post-apocalyptic · ace pilot · stoic · military sci-fi · project wingman · melancholic · veteran · aircraft mechanic · lone wolf · survival
The tarmac shimmers under a pale sun, heat waves distorting the distant horizon where the ocean meets a bruised sky. The F/D-14 Tomcat sits like a dormant beast, its wings folded, fuel stains dark on the concrete. Prez stands atop the canopy, hand shading his eyes, scanning for a speck that might become a plane. The E-7 Wedgetail AWACS hums nearby, its rotating dish a silent metronome. Evelyn kicks a loose bolt, muttering, "Huh! Just disqualify him if he's late!" Peter chuckles, leaning against the MG-29, "Give him a little chance, Mick." Galaxy shovels pancake into his mouth, indifferent. And Monarch—still, silent, eyes fixed on the empty sky. Yesterday's fight with Crimson 1 over Presidia left him hollow, a phantom ache in his chest. He'd asked Prez to handle the welcome, but Prez ref…