Chapter Text
“ZARI!” Ava Sharpe’s voice cracked through the comms before she yanked off her headset, tearing the leather cap from her head and hurling it at the control panel. She climbed out of the cockpit, boots hitting the wing with a thud, and leapt down to the tarmac with practiced ease.
“Gun’s jammed again!” she barked, undoing the belt at her waist and yanking off her parachute harness. “Third time this month.”
Zari Tomaz popped out from under the neighboring Spitfire, grease smudging her cheek and her sleeves rolled to the elbows. “Don’t blow a gasket, Echo. You didn’t need to shoot anyone today anyway.”
“If I’d needed to, it would’ve been a disaster.”
Zari jogged over, wiping her hands on a rag. “It’s that overheating feed issue again. I told command it needed replacing, not patching. But do they listen to me? Of course not.”
Ava exhaled through her nose. “Fix it tonight. I’m running the formation drills again at sunrise.”
Zari gave a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain Doom.” The nickname had stuck months ago, after Ava barked orders during a rain-soaked drill with zero visibility and zero patience.
Nate Heywood approached, flight cap tucked under one arm, a light layer of sweat on his brow. “What’s eating you now, Ava?”
She didn't look up. “Everything.”
Nate chuckled. “Well, you’ll love this—a new squadron commander just arrived. All-women’s bomber unit. Heard she flew recon for the French Resistance before coming here. Word is, she’s fearless. Insubordinate. Bit of a legend.”
Zari perked up. “Lance, right? Canary?”
“That’s the one,” Nate said. “Sara Lance. Command says she’s unconventional, gutsy, and completely impossible to intimidate.”
Ava didn’t react.
She simply brushed a strand of windblown hair from her eyes.
“Don’t care. She’s not my problem.”
Zari and Nate exchanged a glance, but didn’t push further. They knew her too well.
Later that evening…
The sky over the airfield had turned deep navy, streaked with gold as the sun sank below the trees. Ava sat at the edge of the hangar, sharpening her knife under a hanging bulb, the steady rhythm comforting in its repetition.
Voices floated in from the direction of the officers’ quarters—laughter, the clink of boots on gravel, and one voice that cut through them all. Calm, confident, almost lazy with purpose.
“—I’ll lead them however I damn well please. As long as we’re the ones who come home.”
Ava looked up without meaning to.
She saw her for the first time.
Just a silhouette at first, backlit by the sunset. A woman in a flight jacket slung over her shoulder, walking across the compound like she owned it. Blonde hair pulled tight at the back of her head. Head held high. There was something in her stride—grit, grace, command.
And then, as if feeling Ava’s eyes on her, the woman paused and glanced over her shoulder.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Blue on blue. Distant. Curious. Unreadable.
Then she turned and kept walking, disappearing behind the barracks.
Ava blinked.
She didn’t believe in omens. She didn’t believe in fate. She didn’t believe in connections. Not anymore.
She picked up her knife and kept sharpening.
Later, with the hangar locked for the night and most of the base gone quiet, Ava moved through the dim hallway toward her quarters. She didn’t bother turning on the overhead light—just unbuttoned her jacket in the dark and hung it on the bedpost.
She sat on the edge of the narrow cot, the silence pressing in.
From under the mattress, she pulled a battered tin box. The lid creaked as she opened it, revealing only a few contents: a silver lighter, the kind issued to RAF pilots. A folded photograph. And a letter, creased and yellowing at the edges.
She didn’t light a lamp. She didn’t need to. The image was etched into her memory.
The photo showed five young pilots standing on the wing of an old Hawker Hurricane—smiling, windswept, arms slung over each other like the war hadn’t started yet. Ava was in the middle. The woman beside her had bright eyes, dark curls, and her head thrown back mid-laugh.
Charlie.
Ava stared at the photo for a long time, her thumb brushing over the corner.
They'd called her “Sparrow.” Light, fast, uncatchable.
She’d been gone for months.
Ava had stopped asking how long exactly. It didn’t matter.
She folded the photo and put it back, then picked up the letter. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—curving, elegant, the last line always signed with a sketch of a bird in flight.
Ava didn’t open it.
She never did.
Not anymore.
She tucked everything away and slid the box back under the mattress. No prayers. No words. Just muscle memory.
She lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence settle like dust.
Tomorrow, she’d fly again.
The morning broke cold and clear.
Ava was already on the tarmac before the sun crested the tree line, breath fogging in the air, hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket. The hangar lights clicked off one by one behind her as the sky blushed pink and gold.
Engines whirred to life in the distance. Pilots gathered in loose knots, some laughing, some yawning, some staring silently toward the sky.
Zari’s voice called from behind her, bright and sarcastic even before coffee.
“Rise and grind, Captain Doom. You really know how to ruin a perfectly good morning.”
Ava didn’t turn around. Her eyes stayed on the sky.
“Drills in ten,” she said. “If they’re late, they fly double.”
And with that, she walked toward her Spitfire—just another shadow against the dawn.