't remember. Got hurt in a crash. Solo op. Walked away but left most of the memories behind." Caleb's hand went still on his mug.

They didn't say a name. But the shape of the story was familiar. Top Gun. Solo mission. Crash. He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening. No. Couldn't be.

He'd been there. He'd seen what was left of the wreck. The smoke. The way the comms had gone silent and never came back. He'd flown over the site three times until they made him return to base. And still, all he found was fire and twisted metal.

You were gone. That had been the one truth he didn't let himself question. And now, here were two kids trading bar talk like it didn't mean anything. Like they hadn't just dropped a match into the middle of everything he'd tried to bury. He took a slow sip of coffee, even though it was cold.

"Colonel Xia." He turned at the voice. Echo, your brother was coming up the steps. His flight suit hung open at the collar, sweat still fresh at his temples. He looked tired in a way that didn't just come from flying. Not angry anymore. Just worn.

The tension between them had faded since the last blow up but it wasn't fixed. Just dulled. Time and silence had done that. Maybe pain had too. Echo glanced at the mug in Caleb's hand. "That stuff any good?" Caleb gave a dry smile. "Not even close." He said. "But after twenty years, you stop expecting good coffee. You just get used to drinking your regrets."

Echo didn't laugh, but he gave a short nod, stepping up beside him to look out over the hangar. They stood there for a while. No words. Just the background hum of the night shift taking over. Lights dimming. Crews thinning out. That tired rhythm settling into place.

But Caleb's thoughts weren't in the hangar anymore. That story, those voices downstairs had gotten under his skin. He didn't say anything. He wouldn't. He didn't believe in ghosts. And yet as he stepped away from the railing, coffee still in hand, something followed him. A weight he couldn't shake. Not grief. Not quite hope either. Just a question. One that wouldn't let go.

🍎

The sky opened wide over the desert, hard blue sky and five jets sliced through it like blades.

F/A Hornet spread across the training range, locked into a tight, aggressive dogfight. The sun hung low over the clouds, flaring off the glass of the canopies. Simulated rounds traded back and forth. Chatter bled through comms. Sharp, clipped, tense.

"Fox Two. Splash one." "You're wide open on your six, Tex. Roll out, now." "Caleb's moving fast. Where the hell did he go- he's off radar again-" Caleb didn't answer. He never did when it counted. No dramatic move, no wasted breath. Just fast, precise, practiced.

He cut low beneath Echo's wing, barely a flash on their sensors, then pulled up hard into the sunlight. It was a move he'd made a thousand times in his career. One he knew down to the smallest twitch of the stick. Predictable to him. Not to them. Up here, nothing else existed. Not rank. Not age. Not ghosts. Just flying.

And Echo? Echo had kept up. More than that, he was flying better than Caleb had ever seen him. Sharper. Cleaner. More focused. Something had shifted since that last argument in the locker room. Whatever weight Echo had been dragging behind him for months, he wasn't flying with it now. He wasn't trying to be anyone's replacement. He was just flying.

Then- "Caleb, we've got smoke off Echo Two." Caleb's heart lurched before his head caught up. He craned around. A streak of smoke curled out behind Echo's jet, dark and dirty, not the burn off of a flare or a sim hit. This was real. It was coming from the right engine, leaking fast, trailing like a warning sign across the sky.

"I'm losing power." Echo's voice came in, strained. "Right engine's surging. Controls are getting stiff." "Do you need to eject?" Snother pilot asked. "Negative." Echo snapped. "Still flying. Not punching out of a sim." Caleb was already turning, banking hard and pulling in beside him. "Echo, break left. Ease off speed. Let it coast down. I've got you."

"Commander-" "Don't argue. Just do it." It wasn't an order, not exactly. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Trust forged in the same way most good pilots formed it. Mid air, mid threat, no time for second guesses. Caleb closed the distance and dropped in off Echo's wing, just far enough to stay safe, close enough to intervene if things got worse. No more fighting. No more games. This wasn't a mission now, it was escort. It was survival.

"Throttle down. Stay smooth." "Copy. Trying. Trim's fighting back." "You're not going down today." Caleb said it quietly, but meant every word. They descended together, the desert widening below. The smoke got thicker as they dropped, but the engine held. Barely. Caleb didn't leave his side. Not once.

By the time both jets touched down, Caleb just seconds ahead, the crew was already rushing toward them. Fire control. Med techs. Maintenance. The runway buzzed with motion, but for Caleb, it all dropped into the background. Echo climbed out of his jet slower than usual, helmet under one arm, sweat on his jaw, his chest still rising fast. But he was walking. Alive.

Caleb met him halfway across the tarmac, where the heat shimmered in the space between them. Neither spoke at first. Then, Echo stopped in front of him, and the look in his eyes had shifted. Not just the adrenaline. Not even relief. Something else, recognition, maybe. Something heavier.

"I couldn't pull up." Echo said, voice rough. "I tried, but..." "I know." Caleb said, just as quiet. There was a long pause. Then Echo glanced away, jaw tight. "I used to think..." He let out a breath. "I used to think you let my sibling go." Caleb didn't speak.

"I needed someone to blame." Echo said. "It made things easier. Simpler. That if someone had just done something different, maybe..." "I was there." Caleb said. "I saw the radar. I flew back for them. I tried." His voice dropped. "I just got there too late."

Echo looked at him, and this time, there wasn't anger in his expression. Just the kind of tired honesty that doesn't need to be dressed up. "You don't owe me anything." Echo said finally. "You flew with them. You cared. That's more than most." He stepped back slightly, gaze steady. "Thanks for getting me down." Caleb nodded once. "Anytime."

Echo paused just long enough for the moment to register then added. "Commander Caleb." Not Colonel. Not 'sir' Not with edge or distance. Just the name. Caleb gave a faint smile. Not bright. Not triumphant. But real. And Echo returned it. Then he turned and walked away, shoulders a little lighter, steps a little surer. Not healed. Not yet. But steadier.

Caleb stayed behind, looking up at the sky for a second longer. Neither of them had found peace. But this time, they hadn't come down alone.

🍎

The pub was alive.

Not some fancy officer's lounge or rundown pub but the kind of place that felt like it had stories soaked into the walls. Old vinyl records framed behind the bar. A rusty jukebox still managing to blast Van Halen. Pool balls cracking across worn green felt. Laughter too loud. Bottles sweating under dim lights. And above it all, a tired ceiling fan humming like it might fall apart any second.

Caleb stepped inside and paused. He hadn't planned on stopping here. Just a drive off base to clear his head, get away from ghosts and jet noise. But something about the place caught his eye. The name. The glow through the windows. And then he saw you. You were behind the bar.

Pouring drinks for a few young aviators, the sleeves of your gray shirt rolled up just enough to show strength and old scars. No name tag. No callsign. Just the calm, steady presence of someone who knew exactly who they were. Hair pulled back. Eyes clear but distant. The same quiet energy he used to fly beside.

Caleb froze. It was you. Older, sure. A small scar near your temple he didn't remember. A heaviness in your face that hadn't been there before. But still you. Same way you stood. Same tilt to your mouth. Same eyes that used to scan the clouds like they owed you something.

His heart dropped. You were alive. And you didn't recognize him.

You glanced up briefly, just another stranger walking in. Gave him a polite nod, then went back to pouring. Caleb felt like the ground had shifted under his feet. You didn't remember him. But he remembered everything.

He took a seat at the bar, three stools away. Close enough to see you clearly. Far enough not to shake. His chest felt tight. You moved with ease. Calm. You smiled at a joke from a fresh faced pilot who clearly thought he was funnier than he was. Still no sign you knew him.

When you finally made it to him, you slid over a napkin and asked. "What can I get you?" Caleb blinked. Your voice. Still you. "Beer." He said softly. "Whatever's cold." You poured it without hesitation. Just as smooth as you used to fly. Then you leaned forward, studying him just a little. "First time in?" You asked. He nodded, throat dry. "Yeah. Just passing through."

You gave a small smile. "Hope it holds up." He almost said. It used to be you who held me up. Instead, he glanced around. "Nice place." "Thanks." You said, wiping down the counter. "Built it up a few years back. Wanted something quieter. Something familiar." "Feels like it has a soul." He said. You raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know pubs had those." "The right ones do."

You gave a tiny smirk at that. Down the bar, one of the younger pilots called out. "Hey, boss! Tell him the story about the colonel! The guy you almost kicked out last year for trying to explain G-forces to you." You rolled your eyes. "That wasn't a colonel. That was a second lieutenant who watched Top Gun twice and thought it made him bulletproof."

Everyone laughed. You turned back to Caleb, shaking your head with amusement. He tried to smile. His hands were shaking. Then you looked at him again, a little closer this time.

"You fly?" You asked. He nodded. "Used to." With you. For years. And then now. You paused for a moment, eyes narrowing like you were searching for something. "You look like you've been through hell." you said quietly. Caleb gave a shaky breath. "Still climbing out."

You didn't say anything. Just gave him a slow nod and went back to wiping down a glass. He looked down into his drink. In his jacket pocket, his fingers brushed against something small and worn. A flight patch.

ECHO

He closed his eyes. He didn't say your name. Didn't ask why no one told him. Didn't beg for a memory that might hurt you both.

Instead, he sat in the bar you built with no memory of the sky, and watched the person he loved serve strangers with a calm he barely recognized. And all he could do was to sit in silence. And hope that somewhere deep down, some part of you still remembered how to fly.

🍎

The doors to HQ slammed open, the sound echoing down the hall.

Caleb didn't slow down. He walked past junior officers without a word, boots hitting the tile with sharp, angry precision. His jaw was clenched. Shoulders tight. His whole body moved like it was holding something just barely in check.

He didn't knock. He pushed the office door open and walked straight in. General Ross looked up from his desk, calm and unreadable. The kind of calm that came from decades in command. He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Caleb stopped in front of the desk, fists tight at his sides.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" He said. Ross raised an eyebrow. "Colonel Xia-" "No. Not rank. Not this time. Why the hell didn't anyone tell me they were alive?" The room went quiet. Ross leaned back in his chair slowly, fingers steepled on the desk. "I saw them disappear off radar." Caleb continued, voice cracking. "I read the report. I held their patch in my hand. I buried them." Ross sighed.

"Sit down, Caleb." "I'm not sitting." "Then listen." There was a pause. Caleb didn't move. Ross spoke carefully. "They were found three days after the crash. Concussed. Dehydrated. Memory mostly gone. They'd walked miles from the wreck, no gear, no comms. A recon team spotted smoke and found them by accident." Caleb froze.

"Why wasn't I told?" "You were already in black ops training. The file was sealed during their recovery. By the time the report cleared, you'd delivered the eulogy. And they didn't remember you." Caleb's breath caught in his throat. "What?" "They remembered flying. They remembered instinct. But not names. Not faces. Not even their own call sign, not at first."

Caleb shut his eyes. He thought of the bar. The way you'd looked at him. Like he was a stranger. "And now?" "They built a new life. Clear their name. Opened that pub. Didn't want to go back to flying. Didn't want to be found. We respected that." Caleb shook his head slowly. "You let me believe they were dead." Ross leaned forward, voice firm. "They were listed missing. Then presumed killed, based on the wreckage. You had no reason to think otherwise."

"I had every reason." Caleb snapped. "You don't lose someone like that and just forget. You don't erase them because it's easier." Ross's voice stayed level. "They asked for peace. After everything they lost... We gave it to them. You think we didn't want them back? You think we didn't try?"

Caleb looked away. His voice dropped low. "They were the best thing that ever happened to me in the sky." Silence stretched between them. Ross finally asked, quieter now. "Do they remember you?" Caleb shook his head. "No." "Then maybe the question is." Ross said. "Do you want them to?"

Caleb didn't answer. Because deep down, he didn't know what scared him more. That you might never remember him or that one day, you might.

🍎

He didn't plan to come back. Not on purpose. Not as part of any plan. But somehow, Caleb found himself standing outside that same small bar just off base, like his feet had taken him there without asking.

He pushed the door open. The little bell above it gave a soft ring, tired, like it had been ringing for years. The place was quieter tonight. Fewer uniforms. Less noise. A slow song played from the jukebox, something old, maybe Fleetwood Mac. The lights were dim and warm, the kind that didn't ask questions. And there you were.

Behind the bar again, wiping glasses, moving with that same easy rhythm he remembered from a long time ago, on flight decks, during mission prep, or when everything was falling apart and you somehow still kept your head. You didn't notice him at first. He took the same seat, three stools down, where he could see you but keep a little space. Then you looked up.

"Back already?" You asked. He gave a small nod. Didn't say anything. His chest felt tight, like if he tried to speak, he wouldn't be able to stop. You picked up a clean glass. "Same beer?" He hesitated, then nodded again. "Sure."

You poured it without making a big deal out of it. Set it down in front of him. Then leaned a little on the counter. Not too close. Just there. "You look worse than last night." You said. He let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Thanks." You shrugged, not unkind. "Said with love. Or at least bartender concern."

He stared at the glass. Didn't touch it. "Rough day?" You asked. He gave a small nod. That was all he had. You tilted your head, voice still light but a little more thoughtful. "Let me guess. One of your students got cocky, messed up their landing, and nearly clipped your wing?" He looked up, surprised. You smiled a little. "I've seen that look before. A long time ago."

"Yeah?" His voice was hoarse. You nodded. "I used to fly. A while ago. Before... Whatever happened." You paused. Looked down at your hands. "I don't remember much." You said quietly. "Bits and pieces. Muscle memory. Some habits. But names? Faces? All gone." Caleb's breath caught. Then you looked at him again. Really looked.

"Do you know me?" That question almost knocked the air out of him. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Gripped the glass so his hands wouldn't shake. "I used to." He said. You didn't pull away. You didn't look away. Just stayed there with him in the quiet. "I'm sorry." You said.

He shook his head. "Don't be." Something passed between you then. Not words, exactly. But not silence either. After a moment, you nodded toward the jukebox. "Want me to change the music?" He didn't answer. You smiled, just a little. "Didn't think so. You seem like the kind of guy who lets the song pick itself." He almost laughed. Just barely. But it was real.

You poured yourself a glass of water, took a slow sip, and said. "You can stay. You don't have to talk." He looked at you. And for just a moment, time felt like it folded in on itself. There you were again. Just like before. Steady. Calm. That quiet strength he'd leaned on in the worst storms. The only difference now was... You didn't even know him.

But still, you were here. And Caleb realized memory or not, you were still the safest place he'd ever known.

🍎

He had not planned on going out.

The new cadets had convinced him. They were still buzzing from a good run in the sim, laughing and light, trying to ride the high as long as they could. "It's just a small pub a few miles from base." One of them said. "Nothing fancy. Feels like it's off the radar." A place to cool down after the rush of a dogfight.

He figured a beer wouldn't hurt. Pretending to unwind for a night seemed harmless enough. He stepped inside just as the jukebox switched songs. Tom Petty. Learning to Fly. Of course. The bar wasn't full. A couple people around the pool table. A few quiet conversations. The smell of beer, sweat, and old wood. One guy near the back was talking too loudly about fighter jets, and it was obvious he'd never flown one.

And then he saw you. Behind the bar. Drying a glass with a towel, focused on your work. Still. Alive.

His entire body locked up. He nearly dropped his drink but caught it just in time. His feet felt heavy. His chest, even more so. It couldn't be you. But it was. Hair pulled back like it used to be. That calm, steady posture. Like the world didn’t rattle you the way it did everyone else. You moved with quiet confidence, just like you used to in the cockpit. Then you looked up. Right at him. And you smiled.

"Evening." You said, like he was just another stranger. Like you hadn't grow up beside him. Like your name and face hadn't been written in folded reports, pictures and stories remembered every time he looked at the sky. He couldn't say anything.

The cadets pushed in behind him, full of jokes and orders. One of them pointed toward him and called out. "Boss! Give this guy something strong flew like a maniac today!" You didn't react. You just kept serving drinks. Calm. Unbothered. But for him, the room was spinning.

He walked closer to the bar, slow. Eyes locked on yours. You looked so familiar it hurt. "You're..." He tried to say, voice rough. "You're Echo." You tilted your head. "Pub owner." You said. "Some people call me that. Not sure why. I guess my names going around in base?” You chuckle and it knocked the air right out of him.

You didn't remember. The callsign meant nothing to you now. He swallowed hard. "You were a pilot." You nodded. "So you've heard." You didn’t say it with pride. Just like it was something someone else had told you, like a fact in a file. You added. "I don't really remember it. Took a hit to the head, I guess. They said I walked away from a crash. Don't remember much, but I still dream about flying sometimes. It feels... Familiar."

His chest ached. You still felt it, even if your mind couldn't explain why. Then he noticed someone else nearby, Caleb. Sitting quietly, watching everything. And suddenly it made sense. The sadness in Caleb's eyes. The way he'd carried the loss. Why he was sneaking out more often. The way he was looking at you now. He already knew.

You turned to grab another drink order, and for a moment, a scar near your neck caught the light. One that hadn't been there before. From the crash. Your brother moved slowly to sit down at the bar, like he was afraid he might scare you off. Then he asked quietly. "Do you ever remember names?"

You looked at him again. Thought about it. Then shrugged. "Sometimes voices feel familiar. Or faces. But it's like an echo. You hear it, but you don't know where it's coming from." His hands were trembling. You gave him another soft smile. "Beer?" He nodded. "Yeah. Please."

And when you walked away, still humming along with the jukebox, he just sat there. Breathing. Still broken. But also somehow okay. Because you were alive. You were here. And that was more than he ever thought he'd get again.

🍎

The air outside the bar was cooler now. A breeze drifted in from the ocean, carrying the scent of salt and the sound of waves pulling back from the shore. Crickets chirped somewhere nearby. A truck rumbled down a street a few blocks over, music thudding faintly from its speakers. But right here, under the pubs flickering sign, it was quiet.

Caleb stood near the edge of the sidewalk, shoulders slumped, staring at the cracks in the pavement beneath his boots. The same pavement you used to walk with him. Back when things were brighter. Easier. Whole. Behind him, your brother stepped outside. No heavy footsteps. No anger in his voice. Just quiet steps.

He stopped a few feet behind Caleb. Neither of them spoke at first. The silence hung between them, not tense anymore just heavy with something quieter. Something sad. Your brother finally spoke. "You knew." Caleb didn't turn. "Yeah." "How long?" A short pause. Caleb's voice was rough. "Two nights ago."

Caleb ran a hand down his face, shaking his head like he still hadn't made peace with it. "I went back to that pub to forget them. To drink it all away. And instead they were standing there. Behind the bar. Pouring my drink." Your brother let out a long breath. Folded his arms.

"And you didn’t say anything to them?" "Say what?" Caleb finally looked at him, tired and angry all at once. "That I thought they were dead? That I buried them and gave a speech over a casket with nothing in it? While they were lying somewhere in the dirt, bleeding out alone?" Your brother didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened.

Caleb's voice dropped. "They don't remember me. Or you. Or what they used to be. I asked command why no one told me. They said it was classified. Then medical. And later... their choice." He looked him straight in the eye. "They didn't want to come back." That hit hard.

Your brother's shoulders stiffened. "No." He said. His voice cracked. "They wouldn't have-" Caleb raised a hand not to argue, just to pause. To keep things from falling apart again. "They've built something new." He said. "A quiet life. No more nightmares. No panic when a jet flies over. No waking up in a sweat reaching for a control stick." He gave your brother a long look. "Can you really blame them for not wanting to return to all this?"

Your brother slowly let his arms fall to his sides. He didn't answer. Caleb looked away again. His posture sank, like the weight of everything he’d held onto was finally too much.

"I tried to find them, you know." He said after a moment. "Back then. I wasn't supposed to but I did it anyway. I left straight from my sortie and followed their last signal. But by the time I got there, there was nothing left. Just smoke. Just fire. I was too late." The words felt like they'd been buried too long. "I flew every mission after that like I could stop it from happening again."

Your brother stepped forward, the anger in him finally fading. What was left was grief. Honest and deep. He looked at Caleb. Really looked at him, he saw the exhaustion, the guilt, the time. And then quietly, he said. "It wasn't your fault."

Caleb's jaw tightened. His shoulders tensed, like he didn’t believe it. Like it was the first time he'd heard it from someone who meant it. Your brother kept going. "They chose that mission. You all knew the risk, they knew the risk. But they trusted themselves and more than anything they trusted you. That trust didn't die out there." He paused. Let the words settle. "You carried it. Even when they couldn't."

Caleb finally looked up. Your brother who had once blamed him for everything gave him a quiet nod. "Thank you, Colonel Caleb." No sarcasm. No anger. Just respect. And something close to peace.

Caleb looked back through the bar window. Saw you again. Laughing softly at something a customer said. Moving with the calm of someone who'd built a life they could live in. Then quietly, he said. "They were more than a wingman to me." Your brother nodded. "I know."

They stood together a while longer, neither of them speaking. Because sometimes, when the worst has already happened and something lost is found again, silence is the only thing that feels honest.

🍎

The bar had fallen into a rhythm. Steady. Familiar.

Pour a drink. Wipe the counter. Listen when needed. Smile when it felt right. Keep the jukebox playing and the peace intact. It wasn't exciting, but it was yours. And after a life that started in a fog you couldn't fully explain, quiet felt like enough.

Most nights passed the same way. Cadets wandered in after flight drills, loud, tired, full of swagger. Locals claimed their usual spots. The jukebox picked random songs and no one complained. The hours moved by in slow sips and soft chatter.

But lately... Two men had changed things.

Not because they caused trouble. They didn't yell. They didn't argue. They were quiet, too quiet. And they looked at you like people waiting for something that might never come back. Like seeing you stirred something painful.

The younger one, he went by Echo, just like the callsign some folks used for you, had been in twice now. Both times, he stopped cold the second he saw you. Like the sight of you knocked the wind out of him. He didn't talk much. But the way he looked at you said more than any words could. There was something in his eyes. Familiar, aching, recognition, maybe. Hurt. Maybe even love, but the kind that had been through fire.

And then there was the other one. Older. Still. The kind of calm you only got from doing something dangerous too many times and surviving it anyway. He never got drunk. Didn't flirt. Just sat near the end of the bar, watching the room like it was something he'd seen before. But when his eyes landed on you, it was different.

Like he was watching someone he'd already lost once. Like looking at you hurt. You noticed it the first night he came in. The tension in his shoulders when you spoke. The way his hands tightened when you laughed. You didn't know him. At least, you were pretty sure you didn't. But his name stayed with you anyway.

Caleb.

It felt strange. Not wrong, just out of reach. Like something from a dream you half-remembered. Something said once in another life. And now the two of them kept looking at you like you were someone else. Someone they'd known. Someone they'd lost.

Sometimes, after they left, you'd stare down at your hands behind the bar, searching for something. You weren't sure what. Scars? Calluses? Clues? You'd catch your reflection in the mirror and wonder if your face had ever belonged to someone else.

There weren't any big flashbacks. No sudden memories rushing in. Just small things. The drop in your chest when someone mentioned Mach speed. The way jet engines made you pause, just for a second. And once, a song from the jukebox made your knees go weak before you even knew why.

You didn't ask the men what they saw in you. You weren't sure you wanted the answer. But late at night, when the place was quiet and the glasses were clean, a question stayed with you. Who were you… that they look at you like had already died once?

🍎

The night was quiet. Soft around the edges, like the world itself had grown tired.

Outside, a breeze tugged gently at the old flag by the door. The sky beyond the pub was dark and still, the way it always got after flight hours, just the low hum of distant jets, too far to see. Inside, the lights glowed low and warm. Not bright enough to chase away the quiet, but enough to hold it.

You were behind the counter, leaning on your elbows, nursing a warm drink. Across from you sat Echo, quiet, thoughtful. Caleb was beside him, jacket folded over his leg, his dog tags hidden beneath his collar. He hadn't said much since sitting down. None of you had.

It should've felt like just another slow night. A few regulars hanging around after hours. But it didn't. You stared into your glass, listening to the silence stretch between the three of you. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't tense. It just carried weight. Like it was balancing something none of you wanted to drop.

Then, softly, you asked. "We used to be close, didn't we?" That got their attention. Both men looked up. Echo's jaw tightened. He didn't speak, just rubbed at the back of his neck. Caleb didn't move either, but you noticed the way his grip tightened around the glass. His knuckles went white.

You gave a tired smile, more sad than anything. "I'm not dumb. You two keep showing up. You look at me like... like I used to matter to you." Still no one said a word. So you pushed a little harder. "Why won't either of you just tell me who I was?" There was no anger in your voice. Only quiet confusion. A dull ache you'd been trying to name for months.

Caleb's voice came first. Low. Careful. "Because if you're meant to remember, you will. And if you're not..." He paused, choosing his words. "You shouldn't have to suffer just to know." You looked at him. Really looked. Then turned to your brother. His eyes were a little too red, like he hadn't slept or maybe had tried not to cry. "So what? I just move on and pretend nothing's missing?"

"No." Your brother said softly. "We just don't want to force you. That's all." You nodded slowly. Ran your thumb along the rim of your glass. "It's like there's something inside me. Not gone, just hollow. Like something used to live there." That landed harder than you expected. Caleb flinched, barely but you saw it. That's when it clicked.

The name Echo. It wasn't random. It wasn't just an old call sign. You looked between them. "That name... it meant something, didn't it?" They didn't answer. But they didn't have to. The way they stared at you like they were both hoping and afraid you might remember was all the confirmation you needed.

You let out a quiet breath and straightened up, grabbing a towel to keep your hands busy. "Fine. Don't tell me. Just..." You glanced toward the door, then back at them. "Don't disappear again." Caleb stood slowly and came to lean against the bar, not too close, just enough that his voice didn't have to rise. "We're not going anywhere." Echo, still seated added almost like a whisper. "Not this time."

You didn't say anything back. You just nodded. Once. And somehow, that was enough for now.

🍎

The bar was quieter tonight.

Most of the regulars had already come and gone. A few locals lingered at their usual spots. A couple of flight crews sat in the back, half-asleep, still in uniform. The jukebox played something soft an old Springsteen song. Familiar. Easy. Like a memory that didn't need explanation.

You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a towel over your shoulder. The routine was second nature by now. But tonight, you weren't running on autopilot. Tonight, you wanted quiet. And maybe... Someone to sit with.

Caleb was there again. Same stool. Three seats down. He never asked for it, but it had become his. He didn't talk much, just sat there holding his drink, watching the room like he was waiting for something to happen. You set a glass down near him and leaned on the bar. "You always sit in that spot." You said casually.

Caleb gave a small smile without looking over. "Best view." You raised a brow. "Of the bourbon?" He glanced at you then, just for a second. "Something like that." You rolled your eyes, topping off his beer. "Careful. Compliments around here only get you colder beer and maybe some stale pretzels." He gave a soft laugh. "Sounds fair."

You moved to rinse a few glasses. He watched your hands for a moment. Quiet, and steady movements. You noticed. "You ever work behind a bar?" You asked. Caleb snorted. "Me? No chance. I'd probably drop half the bottles the first night." You smiled. "It's not hard. You just need rhythm. And the sense to know when someone wants to talk or when they don't."

He nodded. "You're good at that." You hesitated, then asked quietly. "Was I always?" Caleb looked up. His face softened. "Yeah." He said. "You always were." Before you could say more, a voice called out from across the room. "Yo, Boss!" It was one of the younger cadets. "Tell the Colonel what really happens when someone forgets to pull up their gear!"

You sighed, then called back. "I'm not telling that story, Styles. You're the one who tried to land with your ego still hanging off the wing." The pub laughed. Caleb even cracked a smile. "You know." He said under his breath. "I think they come here just to get roasted." You didn't look back. "Keeps them grounded."

"Wish someone had done that for me when I was their age." He chuckled. You raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem like someone who needed humbling." He gave a crooked grin. "That's because you didn't know me back then." He lied. You paused, head tilted. "You sure about that?"

That question hung in the air a little too long. His smile faded, not in a bad way, just quieter. "I think I've always known you." You said softly. He didn't reply. He didn't need to. Then Styles yelled again. "Hey, Colonel! Boss! You two married yet or what?" The other cadets burst into laughter. One raised a drink. Another whistled.

Caleb turned red. You didn't miss a beat. "God, I hope not." You called out. "I'd remember something that traumatic." The room cracked up again. Someone banged a pool cue on the floor. Caleb covered his face with one hand, trying not to laugh. "I walked right into that." You shrugged. "You sat at my bar. Comes with the territory." He raised his glass. "Fair enough."

The noise settled eventually. Cadets drifted toward the jukebox or back to their tables. The air softened again. You leaned on the bar across from Caleb. Just watched him for a while. He looked up. No rush. No pressure. Then he said. "You ever feel like you're close to remembering something but the second you try, it slips away?"

You didn’t look away. "Yeah." You said. "Every day." Neither of you spoke for a while. Then you straightened, tossed the towel over your shoulder, and gave him a half smile. "Come back tomorrow. I'll teach you how to pour a proper drink." He blinked. "Seriously?" You nodded. "You said you'd break bottles. I want to see if that's true."

That made him laugh, quiet, real, like he hadn't in a long time. As you turned back to your work, stacking glasses and wiping down the counter, Caleb just watched you. You didn't know what your past had been. But for him, in that moment. You were starting to feel like something he hadn't had in years. A future.

🍎

It started as a joke.

"Well." Caleb had said that morning, arms crossed loosely as he leaned on the counter. "If you ever want to feel the sky again, I know a guy with a plane." He smiled sideways, sheepish, like he expected you to flinch at the suggestion.

But you didn't flinched. You just blinked once and grinned. "Let me guess. You're the guy?" You asked, stirring the last of your drink lazily, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. He gave you a mock offended look. "I am always the guy."

There was something in the way he offered it, gentle with the careful weight of someone who knew the sky might still carry sharp edges for you. But the idea of flying didn't scare you. Not really. It stirred something strange instead, like a familiar note echoing from a hallway you couldn't quite see the end of.

"I'd like that." You said, surprised by how easily it came out. Caleb blinked, visibly relieved. "Yeah?" You shrugged. "Sure. Why not. What's the worst that could happen? I forget how to fly?" His laugh was bright and warm and completely involuntary. "You're the most dangerous kind of mystery, you know that?"

"I'm aware." You said with mock pride, and took a sip of your drink. "Lead the way, colonel."

🍎

The hangar smelled of dust and old oil. The sun warming the concrete in long golden strips. Caleb led you to the small twin seater with a quiet conversation, his voice softer now as he walked you through the basics. But he didn't overdo it. He didn't try to teach you like you were broken. He just pointed and explained like you were any other pilot, maybe a little rusty, but still whole.

You let your fingers drift over the fuselage, eyes narrowing slightly. The aircraft felt familiar in the same way that dreams sometimes do, real enough to touch, but slipping sideways when you looked too closely.

Caleb climbed into the other seat, waiting for you to settle in before flipping switches and adjusting controls. The ritual hummed between you like an old tune. You hadn't done this in years or maybe you had. You didn't really know. But your hands knew.

They moved like they remembered. Reaching for levers, pressing gauges, making sense of the readouts without needing to ask. The way you adjusted your headset, checked the engine pressure, tapped the altimeter. It all came back like breath.

Caleb watched you with a quiet, private awe. "You really don't remember flying?" He asked, almost to himself. You shook your head, still focused on the instruments. "Not in words. Not in pictures." You flexed your fingers on the yoke. "But this... this part? I know it like a second skin."

Outside, the wind whispered against the hangar doors. Inside, you could hear your heart, steady but expectant. Like it was about to return to something it once loved.

🍎

The wheels left the ground so gently, it took a breath before you noticed. The earth dropped away like it had simply agreed to let go. The sky opened around you in quiet blue. Clouds shifted slowly beneath the wings and the light softened as the altitude climbed. It was smoother than you expected, less like escaping and more like coming home.

You didn't speak much at first. Neither of you did. It wasn't the silence of awkwardness, but of honor. The kind of stillness you don't want to disturb. Your fingers adjusted the trim with a practiced motion. You banked left to catch the sun. Somewhere in the back of your mind, your body took over, each motion echoing steps you didn’t know you remembered.

Caleb glanced at you, smiling quietly. "You flew before. I mean really flew." You lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Seems like it." A beat. Then you added, teasing. "You're lucky I'm not doing barrel rolls." He laughed, relaxed now, watching the horizon. "You're the one who said you might forget how." "I said might." You replied, nudging the throttle with an amused flick. "I didn't say I would"

The banter made the air feel lighter. It wasn't performative, it was comfortable. Easy. And yet under it, something deeper moved. A knowing. A sense of connection not just between the two of you, but between you and the air, the wings, the open sky. As the plane sliced gently through the blue, the wind wrapped around you like something that remembered you, like something that had missed you.

And slowly, you began to remember it too. Not with names or places, not with specifics. But in muscle. In ease. In rhythm. Your body didn't hesitate. It simply was, here, flying, being. You found yourself leaning into the turns just before they came. Adjusting altitude without thinking. Glancing at dials only for confirmation, not instruction.

At one point, Caleb turned off the radio. Just the soft hum of the engine remained, and the low wind across the canopy. "I think the sky missed you." He said. You smiled faintly, eyes watching a bird wheel far below. "I think I missed it too. Even if I didn't know it." The words settled between you like dust in sunlight. Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just truth, spoken simply.

Later, as you circled back toward the airfield, you let the descent carry you slowly, not rushing it. There was no urgency here. Only the long, slow return of something sacred. When the wheels finally kissed the earth again, the plane rolled quietly to a stop. You didn't move right away. Neither did Caleb.

Instead, you sat there in the still hum of cooling metal, letting the sky echo inside your chest. "Thank you." You said. He turned toward you, his voice gentle. "For what?" "For this. For not treating me like I’m broken." You looked at him, eyes soft. "For giving me the sky back." His expression flickered, something warm, something careful. "You never lost it." He said. "You just stopped looking up."

And so the sky, once forgotten, whispered back to you in fragments. Not loud, not insistent, but tender. The echoes weren't voices. They were movement, instinct, belonging. And in them, you began to remember who you had been, not all at once, but enough to begin again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I've been typing this since 11am, its 10pm now. Had to take a break because plants vs. Zombie couldn’t be played above tabs.part 3 soon.

[alexanderwales]

When dealing with superpowers and magic systems, there's something about nudity that always feels a little more realistic to me.

You have someone with fire powers, and this burns up his clothes, so he's left there hanging dong after he goes full afterburner? It's inconvenient in a way that feels grounded, and brings up some messy logistical questions that futz with the narrative.

And on the other hand, you have a woman who grows to eight feet tall and her clothes somehow stay intact enough that she's not committing public indecency, and I think ... yeah, alright, artistic choice, but clothes don't work that way. Pants don't just infinitely expand, even if you have the stretchy kind.

Sometimes the powers or the magic or whatever make sense. The teleportation spell brings some stuff with you, it doesn't need to leave you naked. Ant-Man's suit is the thing that makes him change size, he doesn't do that natively.

But there's a fair amount of the time I'm left thinking "wait, why are clothes immune, is it because having people naked would be a problem for the character, story, or ratings board?"

[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

[captain-price-unofficially]

J-20 at night with full afterburners.

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (13)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 5.3k

authors note: i'm now writing in real time and will post at the same time when chapters are ready, here and on AO3. i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

tag list: @thelastemzy

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

The weight of uncertainty in the air was heavy. It ebbed and flowed between you and Karen, an invisible thread stretched taut between your chairs, neither of you quite willing to tug on it. The silence had settled— slowly, steadily— until it felt too big to break. You weren’t sure who was supposed to speak first. And when you glanced at her side profile, lit in the dim overhead light, you wondered if she didn’t know either.

She was nearly still, only her eyes moving— tracking the words displayed in front of her. Trying to make sense of them.

She sat at Frank’s desk, returned to the scattered mess of papers he’d claimed were organized. And they were— just in a way only he could decipher. You were across the room, slouched into the battered folding chair with Frank’s flannel slung across the back. You leaned against the mesh and pulled in a long, slow breath.

Every so often, beneath the cold tang of wet concrete and stale air, you caught the scent of him— faint, worn into the fabric. Warmth. Leather. The afterburn of gunpowder and firewood. It would brush past you like breath on the back of your neck— there and gone, just long enough to remember he wasn’t here.

There were pieces of him everywhere. But without him… there was no center. No anchor. Just the slow, lingering fear and the gnawing ache of self-doubt that pooled low and deep, dragging at your bones.

He’d taught you things— but not enough. You had fragments. Clues. But not the full picture. And more than that, you didn’t have his mind. Didn’t see the world like he did— through narrowed eyes and sharpened instinct, every corner a threat, every detail a warning. You didn’t see like a soldier.

Your eyes drifted toward the wall— his wall. The chaotic constellation of red-marker lines and taped-up notes. Names. Timelines. Maps. Connected like arteries. Despite the mess of it, it was clearer, somehow, than anything in your own head.

A throat cleared— low and deliberate.

You turned toward the sound, caught by the sharp blue of Karen’s eyes. There was something glimmering within their depths; a path she’d chosen to follow. You braced yourself against the impact of whatever it was.

“How did he contact whoever he was meeting with today?” she asked.

You didn’t even have to think. Your gaze slid past her, just over her shoulder. “The radio.”

Karen followed your line of sight and nodded, slow and thoughtful. One hand reached out, index finger brushing lightly over one of the dials— not turning it, just feeling the cold metal beneath her skin.

“I think I know who he was meeting,” she said, voice softer now. Hesitant. Like she wasn’t sure how much she should give away. “His name’s Curtis. He was a Navy Corpsman. He and Frank ended up on a few missions together overseas. He’s in the city now, runs a few vet support groups. The real kind… no brochures or miracle-cure bullshit.”

You nodded, slowly. Letting it settle.

“So if Frank needed somewhere safe to stay for a while… he’d go to Curtis?”

“Definitely,” Karen said. Quieter now. “Curtis has done it for Frank more times than I can count… most of which ended badly for them both. But he’s loyal. Would never turn away if Frank needed him.”

She didn’t say it like it was anything special. Just a fact. The kind of truth that had survived too many years to be questioned anymore.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust your voice not to betray something softer than you were ready to show. So you just breathed, slow and even, and let the silence fold back around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you needed.

He’s not as alone as he thinks he is.

The thought hit you low— sharp and sudden, like a gasp held too long. You’d spent all this time watching him carry the weight of the world like it had been welded to his spine. Wondering if anyone had ever tried to lift even part of it. If anyone had ever stayed.

Curtis sounded like someone who stayed.

Your chest ached— tight, unfamiliar.

Because against every odd, Frank Castle had people. People who knew the cost of loving him. Of seeing him. Of staying. And they did it anyway.

Curtis. Karen.

You.

And maybe— just maybe— that meant he wasn’t destined to carry it all alone forever.

You didn’t know what to do with that kind of hope. Couldn’t name it. Couldn’t look at it too long without it slipping through your fingers. So you did what you could. The decision was made before you really knew you were making it.

Perhaps that was how Karen had felt, too.

“I need to show you something.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyebrows lifting. She didn’t speak— just nodded once, her expression unreadable but open.

You stood, every movement heavy with that same unspoken pressure that clung to the air. Her gaze followed you as you crossed the room, and you felt the weight of it, steady and assessing. You unzipped your bag, pulled out the notebook you’d brought to the library, and— after a beat of hesitation— moved to her side.

You laid it down between you, flipping it open with one hand, bracing yourself over the desk with the other.

You were close now. Close enough to catch the trace of something floral on her coat— something expensive and subtle, like jasmine and soft musk. It made you think of office buildings and polished floors, of early morning meetings and cleanly typed memos. She looked like she belonged in a boardroom— not a bunker.

In another life, you might’ve asked her where she got that blouse. The off-white silk shimmered faintly in the bunker light. You might’ve wanted it for yourself. But that version of you felt very far away. Locked up with the rest of your things, with the rest of your life, in your apartment across the city.

So instead, you pointed to the mess of notes— names, addresses, arrows like veins— and said, “This is what I was working on at the library.”

Karen leaned in slightly, her hair falling forward in a soft, blonde wave. “You did this at a library?”

“I don’t exactly have a private investigator on speed dial,” you said. “Would’ve made my life a hell of a lot easier, though.”

She let out a short laugh— surprising, light. When you looked down at her and caught the gentle hint of a smile on her face, you couldn’t help but return it. Even though the feel of it was foreign on your face.

“Walk me through it.”

So you did.

You walked her through every name, every line that led somewhere. Skipped the dead ends. Focused on the ones that kept circling back— looping into each other like knotted threads. Shell companies, burner numbers, payrolls that didn’t match faces, front offices that didn’t have a real door. You traced each connection with your fingertip, the ink smudged in places where your hand had dragged across the page.

Karen followed along in silence at first, her eyes narrowing slightly, her brow furrowed in concentration. Once in a while, she’d gesture toward something— a name, a note scrawled in the margin— and ask a question. Quiet. Sharp. The kind that made you pause and rethink a piece of your logic. She didn’t fill the space unnecessarily, didn’t crowd you. She just… listened. The way people do when they’ve learned that most answers come out sideways, not straight.

You were supposed to be giving all this to Frank. But it was Karen sitting there now. And she was listening like it mattered. Like it was more than data. More than just noise on a page.

When you finally stopped, your back ached from hunching over the desk, your hands slightly numb from how long you’d kept them tense. You straightened and turned, crossed your arms, and leaned back against the desk, watching her closely.

Karen didn’t look up right away. She just stared at the notebook like it might still rearrange itself into something simpler. Her mouth was tight. Her fingers drummed once against the edge of the desk, then stilled.

Then— quietly— she said, “This is the kind of thing people get killed for.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I know.”

You’d seen it. Felt it. Still wore the bruises from the last time someone tried to keep a secret buried. That was as far as your mind would allow itself to wander— any further, and you’d be trapped beneath the weight of those moments again. You steeled yourself against them, muscles pulling taut in your abdomen.

Her gaze lifted to meet yours, steadier than you expected. “What do you think this is?” she asked. “Don’t give me what you can prove. Give me what you feel.”

You hesitated. Your eyes drifted toward the wall again, back over your shoulder— Frank’s chaos mapped out in violent precision. You let the silence stretch just long enough for it to taste like dread. Then—

“The stakes are too high for it to just be weapons. Or drugs.” You looked back to her, voice low. Certain. “They sent armed men into a hospital. To kill people who didn’t even know what they were carrying. People who weren’t supposed to be anything more than background noise.”

You released a breath— one you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. And you lowered your voice, because despite it all, you were worried… worried that someone might be listening.

“I think they’re trafficking people. And I think they’ll do whatever it takes to keep it quiet.”

Karen didn’t respond right away.

Her eyes dropped again, her face unreadable, but something in her posture changed— something subtle, like the air had grown colder.

Her jaw tightened. One hand flattened over the desk, palm spread. Not fidgeting now— just still.

It was a horrible thought. A terrible thing to even consider.

That people were being taken— off the street, out of their homes, stolen from their lives and dropped into some system no one could trace. Held. Used. Broken. Some never found. Some never named. The kind of stories that made national headlines when it was convenient— and disappeared quietly when it wasn’t.

You’d seen the numbers. Watched the news cycles cycle out. You knew this world. But knowing didn’t make it easier to say.

Finally, Karen exhaled.

When your eyes met hers again, it wasn’t disbelief you saw.

It was something closer to resignation. It settled deep within your gut, suddenly— this level of understanding between the two of you. This sense of knowing.

“I haven’t heard whispers,” she said softly. “Not the way Frank would. I’m not in that world anymore. Not really.”

There was a quiet withdrawal in her tone now— like she’d stepped back just enough to keep from falling in. Like she carried this weight around in her pockets, heavy and familiar, and knew what it would cost to keep holding it.

“But I still have contacts. People who call when something doesn’t sit right. Over the last few months… I’ve been getting emails. Texts. Phone calls from families looking for their daughters, sons, husbands. These are people disappearing with no pattern, and no leads. The cops open the file, log the info— then drop it. It goes nowhere.”

She looked up again, and this time, her gaze held something deeper— threaded through with frustration, with loss. With care.

“I can’t prove anything. It’s all just fragments. But if someone’s running trafficking through our backyards, they’re doing it with full protection. They’re not hiding— they just know no one’s looking. Or if they are looking, they won't last long.”

Whatever warmth remained in your chest soured instantly.

Your stomach twisted. Your gaze dropped, and your teeth ground down against each other before you could stop it. You knew. You knew she was right. You’d known it before she even said it— but hearing it aloud changed something.

It made the fear real.

You weren’t chasing ghosts.

You were walking straight into hell.

You weren’t sure when the fear had stopped feeling sharp and started feeling heavy.

It used to come in waves— spikes of panic that stole your breath, twisted your stomach into knots. But now… it was pressure. Constant. Low and thrumming. Like your body had already accepted something your mind hadn’t.

And the worst part— the part that coiled cold beneath your skin— was knowing that you might already be part of the story.

Not the hero. Not the one chasing leads.

Just another loose end waiting to be tied off.

Your name had been all over the news since the hospital. It was only a matter of time before it ended up on a list somewhere, one line amongst many, just waiting to be crossed out. If it wasn't already.

And the thought that they might see you that way— that somewhere out there, someone had already filed you under “disposable”— made your skin crawl.

Because you knew what it was to be prey.

You knew the look someone gave when they didn’t see you as a person. Just something to be used. Broken. Discarded.

You shivered— sharp and sudden.

Your fingers dug into your own forearms through the sleeves of your sweater. Anchoring yourself. Fighting the rise of bile at the back of your throat.

You weren’t that girl anymore.

But you weren’t sure how far away she really was, either.

A flicker of movement caught your attention— Karen shifting in your periphery, leaning back slightly in the chair, her gaze fixed now on the wall where Frank’s research still loomed, silent and waiting. Her arms crossed loosely, braced like she was holding something off.

“This is big,” she murmured. “Bigger than what we can carry on our own.”

You didn’t disagree.

But you didn’t know how to stop either. Not now.

“I know,” you said.

Another silence fell— thick, but not jagged. Not uncomfortable.

It felt worn in. Lived in. Like a coat you hadn’t meant to keep but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Then Karen turned, her eyes finding yours again.

She watched you for a long moment— quietly, steadily. Like she was trying to decide what kind of person you really were. Like she could see it all, all the things you worked so hard to hide. To her, to those prodding blue eyes, you were nothing more than transparent.

“You’re not shaken by any of this,” she said. Not a question. Just a truth she’d been holding on to. “The theories. The danger. The violence. That’s… rare.”

You blinked. The words hit, hard. Not quite like a blow— more like a quiet pressure in the center of your chest, steady and disarming.

You shifted and crossed your arms tighter. Your gaze wandered away, instead choosing to study the concrete beneath your feet. As if somehow that would help. As if somehow that would disengage the pressure you felt from the weight of her eyes on you.

“You think I should be more scared?”

When you glanced back up, she was still watching you. No judgment. Just interest. Curiosity. Like you were another part of the case she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse— if you’d rather she be looking down on you, wondering what was wrong with you. Instead, she seemed to understand… understand that on a deeper level, you’d been here before. Maybe not in the same way. Maybe not in a long time. But her gaze told you she knew— she knew you were used to having to endure.

“I think most people would be,” she said. “This is the kind of thing that eats you alive from the inside out. And I think you know that. But you’re still walking toward it.”

The words landed with weight— not cruel, not cutting. Just true.

You dropped your gaze again, not because you were ashamed, but because if you held hers too long, you knew she’d see too much. Maybe she already had.

You shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even convincing.

“I think I’m just… past the point of falling apart,” you said, voice quieter now. You were afraid to talk too loudly— afraid of what it might give away if you did. “Everything that could go wrong already has. I don’t really have the luxury of coming undone.”

You hadn’t meant for it to sound like a confession, but it was. And once it was out, it clung to the air— delicate and brittle, like frost on glass.

Your hands uncrossed from over your chest, instead ducking into the pocket at the front of your sweater. You pressed your fingers together there, hidden beneath the material, holding so tightly your wrists began to ache.

The truth was, you had come undone.

Just not in the ways people could see.

Not in screaming fits or shattered glasses.

But in quieter ways. The kind that left you raw and sleepless and still pretending to function. The kind that opened old wounds, let them bathe in the sun for the first time in years.

You weren’t walking into fire because you were fearless.

You were walking because the fire was the only thing left.

Karen let out a breath— small, weightless. More exhale than laugh. She leaned back in the chair, arms folding over her stomach, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve in a slow, absent motion. You got the sense she wasn’t aware of it— just something her body did to keep itself grounded.

“When I first started helping Frank,” she said, voice low, like she wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to you or herself, “I thought I could stay clean. That I could do it from the outside— write the right stories, talk to the right people. Follow the truth wherever it led.”

She shook her head once, lips curling faintly— more grimace than smile.

“But it doesn’t work like that. Not with him. The truth doesn’t lead— it buries. And once you’re in it, really in it, there’s no version of yourself that comes out the other side untouched.”

You didn’t say anything. Just listened. Let it settle over you like ash.

Karen’s gaze drifted again toward the radio. It was still silent. There were no answers to be found there.

“I struggled with it for a long time,” she said. “Still do, sometimes. I hesitate when I hear from him— when I have to make that call and check in. Like I’m afraid he’s going to ask too much. Or that I’ll say yes before I even know what he’s asking.”

She looked at you again then, and this time, there was no pretense. Just something open. Honest. Raw in a way that surprised you.

“But you…” Her eyes scanned your face, like she was still making sense of it. Of you. “You’re not hesitating. You’re not trying to save him or fix him or drag him toward some version of himself that doesn’t exist anymore. You’re just in it. All the way. And I think—” she paused, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “—I think that’s the kind of person he doesn’t know how to lose. But also the kind of person he doesn't know how to push away."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full— thick with the kind of things you didn’t have words for.

Your chest tightened, something sharp blooming beneath your sternum. It didn’t feel like flattery. It felt like being seen.

You didn’t know what to say. So you said the only thing you could:

“Maybe I’m just too stubborn to quit. Too stubborn to die easy.”

Karen’s lips curved at the edges, barely. “Yeah. I think he’d say the same.”

Neither of you moved. The air felt still now— not tense, not waiting. Just… quiet. Like something had passed between you and settled into place, an agreement without a name.

The exhaustion hit you slowly. Not like a crash, but a slow unraveling. Like your body was finally registering that you hadn’t stopped moving in days. That there was no adrenaline left to run on.

You blinked down at the edge of the desk, your voice soft. “I think I need to lie down. Just for a little while.”

Karen nodded, like she’d been expecting it. Like she’d already decided on how the rest of the night was going to go. “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch. We can figure out what to do in the morning.”

She said it simply. No dramatics. No hesitation.

Just: I’ll stay.

You gave a small nod in return, already stepping away. You crossed the bunker with slow, quiet steps, each one weighed down by everything you’d carried today. The cot was still tucked into the corner, half-shadowed by the shelves stacked with gear.

You unrolled the blanket, and with your back to Karen, you pulled it up towards your face, just for a beat. You took in a long, lingering breath, clinging to the wool material with your fingers. The scent of him was faint now— but it was enough. Enough to still your breath. Enough to remind you what you were waiting for.

As you went to kick off your boots, you swayed— like the immense pressure of the day had finally decided it had had enough. Your sense of gravity shifted and you had to pull from an already empty reserve of strength to keep yourself upright. The muscles in your legs, in your stomach, in your shoulders— they all ached, throbbed, begged with you to finally let them rest. After you’d finally managed to free yourself, you reached for your gun— plucked it off the shelf you’d placed it on what felt like a lifetime ago, when you’d finally decided to give Karen a chance. Then you settled down into the cot, the gun tucked beneath it, less than arms reach away.

Your limbs ached. Your jaw ached. The thoughts didn’t stop— just circled. But the silence helped. The quiet steadiness of another body nearby.

Karen didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

And for the first time in hours, maybe longer, you let yourself stop bracing for what came next.

Sleep didn’t come quickly. But it came.

* * * * *

You jolted awake before Karen could so much as mutter your name.

You came to with a suddenness that felt wrong— too sharp, too fast. The kind of waking that only ever followed one thing: sound. Something just loud enough, just off enough, to pull you from sleep like a hook in the back of your spine.

Your eyes blinked open, heavy with fatigue, but your hand was already moving before your mind could catch up. Your muscles acted on instinct, on muscle memory and training you didn’t even know had stuck. Sleep still clung to you, syrup-thick, dragging at your limbs and dulling your thoughts— but your fingers wrapped around the cold, familiar weight of the gun beneath the cot.

You stood.

Not graceful. Not fluid. But fast.

Your feet planted, your spine aligned.

And then you focused.

Head tilted— just slightly— to the side. Listening.

There were the constants— the moaning of old pipes, water rushing through them far slower than it should have. Gentle, unending buzzing from the bulbs above, though the lights were dim. Sounds of the city outside the windows, traffic still moving despite the hours, horns honking, sirens blaring.

And there it was.

Boots. Concrete. The distinct rhythm of footfalls— heavy and unrestrained. Coming fast. Not stealthy, not careful. Just coming.

Down the hall… close. Echoing louder with each passing second.

Someone was here.

Someone was almost here.

You moved before panic could fully form. Your breath hitched once in your chest, then steadied on the next inhale— fast but controlled, the way Frank had taught you.

Your eyes cut to Karen.

She was still in the chair by the desk, blinking herself awake. Her cheeks were flushed from sleep, a harsh red line pressed down one side of her face— she’d dozed off against something hard. Her mouth parted on an inhale, startled and breathless, but no words came.

Her eyes met yours.

They were wide. Alert. A little wild. And beneath the surface— something else. Guilt. An apology she didn’t say out loud.

You shook your head once, a sharp denial. Not now.

You closed the space between you in two quick strides and pressed an arm in front of her, guiding her behind you, shielding her without thought. She was taller than you. Older. But that didn’t matter.

You were the one with the weapon.

You were the one who’d kept her here.

You were the one responsible.

Your body moved without hesitation— like it knew exactly what to do, even if your brain hadn’t caught up. You stepped forward and raised the gun, arms out, posture aligned. Your weight shifted to the balls of your feet. Knees bent. Shoulders loose but steady. Just like he taught you.

There was no tremble in your grip. No shake in your stance.

Not anymore.

You were still half-asleep. Still aching and heavy and wrung out from everything you’d carried today. But all of that fell away under the weight of adrenaline— hot and fast, a wildfire beneath your skin.

Your heart pounded like a war drum, deafening in your ears, shaking behind your ribs.

But your hands didn’t falter.

You were ready.

Whoever was on the other side of that door— whatever came through it—

You were ready.

The footsteps grew louder— and then stopped. Right outside the door.

Your breath caught in your throat. Not sharp, not panicked. Just… held. Suspended in a space that suddenly felt too small. You could feel Karen behind you, still as stone— but her energy had shifted. She was awake now, fully alert, her body drawing tight like a bowstring. You heard the whisper of metal, the barely-there click of her lifting a weapon from the wall. You couldn’t turn, didn’t dare make a move to look anywhere but right in front of you, right at that worn green door that separated you from whatever was on the other side.

The handle turned.

No stealth, no caution. Whoever was on the other side didn’t care about being heard. Or didn’t have the strength to hide.

This was the last thing you wanted to do— the last place you wanted to be. Another moment of fear, another moment with a weapon clutched in your hands. It was kill or be killed and you knew that; but why did it feel like the punches just kept coming? There was no break in the onslaught. No moment to breathe, no time to just sit with the relief of escaping. Just moving from one moment of terror to the next.

The door pushed open.

And then— he was there.

Frank.

He stumbled through the threshold like he was breaking through the last wall holding him up. His body filled the entryway, shadowed in flickering bunker light, a towering silhouette carved in blood and exhaustion.

His right hand hit the wall with a dull thud, steadying himself. His other arm was cradled tight against his ribs, unmoving. Blood painted his shirt— soaked deep through one side, smeared across his chest, dried at the corner of his mouth and along one eyebrow. His breathing was rough, uneven. His eyes— those dark, razor-cut eyes— scanned the room like he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Center, right, then left. Like he’d taught you.  

He looked half-wild. Half-dead.

Something inside you stilled— and shattered. You didn’t know which came first. For one suspended breath, your body forgot how to move. It was like every part of you seized up at once, overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of seeing him like this— torn and stumbling and somehow still standing. You’d imagined this moment so many times, in the hours of silence, in the quiet corners of thought you didn’t let anyone touch. But none of those versions had prepared you for the reality of him— towering in the doorway, smeared with blood and dirt and something far too close to defeat. The sight of him split something open in your chest, a crack running straight down the middle, and you felt everything at once: terror, relief, grief, and that strange, aching kind of tightness around your heart that never quite lets you breathe all the way in. He was here. He was alive. And he looked like hell had tried to finish what life had started— but hadn’t. Not yet. Not as long as you were still standing.

And then he saw you.

Everything in him stilled.

It was like a gear locked into place. Like his body— wrecked and staggering— recognized yours before his mind did.

His eyes caught yours and held.

And for one long, burning second, nothing else existed.

Just you.

And him.

And the distance between.

Your weapon lowered slowly. Not dropped— just eased. Your hands didn’t shake, but your knees buckled, threatening to drop you straight to the concrete below.

Instead, you somehow managed to cross the room before you had time to think.

“Frank,” you breathed— softer than a whisper, more like a prayer.

He swayed.

You reached him just in time, caught his uninjured arm and slung it over your shoulders, your other hand gripping the back of his ribs. He was heavy— so much heavier than he looked— but you didn’t hesitate. You bore his weight like you were made for it.

He didn’t speak. His jaw clenched. You could feel the tension in every muscle, could feel the tremble beneath his skin. With every movement, he winced, seemingly tweaking another spot he hadn’t known had been bruised or bloodied.

His fingers curled into the back of your shirt.

Not tight. Not painful. Just anchored.

You pulled him closer, shifting under him, grounding him against your frame.

“Where are you hurt?” you asked— low, urgent, your mouth near his ear.

Not What happened? Not Where were you? Not Why didn’t you call?

Just that.

Just: What do I need to fix?

Your senses were overwhelmed— the weight of him, the heat of him. That familiar metallic scent clung to every inch of him, his skin, his clothes. And there was that same, lingering sharpness, too… gunpowder. The remnants of whatever fight he’d managed to stumble away from.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

His head dropped, brushing against yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. His body was shaking— subtle, but there. Like the effort of staying upright had cost him more than he could afford. You held him as best you could, trying to guide him towards the chair at the desk.

And then— Karen stepped into view. You saw the movement at the top of your vision and your chin lifted. You’d nearly forgotten her.

You felt it the second Frank saw her.

His entire body pulled taut, flinched back. Not fear. Not pain.

Recognition.

And then— his voice, rough as gravel, hoarse and ragged.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

The words were more breath than speech, but they hit like a gunshot in the quiet.

You felt his weight shift. Felt his stance adjust, as if every cell in his body was suddenly on edge again. Not fighting you— but braced. Guarded.

Karen didn’t move. She stood her ground, grip loose on the gun she’d pulled from Frank’s wall, shoulders square. Her face was unreadable— but her eyes held something like exasperated relief.

“Nice to see you too, Frank,” she said, voice dry, steady.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your throat felt raw. Your heart hadn’t slowed since you’d heard his boots in the hall.

You tightened your grip around his waist, adjusting your stance to hold him better. He was bleeding all over you. You didn’t care.

He was alive.

He was here.

And every part of you— every nerve, every fiber— was still catching up to that reality.

[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.

[nocternalrandomness]

A Raptor making a full afterburner high speed pass at Oshkosh AirVenture 2024

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home

In an alternate 21st-century world where the skies are still dominated by fighter jets and adrenaline, the rules of biology have shifted—men can carry life, and love flies in any direction it chooses.

Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell never imagined he’d trade afterburners for baby bottles. Yet here he was, cradling two squirming bundles of energy in a quiet San Diego beach house he shared with Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, former Top Gun admiral, and the love of his life.

Their children—Ace and Nikola—had inherited Maverick’s restless spirit and Iceman’s razor-sharp calm. At five, they already argued like co-pilots in a storm. Nikola wanted to be a pilot, just like her dads. Ace, on the other hand, was obsessed with engines, often disappearing into the garage with a wrench twice his size.

Ace, five years old and a whirlwind of mischief, was every bit his father’s son. He had Maverick’s wild grin and an uncanny ability to find danger in the most innocent of activities. Nikola, his twin sister, was thoughtful, precise, and already questioned the mechanics of the world like a tiny engineer. She reminded Tom of himself—focused, unshakable, with eyes that saw everything

It hadn’t been an easy journey. The pregnancy had shocked Maverick more than any dogfight. He’d grounded himself reluctantly, worried the Navy wouldn’t understand. Iceman, ever the quiet force, had stood by him, shielding them both from the storm of public scrutiny.

Now, years later, Maverick looked out at the backyard, where Ace was trying to teach Nikola how to do a barrel roll—on the grass.

“Tom,” Maverick called from the kitchen, smiling. “They’re going to kill each other.”

Iceman walked in, coffee in hand. “Nah. They’re just practicing teamwork.”

Maverick chuckled. “Is that what we called it in flight school?”

Tom kissed him softly on the cheek. “Something like that.”

Out there, the world still raced with sonic booms and tight turns. But in here, in this quiet slice of an extraordinary world, Maverick had found something he'd never expected—his best mission yet.

Fatherhood.

Maverick stood by the window, sipping coffee, watching the twins in the backyard. Ace was building a ramp out of beach chairs. Nikola was supervising with a look that clearly said, this is a terrible idea, but I’ll help anyway.

“Tom,” he called, grinning. “Ace is about to launch himself into orbit.”

Iceman entered, wearing his favorite Navy sweatshirt, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, at least Nikola reinforced the base.”

Maverick turned to him, eyes softening. “How’d we get so lucky?”

“You broke every rule,” Iceman said. “And I backed you up. Like always.”

Maverick leaned into him. “Yeah. But this? Us? The kids? This isn’t luck. This is the best kind of flight plan—unpredictable, but worth every second.”

Outside, Ace shouted, “Three… two… one!” and launched off the ramp with a war cry. He landed in the sand, laughing. Nikola clapped exactly twice, then went to help him up.

Maverick watched them, heart full. He’d chased speed, defied death, and flown higher than most dared dream. But nothing—no Mach speed or kill streak—matched the way Ace looked when he laughed, or the quiet determination in Nikola’s eyes.

This was his top mission.

And he wouldn’t change a single thing.

Chapter two

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART II: “Drooling on the Star: The Afterburn” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Post-embarrassment vulnerability, soft confrontation & unresolved tension.

Requested | PART1 - PART2 - PART3 - PART4 - PART5

[Later. Same night. 3:04 AM.]

You’re both in the hotel suite now.

It’s a high-rise downtown with blackout curtains that turn everything into velvet—deep and heavy. Your body still hums from the nap earlier, and from the echo of that mortifying moment where your unconscious self betrayed every shred of pride by drooling all over America’s lesbian pop princess.

Reneé hasn’t mentioned it since. Not directly. But her expression has been smug all night.

The kind of smug that says she’s storing it for later. Weaponizing it for just the right moment. A talk show anecdote, maybe. Or a lyric.

God, she’d put it in a song.

You're on the couch again. This time upright. Cross-legged. Wrapped in a hotel robe because you forgot your pajamas in your suitcase.

Reneé is sprawled on the opposite end, hoodie half-on, hood up, cheeks flushed from the hot shower she took twenty minutes ago. The ends of her hair are still damp.

She keeps glancing at you.

You pretend not to notice.

But then she speaks—low, casual.

"That was the most disgusting and adorable thing I've ever experienced."

You groan. “I knew you were gonna bring it up.”

Reneé shrugs, sipping her water. “I waited a respectful amount of time.”

"Respectfully shut up," you say, throwing a pillow at her.

She catches it, grinning. “Nah, for real. You were out cold. Like… full dead weight. You do that often?”

You lean your head back. "Not usually. I guess I just feel safe with you."

The words leave before you can dress them up or tie a ribbon around them.

They’re raw.

And when you lift your gaze, Reneé’s smile falters. Not in a bad way—more like she wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

You try to soften it. “I mean, tour’s a lot. Being around people is a lot. But you’re not…”

“A lot?” she finishes for you, raising an eyebrow.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Not in the draining way.”

There’s a pause. Tension, quiet and pulsing, like a second heartbeat in the room.

Reneé leans forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped.

"Sometimes I wonder if people like me because they feel like they should," she says, voice quiet. “Or because it’s convenient. Or because they want to be seen with me.”

You blink. "Is that what you think I’m doing?"

She shakes her head immediately. "No. You drooled on me, babe. That was too real."

You laugh, finally. Shoulders easing.

But Reneé doesn’t laugh with you this time. She just watches you. With that look she only gets when she’s writing something in her head. A verse. A moment. A you.

“You scared me for a second,” she says. “When you pulled away so fast.”

Your smile fades. “I was embarrassed.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “But you didn’t have to be.”

You study her—how tired she looks. How present.

"I know I joke a lot," she continues. "And I flirt. That’s my armor. I don’t really… let people sleep on me.”

“Lucky me,” you whisper.

Another pause.

You mean it as a joke. But Reneé’s head tilts, and suddenly the silence isn’t funny anymore.

“I mean, really,” you add, quieter. “You could’ve shoved me off.”

“I didn’t want to,” she says.

You breathe in.

And then it just—slips out of you.

"I miss this when I’m home."

She nods. “Me too.”

There’s so much unsaid packed between those two words that it hurts. You shift, the robe slipping off one shoulder, and Reneé’s eyes drop there—just for a beat—before flicking back up.

“You staying the night?” she asks, voice rough.

You blink. “Am I not supposed to?”

Reneé shrugs. “You can do whatever you want.”

“Dangerous thing to say to a girl who just drooled on you.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, standing and stretching, “I’m dangerous too.”

You watch her walk to the bed, pull the covers back. Your chest tightens.

You’d slept beside her before. It had never been weird. Not even when your legs touched. Not even when you accidentally grabbed her hand in your sleep.

But tonight feels different.

And maybe it’s because she’s letting it.

When you eventually climb into bed, you keep your distance at first.

But Reneé is already half-asleep. Hair still damp. Breathing steady.

You whisper, “Night, Rapp.”

She doesn’t open her eyes. Just mutters—

“You know you can sleep on me again.”

You choke on a laugh. “Hard pass.”

“I’m serious. I liked it.”

“You liked me drooling on you?”

She turns, finally looking at you.

“No,” she says softly. “I liked you trusting me enough to fall asleep like that. You never do.”

You look at her. At the sincerity in her face.

And you realize... she’s right.

You never do.

Requested | PART1 - PART2 - PART3 - PART4 - PART5

[planesawesome]

F-18 Full Afterburn

[soulmuppet]

Orbital Blues: Afterburn is the first sourcebook for Orbital Blues, our TTRPG of Sad Space Cowboys, and is split into three sections: 

The Starship Manual: A fully-illustrated in-world spaceship brochure featuring a dozen classes of characterful spaceships, complete with adverts and full of game-useable lore.

The Storyteller’s Guide: A varied toolkit to help run games in the Outlaw Galaxy, with info on spaceship engineering, faster-than-light travel, system and plot generation, and alternate special rules for Warmth and Joy.

The Tennessee Five: A richly storied adventure made up of the planets of Anchorage IV, Ediston, Gallatin, Ohrid and Rothcoe. This huge sandbox contains all manner of heists and opportunities for enterprising Outlaws to make their mark.

[usafphantom2]

The Blackbird crew who flew 15,000 miles, in 10 hours 30 minutes non-stop to see how many times the SR-71 could refuel before the liquid nitrogen gave out

J58 engine

SR-71 liquid nitrogen

Five aerial refuellings

SR-71 liquid nitrogen Dewar’s

J58 engine

The SR-71, unofficially known as the “Blackbird,” was a long-range, advanced, strategic reconnaissance aircraft. Throughout its nearly 24-year career, the SR-71 remained the world’s fastest and highest-flying operational aircraft. From 80,000 feet, it could survey 100,000 square miles of Earth’s surface per hour.

The SR-71 aircraft (like its forerunners, the Lockheed A-12 and YF-12A prototype interceptor) is powered by two 34,000 lbf (151,240 N) thrust-class J58 afterburning turbojet engines.

The J58 engine was developed in the late 1950s by Pratt & Whitney Aircraft Division of United Aircraft Corp. to meet a US Navy requirement. It was designed to operate at speeds of Mach 3+ and at altitudes of more than 80,000 feet. The J58 was the first engine designed to operate for extended periods using its afterburner, and it was the first engine to be flight-qualified at Mach 3 for the US Air Force (USAF).

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

SR-71 liquid nitrogen

An engineering marvel, the J58 had a single-shaft rotor design with a novel compressor bleed bypass when in extreme high-speed operation. What made this engine so unique is the six bypass tubes, which directed airflow from the compressor stage directly into the afterburner. This allowed the Blackbird to operate at a much higher fuel efficiency than other afterburning jet engines when in full afterburner (AB).

On Apr. 26, 1971, pilot Lt. Col. Thomas Estes and RSO Lt. Col. Dewain Vick (he and his family were one of my neighbors at Beale AFB) flew SR-71 #968 15,000 miles in 10 hours 30 minutes non-stop on a grueling marathon mission to test the endurance of the J58 engines and the Blackbird airframe, but mostly to see how many times they could refuel before the liquid nitrogen gave out. At Blackbird speeds and temperatures, oxygen becomes explosive and can spontaneously ignite in the tanks and fuel lines. In order to prevent this, all 6 fuel tanks are purged with pure nitrogen before being filled.

The Blackbird also carries 260 liters of liquid nitrogen in 3 dewars [for this flight the SR-71 only had 2 – 106 liter liquid nitrogen dewars. The 3rd 50 liter dewar was added in the mid 1980’s]. This nitrogen expands into its gaseous form as it is pumped into the fuel tanks to top them off as fuel is consumed. Without the nitrogen, the empty fuel tanks would cavitate from the increased pressure when returning to lower altitudes to refuel.*

Five aerial refuellings

Taking off from Beale AFB in California, they flew 2 laps around the continental United States via Missoula, Montana; east to Bismark, ND; southeast to Peoria, IL; east to Columbus, OH; southeast to Cape Hatteras, NC; southwest to Gainsville, FL; south to Tampa, FL; west to San Antonio, TX; northwest to El Paso, TX; west to El Centro, CA; then back to Beale AFB. Once the second lap was complete, they entered the third lap and turned south at Bismark, for Santa Fe, NM; then west to Las Vegas, NV; then finally back to Beale (flight plan via Ron Kloetzli). This 15,000 mile, 10.5 hour flight required five aerial refuellings. After the flight the aircraft was thoroughly examined and found to be none the worse for the experience. The SR-71 remains to this day the only aircraft rated to run in full continuous afterburner.

I interviewed Colonel Shelton about his 13-hour flight during the Yom Kippur war. And he said that after a long flight like this his adrenaline was hyped up so high that he was unable to sleep even though he was exhausted.

To help with his adrenaline being on overdrive he would go for a long walk to settle down.

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. Dawn at 80.000ft – SR-71 Blackbird

SR-71 liquid nitrogen Dewar’s

On Sep. 20, 1971, Estes and Vick were awarded the 1972 Harmon International Trophy by President Richard Nixon for their accomplishment. They were also awarded the 1971 Mackay Trophy for the same flight.

*Crew Chief Floyd Jones explains: ‘The SR-71 does have three LN2 Dewar’s, two in nose wheel and the third in the left chine are just outboard of K bay. The LN2 goes from the Dewar’s to coils (heat exchange) in tanks 1 and 3 that turns the Liquid into gasses of nitrogen. The wing tanks are the ones that have the worse leaks. Reason being that during the in-flight refueling tanks 3 & 6 are empty during the refueling the excess Hot tanks and the very Cold Fuel cause the Tank Sealant to fracture (crack) causing leaks.’

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter X Page Habubrats SR-71, Instagram Page SR71Habubrats and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder Habubrats for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

Source www.Habu.org

@Habubrats71 via X

[captain-price-unofficially]

RAF Typhoon with full afterburners