Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

The mess hall was loud with the sound of boots, trays, and clipped conversations. Pilots, mechanics, and command staff milled about in various states of exhaustion, mud still clinging to trousers from the early morning drills.

Ava Sharpe stood in line, tray in hand, expression unreadable. Her damp hair was still tucked under her cap, flight jacket unzipped halfway. The sharp discipline of the morning had faded into a tension she wore like armor.

Two male airmen stood in front of her, their voices louder than necessary.

“I’m just saying,” the first one griped, shoveling lumpy eggs onto his tray, “this base is starting to look like a beauty pageant. What’s next—knitting circles and perfume in the bunkhouse?”

The second man laughed. “Tell me about it. Half these girls couldn’t lift a bomb if their life depended on it. They ought to be at home, keeping the fires lit, waiting for the real soldiers to come home.”

Ava said nothing.

But Nate Heywood, who had just stepped into line beside her with a steaming mug of coffee, let out a slow whistle.

“You two done embarrassing yourselves, or should I get you a microphone?” he asked casually.

The men turned, clearly surprised.

Nate didn’t wait. “That ‘girl’ over there you’re mocking?” He jerked his chin toward Ava. “She’s the only ace on this base. Five confirmed kills over the Channel. Flies like she’s got the devil at her six.”

One of the men scoffed. “A lucky streak doesn’t make her better than us.”

“No,” Nate replied. “But the scoreboard does.”

Before either man could come up with a clever retort, a new voice cut in.

Cool. Calm. Razor-sharp.

“Sounds like someone’s feeling threatened.”

Sara Lance stood just behind them, her tray in one hand, the other resting casually on her hip. Blonde hair tucked neatly back, her uniform sharp and well-worn, like she'd lived in it. She raised an eyebrow as she looked between the two men, then settled her gaze briefly on Ava.

“I’ve read the reports,” she said, stepping forward. “You must be Sharpe. The ace.”

Ava’s blue eyes flicked toward her, guarded. “Depends who’s asking.”

Sara extended a hand. “Captain Sara Lance. Call sign ‘Canary.’ Just transferred in. I run the all-female bomber squadron.”

A beat of silence.
Ava didn’t take her hand.

She nodded instead, cool and efficient. “I’ve heard of you.”

Sara’s smirk didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good things, I hope.”

Ava shrugged. “Let me know when you make the board.”

Sara lowered her hand slowly, still smiling. “Fair enough.”

Zari appeared at Ava’s shoulder just then, tray piled high with whatever the cook hadn’t burned. “Wow. I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already collecting new enemies.”

“Not enemies,” Sara said easily, glancing toward Zari. “Just watching to see if the legend lives up to her name.”

Nate chuckled behind his mug. “She’s got style. I’ll give her that.”

Sara looked back at Ava once more, measuring. “See you in the skies, Sharpe.”

And with that, she turned and walked to the far end of the hall, sliding into a seat with a few of her new bomber crew.

Zari leaned in with a low whistle. “She’s got brass.”

Ava sat down stiffly at a nearby table, barely touching her food. “She’s got timing.”

Nate sat across from her, still smiling. “You gonna let her fly circles around you, Echo?”

Ava didn’t respond.

But the steel in her eyes said she was already planning her next drill.

Zari slid into the seat beside Ava, casually dropping her tray with a loud clatter that made a few heads turn.

“So,” she said, digging into her food like it hadn’t been scraped from the bottom of a rusted pan, “what was that?”

Ava didn’t look up. “What was what?”

Zari raised her brows. “The whole ‘I’ve heard of you’ followed by the ice queen routine. You could’ve at least taken the woman’s hand.”

“She’ll survive,” Ava said, stabbing half-heartedly at her eggs.

“Sure,” Zari said. “But that was her extending a hand. A real one. Not just some ‘I’m-new-here’ formality.”

Ava exhaled slowly. “She doesn’t need my welcome. She’s already got her squad.”

“And a reputation,” Zari added. “But she still tried to connect. With you.”

Ava’s fork scraped against the metal tray. “I’m not here to make friends.”

Zari leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. “You don’t have to make friends. But maybe stop treating everyone like a threat until they prove otherwise.”

Ava’s jaw ticked. “You don’t know what proving otherwise looks like, Z.”

Zari sat back slightly, watching her.

A long pause passed between them.

Then Zari sighed. “You know, just because she’s not Charlie—doesn’t mean she’s the enemy.”

Ava stiffened.

Zari immediately looked down, pushing her food around with her fork. “Sorry. That was—”

“No,” Ava said, voice flat. “You’re right.”

She stood, taking her tray with her. “You’re right. I just don’t care.”

Zari didn’t stop her. But she didn’t touch her food either.

Across the room, Sara Lance was laughing at something one of her crew said, her face relaxed, her confidence easy.

Ava Sharpe dumped her tray and walked out into the morning light, shoulders square, heart a thousand miles away.

Ava stepped out into the cold morning air, gravel crunching beneath her boots. The wind off the hills carried the scent of motor oil and distant smoke—comforting in its familiarity, numbing in its routine.

She kept walking, away from the mess, from the noise, from the woman with the knowing blue eyes and the handshake she hadn’t taken.

The door creaked behind her.

“You’re fast, but not faster than me before coffee,” Nate called, jogging to catch up. He cradled his tin mug like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to talk,” Ava said, not breaking stride.

“Yeah, well,” Nate said, falling into step beside her, “you rarely do. But you need to.”

Ava stopped at the edge of the tarmac, where the sunlight broke through a low line of cloud. Her eyes stayed on the horizon. “She shouldn’t have said my name. Not like that. Not in front of everyone.”

“She was trying to be respectful.”

“She doesn’t know me.”

Nate took a long sip of his coffee. “Neither did most of the guys we lost. Doesn’t mean we don’t say their names.”

Ava didn’t move.

Nate looked at her, softer now. “You think I don’t get it? I knew Charlie too, Ava.”

That made her flinch—just slightly.

“She was your best friend,” he continued, “but she was my family too. Maybe not by blood, but God, the three of us? We were a mess. Remember France? When she stole that jeep?”

Ava’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “And drove it through the CO’s tent.”

“He still swears it was sabotage.”

A brief silence passed between them.

“I miss her every day,” Nate said, more quietly now. “But pushing everyone away won’t bring her back. And it sure as hell won’t protect you.”

Ava’s voice was low, brittle. “She died right next to me, Nate. I saw her go down. I heard her scream.”

“I know.”

Ava looked at him, eyes glassy but unbroken. “After that, I told myself I’d never get that close to anyone again. Not Zari. Not you. But it happened anyway. And if I lost either of you... I don’t know what I’d do.”

“You won’t,” Nate said. “Not if we keep flying like we do. Not if we’ve got each other’s backs.”

“But what if we don’t?”

“Then we die with someone who matters. And that’s still better than being alone.”

Ava turned away, blinking against the rising sun.

“I don’t need anyone else.”

“You say that,” Nate said gently, “but I think you’re just scared to need them.”

She didn’t reply.

They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, the wind pulling at their jackets.

Finally, Ava spoke. “She was the best of us.”

Nate nodded. “So let’s make sure we honor that.”

Three days later
En route to RAF Kenley
10:14 hours

The sky stretched wide and clear above southern England, broken only by the gentle roll of clouds and the occasional glint of another aircraft passing miles off-course. The steady hum of the engine was the only company Ava Sharpe kept, and that was exactly how she liked it.

The repair plane wasn’t much to look at—slower than her Spitfire, heavy with gear and spare parts, but it flew smooth. Honest. No weapon systems to worry about. No gunners. No wingmen. Just steel and sky.

She thumbed the mic and leaned into the crackle of the radio.

“Kenley Tower, this is Echo Two-Two-One-Three, approaching from the southwest with one. Requesting clearance to land. Over.”

Static replied for a beat, then a clipped voice cut in.

“Echo Two-Two-One-Three, Kenley Tower. You’re clear on runway three. Wind’s light, no traffic ahead. Welcome back, Sharpe. Over.”

Ava gave the barest smile. Someone at Kenley recognized her voice.

“Copy, Tower. Echo Two-Two-One-Three inbound. See you on the ground. Out.”

She adjusted her course, dipping slightly as the depot came into view—rows of Quonset huts, repair sheds, and a half-dozen camouflaged aircraft parked in neat lines like sleeping beasts. Her fingers stayed light on the yoke, but her thoughts weren’t quite as steady.

The quiet had a way of pulling memories to the surface.

She hadn’t seen Sara Lance again since the mess hall.

Not really. A flash of blonde hair during briefing. A smirk from across the tarmac. Always just enough presence to remind Ava that she hadn’t imagined her.

Not that she was trying to think about her.

She wasn’t.

Still, Ava could hear her voice, low and sharp:

““Sounds like someone’s feeling threatened.”

That line had stayed with her longer than she’d admit.

She banked left, lining up for approach. The world below tilted gently, revealing the countryside in miniature—green and gold and impossibly peaceful from this high up.

Up here, everything made sense. Altitude stripped things down to what mattered.

Throttle. Altimeter. Compass.

No people. No surprises. No Sara Lance.

Ava exhaled through her teeth, leveling the plane.

Time to land.

Chapter Text

RAF Kenley – 12:42 hours

Captain Ava Sharpe was halfway through reviewing a refit checklist when a young corporal jogged over, clipboard in hand.

“Captain Sharpe?”

Ava looked up. “What is it?”

“You’re wanted in the commander’s office, ma’am. Flight assignment.”

She frowned. “I wasn’t scheduled to head back until morning.”

“New orders. Just came in.”

The office at the edge of the depot smelled like old tobacco and wet canvas. Commander Ainsworth looked up from a folder as she stepped inside.

“Captain Sharpe.” He motioned for her to close the door. “That recon plane you brought in is prepped and cleared. We’re sending you back today.”

Ava nodded. “Acknowledged.”

“There’s one thing.” Ainsworth glanced at the paper in front of him. “You’ll be flying back with a passenger.”

Ava blinked. “Passenger?”

“She’s with one of the new bomber crews. Navigator. Sara Lance’s unit.” Ainsworth gave a small shake of his head, like he couldn’t quite make sense of the arrangement. “Apparently had some classified navigation gear recalibrated here and needed temporary reassignment to assist. Name’s Amaya Jiwe.”

Ava didn’t react outwardly—but the name hit her like a punch.

“Jiwe?” she asked, voice quiet but sharp.

“Yes. Any issue?”

“No, sir,” she said tightly. “Where is she?”

“Hangar Two. Waiting on youl.”

Hangar Two – 13:05 hours

Ava spotted her instantly.

Dark curls. Tall posture. Familiar eyes.

For a heartbeat, Ava’s vision blurred—memory overlapping with reality. She wasn’t looking at a stranger. She was looking at Charlie. Except... not.

The girl turned toward her with a small, uncertain smile.

“Captain Sharpe?”

Ava’s spine stiffened. Her voice stayed cool. “That’s me.”

The young woman stepped forward, extending a hand. “I’m Amaya Jiwe. I—I know this must be strange. Charlie was my twin sister.”

Ava didn’t move to shake. Her eyes searched the girl’s face, but her own stayed unreadable.

“She talked about you,” Amaya added quickly. “She wrote about you in every letter. Sent photos. Said you were brilliant. Stubborn as hell. She said if anything ever happened to her… I should try to find you.”

Ava’s expression didn’t crack, but her grip on the clipboard tightened.

“You’re part of Lance’s crew?” she asked, voice like steel.

Amaya nodded. “Navigator. Third seat.”

Ava gave a short nod. “The plane's ready. We leave in ten.”

Amaya hesitated, then followed.

Behind her, Ava didn’t look back.

But inside, everything had already shifted.

13:23 hours
Over southern England, 6,000 feet and climbing

The plane droned steadily through the pale afternoon sky, its patched-up fuselage shivering occasionally with wind resistance. Ava sat focused at the controls, her headset snug, eyes scanning her instruments with practiced ease.

Amaya Jiwe sat in the co-pilot seat, hands folded tightly in her lap, headset mic tilted just slightly out of use.

Silence stretched between them. Not the peaceful kind. The brittle kind. The kind that pressed against your ribs.

Finally, Amaya leaned closer, her voice soft through the comms.

“You fly like she did.”

Ava didn’t glance over. “Charlie was reckless.”

“She called it instinct,” Amaya replied. “You always called it reckless in her letters.”

Ava’s grip tightened on the throttle. “She died trying to outrun flak fire.”

Amaya didn’t answer right away. The engine filled the space between them.

Then:

“She died saving her crew.”

Ava exhaled slowly, jaw locked.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Amaya continued, quieter now. “But I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. Charlie made you sound like the center of her world.”

“That was Charlie,” Ava said. “She always made everything bigger than it was.”

“No,” Amaya said. “She saw people. She saw you.”

Ava turned her head, finally looking at her—just a glance, but there was heat behind it.

“I’m not a hero, Jiwe. I’m not someone you should be trying to understand. I was her friend. I should’ve been watching her wing closer. I should’ve—”

She cut herself off, eyes flashing back to the horizon.

Amaya’s voice was gentle but firm.

“You were with her, Ava. That matters more than you think.”

The name landed like a stone in Ava’s chest. Not ‘Captain.’ Not ‘Sharpe.’

Ava.

She didn’t respond. Just adjusted altitude by a few degrees and checked the fuel gauge.

They flew in silence for another few minutes, the countryside slowly unfolding below like a patchwork quilt stitched with roads and hedgerows.

Amaya looked out the window, her reflection faint in the glass.

“She said you hated small talk,” she added with a half-smile. “Said if I ever got to fly with you, I should bring maps instead of memories.”

Ava’s expression didn’t shift.

But she didn’t tell her to stop talking, either.

14:12 hours
RAF Base – Returning from Kenley

The landing was textbook. Ava brought the plane down smooth and clean, tires kissing the tarmac with practiced grace. The moment the engines wound down, the silence felt heavier than the air outside.

Ava didn’t say anything. She just went through her post-flight checks with mechanical precision, then unbuckled and climbed down from the cockpit without looking back.

Amaya followed, stepping out into the familiar buzz of the airfield—fuel trucks, mechanics, officers barking orders. But one voice cut through the din with unmistakable energy.

“Amaya!”

Sara Lance jogged toward them across the tarmac, flight jacket flapping behind her. She looked windblown and battle-tested, but her face lit up the moment she spotted her navigator.

Amaya grinned and took a few steps forward. “Captain Lance.”

Sara caught her in a tight hug, clapping her on the back before pulling away.

“Damn, it’s good to see you. Thought I was going to have to fly without you another week.”

“Didn’t expect a personal escort,” Amaya said, glancing over her shoulder.

Sara’s gaze followed—and landed squarely on Ava Sharpe.

Something flickered in her expression. Recognition. Surprise. Something else she quickly masked with a polite smile.

“Captain Sharpe,” Sara said, stepping forward, voice calm but cordial. “Didn’t know you’d be flying the return.”

Ava barely nodded. “Duty shift changed. I was in the air. That’s all.”

A beat of silence. Sara extended a hand anyway. “Still. Thank you for bringing her back.”

Ava looked at the hand, then at Sara’s face. Her expression was unreadable.

Then she simply said, “She was cargo,” and turned away.

Sara’s smile tightened just slightly.

Amaya watched the exchange, brow furrowed.

Ava didn’t look back. She walked off toward the hangars like the ground might disappear beneath her feet if she didn’t keep moving.

Sara watched her go, then turned to Amaya, softer now. “That go okay?”

Amaya hesitated. “I think she’s more haunted than anyone realizes.”

Sara glanced once more toward the hangar, her jaw set. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m starting to see that.”

The door to Ava’s quarters clicked shut behind her with a dull finality.

Ava stood in the stillness, back to the door, hands balled into fists at her sides. She hadn’t taken off her jacket. She hadn’t moved at all.

The room was barely larger than a storage closet—just a cot, a footlocker, and a desk with a chipped mug of cold tea still sitting where she’d left it. No photos. No mementos. Nothing on the walls but shadow.

She finally moved, crossing to the bed and sinking down on the edge. Her boots thudded against the wooden floor.

She reached beneath the thin mattress and felt for it—her fingers finding the cool edges of a battered tin box. She slid it out, resting it in her lap.

She hesitated.

Then opened it.

The same contents greeted her like ghosts:
A silver lighter, long out of fuel.
A folded photo.
A letter—still sealed, still unread.

She didn’t unfold the photo. She didn’t need to.
She could see Charlie’s smile without it. The same wide grin Amaya wore. That uncanny mirror of someone Ava had sworn she’d never see again.

She stared at the letter for a long time, thumb brushing the corner.

Then, barely audible:
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin?”

Silence answered.

Ava leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced around the box like it might slip away if she let go.
“She looks like you,” she said softly. “God help her.”

A knock broke the quiet—sharp, tentative.

Ava didn’t move.

Another knock. Lighter.

Then a voice through the door, muffled but unmistakably hers.
“It’s Amaya.”

Ava closed her eyes.

She didn’t respond.

A moment later, the footsteps faded down the hallway.

She exhaled slowly, deliberately, and slid the letter and photo back into the tin. Closed the lid. Tucked it back beneath the mattress.

Buried, like everything else.

She lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, breath steady.

Another name. Another ghost.

And the war wasn’t over yet.

Chapter Text

RAF Training Airspace – 08:47 hours

The skies over southern England were open and blue, streaked with wisps of cloud like smoke trails from a memory. Five aircraft cut through the calm morning air: two Spitfires, a Hurricane, and two lightly loaded bombers.

It was just a dry run.

But Ava Sharpe flew like they were already at war.

“Atlas, hold your spread. Behrad, ease left—you’re drifting out of spacing,” she said crisply over the comms, fingers steady on the controls.

“Copy, Echo,” Behrad replied, his voice smooth and unbothered. “Just getting comfortable. She’s running like butter today.”

Ava’s brow tightened.

“This is Echo Two-Two-One-Three. Running point. Begin simulated climb. Hold grid. No deviations.”

“Copy that, Echo,” Nate chimed in. “Following your lead.”

“Roger,” Behrad added easily. “Tightening up now.”

Then the second bomber veered slightly.

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “Bomber Two, confirm position. You’re drifting east.”

Sara’s voice cut in a beat later—clear, composed, and unmistakably deliberate.
“Canary here. Noted a break in cloud pattern. Adjusting five degrees for simulated nav exposure.”
Ava’s grip on the throttle tightened. She knew what this was.

“Negative, Canary. Maintain current grid. Return to formation immediately.”

“It’s just a slight drift, Captain. We’ll be back in ten seconds. Better to test this here than when flak starts flying.”

“This is not a live op. Return to grid.”

“Returning now,” Sara replied, cool as ever. “No need to panic.”

Nate’s voice buzzed in a half-mutter: “Oof. Tension.”

Behrad added lightly, “We all still friends up here?”

Ava didn’t respond. Just brought her Spitfire into a slow, tight arc and pulled the team back together like pieces on a board.

Her face was calm.

Her knuckles were white.

Twenty minutes later – on the tarmac

Engines cooled. Crew disembarked. Mechanics swarmed. The usual chaos of post-flight churned around them—but Ava had a bead on Sara before her boots even hit the ground.

She strode across the tarmac, jaw locked, finding Sara beside her bomber, sleeves rolled and smirking like she hadn’t just tossed the drill into a tailspin.

“You want to explain what the hell that was?” Ava snapped.

Sara turned with maddening composure. “A five-degree test drift.”

“You broke formation.”

Sara shrugged. “It was a controlled decision. Real-world conditions.”

“You ignored direct orders,” Ava snapped. “You put yourself and your crew at risk.”

“No,” Sara said, her voice harder now. “I made a judgment call. That’s what I’m trained to do.”

“I don’t need judgment calls in my drills.”

“Then maybe your drills are too rigid.”

They locked eyes for a moment that crackled like the space between lightning and thunder.

Then Ava turned and walked off without another word.

Behind her, Behrad stepped up beside Nate, who was leaning against a fuel cart, arms crossed.

“Well,” Behrad said, voice light but uncertain, “I’ve seen better team-building exercises.”

Nate gave a low whistle. “They’re going to kill each other.”

Behrad nodded. “Or they’re circling for a fight that’s not about flying.”

Nate laughed. “One of these days, you're gonna say that to the wrong captain.”

Behrad just grinned, unbothered. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

The flight was over, but Sara Lance was still flying hot.

She stormed into the bomber crew's shared space—part ready room, part bunker, part unofficial therapy center—and dropped her flight jacket onto the nearest chair with a loud slap of leather on wood.

Her crew looked up from their scattered conversations and paperwork.

“Alright,” Sara said, pacing, voice sharp. “Someone please explain to me how I’m the one who gets chewed out for thinking ahead.”

Astra didn’t look up from where she was cleaning her sidearm. “Because you went off script.”

Spooner raised a brow, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, but it was a good adjustment. You saw that gap in the clouds before anyone else.”

“I mean, come on,” she turned again, pacing the narrow space as her crew watched from their usual posts—some on crates, others lounging in worn chairs, one or two cleaning weapons like they were prepping for actual combat. “Five degrees. Five. And she acted like I’d defected to the Luftwaffe.”

“Captain Doom strikes again,” Spooner muttered, dismantling her pistol on the arm of an old couch.

“She did clock your drift before anyone else,” Astra added with a shrug, flipping through a maintenance checklist. “Probably had it mapped before you even thought to test it.”

“She acts like drills are sacred scripture,” Sara snapped. “I moved five degrees for one minute and she treated it like a court-martial offense.”

“Five degrees,” Gideon said thoughtfully, scribbling into her notebook. “Approximately a deviation of—”

“Not helping, Gideon,” Sara cut in.

Amaya glanced up from her logbook. “Honestly? She was kind of... impressive.”

That got a round of groans.

“Don’t encourage the war goddess,” Spooner said. “Next thing you know, she’ll reorganize our bunks by blood type.”

“She didn’t yell,” Nora offered, quiet but direct. “She commanded. That’s worse, honestly.”

“She didn’t have to yell,” Kendra said. “Her stare did all the talking.”

“She is intense,” Mona piped up, trying to sound casual but clearly still processing her first flight with Ava. “Like… precision-for-breakfast intense. But she didn’t lose her cool. Even when Sara pushed her.”

“I didn’t push her,” Sara said, throwing up her hands. “I nudged. I tested.”

Mona leaned forward, eyes wide. “You know what it looked like? Like you got to her. Like, Ava Sharpe actually twitched.”

“That woman’s a bunker with wings,” Spooner muttered. “No one gets a read on her.”

“Except maybe you,” Kendra added, giving Sara a look. “She looked like she was holding something back.”

Sara scoffed. “Please. She probably just didn’t want to waste her breath.”

Astra arched her brow. “Still. You’re the first person she’s flown with who pushed back you rattled her. She noticed you.”

“I wouldn’t say she was rattled,” Gideon offered, flipping a page in her flight journal. “But she responded. Emotionally. Subtly, but it was there.”

“Kind of like you did when Nyssa was around,” Spooner added, not bothering to hide her grin.

“No,” Sara said, firmer. “This is not that.”

Amaya, calm as ever, said quietly, “Doesn’t have to be. Astra’s right– she noticed you..”

Sara stared at the ceiling and muttered, “I hate you all.”

Spooner grinned. “Just means we’re doing our job.”

“Anyone else notice Torque’s brother?” Astra asked.

A chorus of groans followed—Astra always found someone to crush on, no matter the base.

The smell of engine grease and sun-baked canvas hung in the air. Ava stood beside the open nose of a grounded Spitfire, arms crossed so tight it looked like she might break her own ribs. Her jaw worked like she was grinding down a gear in her teeth.

Zari lounged against the workbench, goggles perched on her forehead and a wrench twirling in one hand. Nate sat nearby on a crate, sipping coffee like the war wasn’t on pause. Behrad leaned on the frame of a half-covered jeep, flipping a rag over his shoulder.

“I gave her clear orders,” Ava snapped. “She went off-course without blinking. Five degrees turns into ten, ten into losing a bomber and scraping someone off a cliff face.”

“She did come back,” Nate offered. “On time. In line. No injuries.”

“Still broke formation,” Ava muttered.

Behrad raised a brow. “To be fair, she also tightened it back up faster than half the guys we’ve flown with.”

“Not helping,” Ava shot back.

Zari smirked. “You’re just mad someone didn’t fall in line for once.”

Ava leveled her with a look. “I expect discipline.”

“I know. I’ve seen your sock drawer,” Zari teased. “Folds sharp enough to take out a Luftwaffe patrol.”

“Okay, now I’m uncomfortable,” Nate muttered into his mug.

“She’s reckless,” Ava pressed on. “One day that kind of arrogance gets people killed.”

“She’s not arrogant,” Zari said, more serious now. “She’s fast. Sharp. Good.”

“She’s unpredictable,” Ava said, quieter.

Nate studied her for a moment. “So what’s really bothering you? The fact that she made a call—or the fact that it worked?”

Ava didn’t answer.

Behrad glanced at Zari. “She always gets like this when someone rattles the cage?”

“Oh yeah,” Zari said. “Last time it was a French flight instructor who dared to wink at her.”

“I almost decked him,” Ava said flatly.

“You did deck him,” Nate reminded her.

Ava rolled her eyes and looked back at the plane. “I don’t trust people who treat war like it’s a stage.”

“She wasn’t putting on a show,” Zari said. “She was flying her crew like she meant it. You just don’t like that she didn’t need your permission.”

Behrad whistled low. “Oof.”

Ava turned to him, one brow raised. “You have something to add?”

He held up both hands. “Nope. I’m just here for the free drama and the view.”

“She makes things messy,” Ava muttered. “I don’t like messy.”

“You liked Charlie,” Zari said softly. “She was chaos in a bomber jacket.”

Ava didn’t flinch. But she didn’t respond either.

Nate stood, tossing the last sip of his coffee. “You don’t have to trust her yet. But maybe don’t write her off for doing what we’ve all done—adapt.”

Zari crossed her arms. “And maybe ask yourself why she got under your skin so fast.”

Ava glanced at her, blue eyes cool and unreadable.

Then she turned back to the plane and muttered, “I don’t get rattled.”

Behrad smirked. “Sure. And I don’t nap in gear lockers when I’m hungover.”

Zari and Nate both laughed. Ava didn’t. But the edge in her shoulders softened—just a little.

The sky had settled into that pale, post-morning gray. Crew buzzed around the hangars like bees—fuel lines coiled, engines cooled, boots scuffed across gravel and concrete. Voices called out orders. Tools clanged.

Sara Lance stood just outside the main hangar, hands on her hips, jacket half-zipped, watching the controlled chaos unfold. Her crew had scattered after debrief—some to chow, others to nap, a few to flirt with mechanics they’d probably regret tomorrow.

She wasn’t ready to join them. Not yet.

Across the tarmac, near a stripped Spitfire, she spotted Ava.

Alone. Jacket off, sleeves rolled. Hands on the plane like it was the only thing in the world she trusted to speak back.

She wasn’t talking to anyone.

Just… breathing.

Sara tilted her head.

She’d expected anger. Coldness. Maybe even a glare.

But Ava didn’t even know she was being watched.

There was something about the way she stood—like someone used to holding the line long after everyone else fell back.

Not a machine. Not a statue.

Just tired. Sharp. Worn in places most people couldn’t see.

Sara exhaled, half a laugh under her breath. “Same to you, Captain Doom.”

Then she turned away, walking toward the mess.

Some fights weren’t meant for the skies.

At least—not yet.

Chapter Text

The air was on fire.

Flak shells burst all around them—black clouds erupting in the sky like angry fists. The concussions rocked Ava’s Spitfire, buffeting the cockpit in a barrage of sound and motion.

“Sparrow, you're flying too low!” Ava shouted into the mic, scanning the formation through the haze. “You’re taking direct hits—pull up!”

“Trying—she’s not responding!” Charlie’s voice crackled, breathless and clipped.

Ava’s eyes locked on the battered bomber ahead. One of the port engines was smoking heavily, trailing dark ribbons behind it. Another flak burst erupted off the nose, sending a piece of the cowling spiraling into the abyss below.

The bomber’s right wing dipped. Just slightly.
Just enough.

“Charlie—listen to me—bail out. That’s an order.”

“Can’t hold her much longer,” Charlie coughed. “Nose is going. It’s—”

Another flak burst exploded just below the belly of the bomber, throwing the aircraft upward in a sickening tilt. Ava pulled hard on the yoke to avoid the debris, the sky shaking with thunder.

Then, through the smoke and chaos, Ava saw her.

Charlie was standing at the bombardier hatch—flight cap gone, hair matted with soot and sweat. Her flight suit was torn at one shoulder. She looked back through the open frame, scanning the horizon… and then she found Ava.

Their eyes met across the sky.

Just for a second.

A small, defiant smile tugged at Charlie’s lips—maddeningly familiar, impossibly steady.

“Guess this is where we part ways, Echo.”

Ava reached for her radio, voice breaking.

“Charlie, go—now!”

Then Charlie jumped—just a blur of limbs against the fire-lined sky.

A half-second later, the bomber erupted in a rolling bloom of flame and steel, the force rocking Ava’s plane sideways.

And then… silence.

Ava jolted awake, breath trapped in her throat, heart hammering like gunfire against her ribs. She sat up in the dark, hand clenched around the edge of her cot.

Sweat slicked her skin, her back soaked through the thin cotton shirt. For a long moment, she just sat there—frozen, staring at the wall.

When she finally moved, it was by instinct.

She reached beneath the mattress and pulled out the tin box.

The silver lighter.
The photo.
The letter she never opened.

Her thumb brushed the corner of the image—the bomber crew frozen in time, Charlie’s grin still full of reckless light.

Ava’s breath shuddered out of her chest.

Then she closed the box, tucked it back into hiding, and stood. Morning was coming.

And she didn’t have time for ghosts.

08:00 hours – Briefing Room 3

The chairs were metal. The coffee was cold. The mood was worse.

Ava stood near the back of the briefing room, arms folded across her chest, jaw locked in place. The early morning light filtered through dusty windows, painting the floor in gold and grime.

Across the room, Sara Lance leaned against the opposite wall, arms just as tightly crossed, eyes cool but sharp. She didn’t say anything—but she didn’t look away either.

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a propeller blade.

Colonel Baird entered with a stack of folders under one arm and the weariness of someone who’d survived three wars and no longer cared for tact.

“Morning,” he barked. “We’ve got a milk run. Well, as close to one as we ever get anymore.”

A few chuckles from the younger crews. Ava didn’t smile.

“You’ll be escorting a supply drop to a listening post outside Calais. Simple run—two bombers, full defensive posture, limited resistance expected. But intel says air patrols have increased around the coast. So we’re not sending anyone soft.”

He looked up from the folder, straight at Ava.

“Captain Sharpe, you’ll lead the escort team. You and Atlas.”

Ava gave a single nod.

Then—he looked to the other side of the room.

“Captain Lance, you’ll lead the bomber element. You and your crew are airborne at 09:15.”

Sara’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she said nothing.

Baird’s gaze shifted between them.

“You’ll be flying tandem on this. Coordination between fighter and bomber wings will be key. I want full sync from launch to return. No freelancing.”

That last line hung in the air a beat longer than it needed to.

Ava didn’t blink.

Sara smirked. “Understood, sir.”

“Good,” Baird said, slapping the folder shut. “Brief your teams. Wheels up in one hour.”

Ava moved briskly toward the hangar, clipboard in hand, barking out flight adjustments to a junior tech. She barely registered the sound of boots behind her—until they matched pace with her stride.

Sara.

“Don’t worry,” Sara said dryly. “I’m not planning to drift five degrees today.”

Ava didn’t stop. “This isn’t a game.”

“Never said it was.”

“You follow my lead. No improvising.”

Sara’s smile faded a notch. “We’re not in training anymore, Ava.”

Ava stopped cold and turned to face her. “Exactly. Which means if you pull something out there and get one of your crew killed, it won’t be a debrief—it’ll be a burial.”

Sara met her eyes evenly. “Noted.”

They stood there for a moment. The air was cold. The wind cut sharp between them.

Then Ava turned and kept walking.

Sara watched her go, exhaling slowly, hands on her hips as the wind stirred grit across the tarmac.

“She’s the kind of rigid that makes me wanna misbehave,” she muttered.

“Captain?” came a voice behind her.

Sara turned to find Gideon standing there, clipboard in hand and concern on her face.

“I’m not sure I understand the tactical application of that statement,” Gideon said earnestly.
Sara blinked, caught. “You weren’t supposed to.”

Gideon tilted her head. “Is this about interpersonal friction again? Should I log it as a command compatibility issue?”

“Nope,” Sara said quickly, brushing past her. “Definitely not that.”

Gideon watched her go, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Misbehavior as a bonding tool… fascinating.”

09:17 hours – Over the Channel

The bomber hummed beneath Sara’s boots—solid, familiar, a slow beast built for power, not speed. Amaya sat at her station just ahead, marking bearings with the calm precision of someone born for the sky. Spooner manned the turret with her usual barely-contained glee, while Astra stood with her arms crossed behind the cockpit, watching everything like a hawk.

Sara adjusted her headset and opened comms. “Canary to Echo-2213. Status check.”

Ava’s voice came back cool and steady through the channel. “Echo-2213. Altitude holding. Visual confirmation on bomber wings. Stay tight.”

Sara glanced out her window.

Ava’s Spitfire rode the air like it belonged there—sleek, deadly, cutting through the cloud line just ahead and slightly above. Nate flanked her on the left, and Behrad on the right, both fighters in tight sync.

“Copy that, Echo,” Sara said, eyes narrowing. “We’ve got a clean glide path. No bogies, no chatter.”

“No chatter’s the part I don’t trust,” Astra muttered.

Mona, curled near the radio station, looked up. “I thought this was supposed to be an easy one?”

“Don’t say that,” Kendra snapped from the rear. “That’s like naming a ship Titanic II.”

“Focus,” Amaya said quietly.

Sara kept her hand on the throttle, eyes flicking over her instruments.

“We cross into hostile range in three minutes,” Ava’s voice came over the line again. “Eyes sharp.”

“Sharp’s her default setting,” Sara muttered under her breath.

Then—

BOOM.
A puff of black flak exploded to their left—followed immediately by another, closer this time. The bomber jolted.

“Flak burst! Bearing 040!” Gideon called out.

“Adjust starboard—five degrees!” Amaya said.

Sara pulled to the right, instinct matching Ava’s voice in her ear:

“Bomber wing, adjust starboard, hold altitude. Atlas, flare left—cut their line of fire.”

Nate peeled off in a wide arc, drawing the sky’s attention. More bursts lit the air behind him, but his Spitfire stayed dancing just ahead of the fire.

“Behrad, hold back two clicks, protect the rear,” Ava ordered.

“Copy, Echo,” Behrad said calmly, flying steady. “Just gonna play shield for a minute.”

Spooner swung her turret. “We got movement below—two fighters climbing fast!”

“Visual confirmed,” Sara said, flipping her comm switch. “Bomber to escort—two Messerschmitts, fast and ugly.”

“I’ve got ‘em,” Ava said. “Break on my mark—three, two, now!”

Sara felt the bomber bank on cue, her crew bracing. Ava’s Spitfire cut in front like a blade, intercepting the climb with a burst of machine-gun fire that scattered the first enemy plane into smoke.

“Nice shot,” Sara muttered before she could stop herself.

Another crack of flak rocked the bomber.

“Rear’s lighting up!” Spooner shouted. “Kendra, I need you on the tail gun!”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Kendra scrambled up the ladder.

“Echo, we’ve got another fighter on our six,” Sara said, grip tightening.

“Hold your course,” Ava replied. “I’m on it.”

There was silence for two seconds.

Then Ava’s voice again—calm and unshaken.
“Scratch one.”

Sara exhaled.

“Confirmed?” she asked.

“You’re still flying, aren’t you?”

Sara actually smiled.

09:42 hours – Skies over Northern France

The coast faded behind them, the pale fields below dotted with enemy emplacements and ruins. The flak had eased. For now.

“Approaching drop point,” Amaya announced calmly. “Three clicks to target.”

Sara keyed the mic. “Bomber lead to Echo-2213—we’re on final approach.”

“Copy, Canary,” Ava replied. “You’re clear for release. Escort holding high pattern.”

Inside the bomber, the bay doors opened with a hydraulic groan.

“Bombs away in three… two…”

Spooner flipped the final switch and nodded to Mona.

Mona hit the release.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The payload fell like punctuation into the silent world below.

“Drop confirmed,” Amaya said, already marking their exit route. “Turning north-northeast to rendezvous.”

“Canary to Echo-2213, we’re bugging out.”

“Copy. Forming rearguard.”

09:50 hours – Returning Flight Path

They were five minutes out from the coast when Ava’s voice cracked over the comms, sharper than before:

“Echo-2213 taking fire—six o’clock low. Enemy on my tail. Can’t shake him.”

Sara’s eyes snapped to the canopy. Far off, a dogfight twisted in the sky—one Messerschmitt locked tight onto Ava’s six. Her Spitfire was weaving hard, but the other pilot was good.

“Atlas, where are you?” Ava snapped. “I’ve got no visual on backup.”

“I’m with Behrad on the bombers,” Nate responded. “They doubled back and cut us off—I can’t reach you in time.”

Sara’s gut dropped.

She flipped her comm. “Bomber One to crew. Ava’s in trouble. We’re not leaving her behind.”

“What do you need?” Astra asked immediately.

“Gun ports and eyes out. Kendra, Spooner, Gideon—get those turrets ready. Amaya, give me a turn vector. We’re going in.”

Mona's eyes widened. “Wait, we’re the cavalry?”

“We’re whatever she needs,” Sara said. “Let’s go.”

09:55 hours – Ava’s Position

Ava gritted her teeth as the Messerschmitt clung to her six—fast, patient, and surgical. She dove, rolled, climbed—nothing shook him. Her fuel was thinning, her angles running out.

Then—

Gunfire lit up the sky.

Turret blasts from above raked across the clouds. The bomber roared overhead like judgment day in slow motion. Ava watched as the enemy fighter broke off, diving into the mist under a spray of suppressing fire.

“Told you I wasn’t planning to drift today,” came Sara’s voice, calm and razor-sharp.

Spooner’s laugh followed.

“You owe us one, Captain Doom.”

“Make it coffee and gratitude,” Astra added dryly.

“She’ll probably just scowl in Morse code,” Kendra muttered.

Ava kept her Spitfire steady, climbing back to formation.

“Echo-2213, status?” Sara asked.

A pause.

Then Ava's voice crackled through, flat and clinical.

“Under control. Resuming formation.”

Nothing more.

Not a joke. Not a breath of thanks. Not even a glance toward the bomber in escort formation beside her.

Sara’s jaw tightened. “Copy that, Echo.”

10:09 hours – Approach to Base

The coastline came into view, sharp and familiar.

Back in the bomber, the crew buzzed quietly—still riding the adrenaline, still watching the sky.

Sara didn’t say anything else. Neither did Ava.

They just flew—side by side but miles apart.

10:27 hours – Airfield, Base

Engines whined into silence. Dust kicked up as the planes rolled to a stop. Ground crews swarmed, but Ava didn’t wait. She popped the canopy, swung down from her Spitfire, and walked off like she hadn’t just been inches from a flaming death.

Flight cap under her arm, shoulders rigid, Ava didn’t slow as footsteps fell in behind her.

“Hey,” came Sara’s voice—sharp, direct.

Ava kept walking.

“I said hey, Captain Doom.”

That stopped her.

Ava turned slowly, face a study in control. “Captain Lance.”

Sara stopped a few feet away, hands on her hips, flushed from adrenaline and wind.

“You forget something?” she asked.

Ava blinked. “Don’t think so.”

Sara crossed her arms. Her expression was steady, but her voice carried the heat that still hadn’t left her veins. “Most people say thank you when someone keeps them from falling out of the sky in flames.”

Ava tilted her head, voice clipped. “I had it handled.”

“You were about ten seconds from decorating the Channel.”

“I adjusted.”

Sara grinned. “To what, your own funeral?”

A muscle twitched in Ava’s jaw. “You want a medal?”

“No,” Sara said, stepping closer, lowering her voice. “Just a thank you. Or, hell, I’ll take an acknowledgment that you bleed like the rest of us.”

“I don’t,” Ava said.

Sara leaned in, just slightly. “Oh, I know you don’t. That’s half the problem.”

Ava’s eyes flicked to her mouth for half a second. Just long enough.

Ava’s tone stayed flat, but something flickered in her voice. “You’re enjoying this.”

Sara smirked. “You’re just mad I saved your life. And i wouldn’t say enjoying,” Sara let it hang it for a beat. “Let’s call it… savoring.”

Ava’s stare was arctic. “I had it under control.”

Sara scoffed. “That guy was parked on your six like he paid rent.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

Sara took a step closer. “That wasn’t the question.”

Ava didn’t blink. “And this isn’t a conversation.”

Sara arched a brow. “Right. Of course. Because that would require admitting you’re human.”

Ava’s jaw tensed. “You done?”

Sara smiled without humor. “I don’t know. You tell me—what’s it like living so far up in the clouds you can’t see when someone’s on your side?”

Ava’s gaze flicked to her—just long enough to register it. A spark. A crack in the steel.

Then she turned.

“I don’t need sides,” Ava said over her shoulder. “I need results.”

“See you at the debrief, Captain Doom,” she called after her. “Try not to dream about me.”

Sara didn’t follow. Just stood there, the wind catching her jacket, watching Ava disappear into the hangar.

She muttered to herself, quiet but clear:
“Keep telling yourself that, Sharpe.”

Chapter Text

It started with the mess hall.

Ava spotted Sara at the far table, laughing with Amaya and Spooner over something that probably involved explosives or insubordination—or both. Without breaking stride, Ava pivoted mid-step, turned on her heel, and walked straight back out, ignoring Nate’s snort behind her.

The next day, it was the flight schedule board. Ava saw that she’d been assigned to a joint recon prep with Sara and somehow found herself volunteering—volunteering—for engine diagnostics with Zari instead. Grease under her nails, she claimed, was a small price for sanity.

By the third near-miss, Zari, Nate, and Behrad were openly placing bets.

“She ducked into the motor pool just now,” Nate said over lunch, eyes following Ava’s retreating back. “That's twice today.”

“Three times,” Zari corrected. “She avoided the officers’ lounge too. Pretended to get a phone call.”

Behrad leaned in conspiratorially. “Is it still pretending if no one has called her since the war started?”

“She’s committed,” Zari said, sipping her tea. “You gotta respect it.”

Behrad grinned. “Captain Doom, running from a storm she didn’t forecast. Love to see it.”

Across the quad, Sara came into view, sleeves rolled, head tilted as she listened to something Gideon was explaining with passionate hand gestures. When her eyes landed on Ava—half a field away, already turning a corner—Sara paused.

Her expression shifted.

Not hurt. Not confused.

Just… interested.

Amused.

She let Gideon keep talking, but her eyes followed Ava’s disappearing shape.

“Think she’s dodging me on purpose?” Sara asked idly.

Gideon tilted her head. “Oh, without a doubt.”

Sara grinned. “Good.”

The hangar was buzzing.

Tools clanged, mechanics shouted, and a surprise inspection had everyone scrambling like ants under a boot. Orders came down fast: flight leads were to double-check all aircraft systems before end-of-day. No exceptions. And unfortunately for Ava, that included Sara.

She spotted the name on the assignment clipboard too late to argue.

Inspection Partner: Captain Sara Lance – “Canary”

Ava exhaled sharply through her nose.

“You alright?” Nate asked, catching the twitch in her eyebrow.

“Peachy,” she replied, teeth clenched. “They’ve partnered me with spontaneous combustion.”

Ten minutes later, Ava was crouched beneath the bomber, clipboard in hand, checking hydraulic lines when a pair of boots appeared beside her.

“Nice of you to join us, Captain Sharpe,” Sara said cheerfully.

“I didn’t know this was a group activity,” Ava muttered without looking up.

Sara crouched beside her, unbothered. “Relax. I’m great at following instructions. Sometimes.”

Ava side-eyed her. “You skipped protocol last week.”

Sara held up a finger. “I modified protocol. Strategically.”

Ava said nothing, but the sigh she gave was eloquent.

They worked in silence for a moment—mostly. Ava checked the fuel manifold. Sara adjusted valve pressure and casually leaned into Ava’s space.

“You know,” Sara said, voice low, “you’ve gone out of your way to avoid me all week. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence.”

“It’s not,” Ava said without hesitation.

Sara smiled. “That’s almost flattering.”

Ava set down her clipboard, straightened, and turned toward her.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only when someone makes me speechless,” Sara replied. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “Try harder.”

Sara stepped in just a little closer. Not touching—just close enough that Ava could feel the heat coming off her flight suit and the infuriating steadiness in her eyes.

“Or maybe you’re not avoiding me because I annoy you,” Sara said softly. “Maybe it’s because I don’t.”

Ava didn’t answer.

Because for one second—just one—her brain stalled. Her pulse stuttered.

And that was enough.

Sara smirked, backed off, and returned to the maintenance panel.

“You missed a mark on the hydraulic line,” she said lightly, already walking away.

Ava stared after her.

Flustered. Just a little.

Which, for her, felt like free-falling without a chute.

21:12 hours – Ava’s Quarters

The sounds of the base had quieted. No engines. No shouting. Just the low hum of night generators and the occasional laugh drifting from the mess hall.

Ava sat on her bunk, boots off, jacket discarded, the flicker of a desk lamp throwing long shadows across the wall. Her tin box—Charlie’s box—sat untouched beneath the bed.

She hadn’t opened it in days.

Instead, she just… stared at the clipboard in her lap.

The one from the inspection.

Her handwriting was usually flawless. Precise. Methodical.

Today’s notes were clean—except for one smudge in the margin.

Where her hand had hesitated.

Right after Sara said, “Maybe it’s because I don’t.”

Ava ran a thumb over the paper like she could erase the ripple it had caused.

She wasn’t supposed to react like that. Not anymore. She didn’t get caught off guard. She didn’t pause. And she sure as hell didn’t let someone get under her skin with nothing but a smile and a theory.

But Sara had.

Just for a second.

She leaned back against the wall, exhaling slow, fingers tapping restlessly on her thigh.

It didn’t mean anything.

It was just friction. Close quarters. A few stray sparks from two captains too proud to back down.

That was all.

And yet…

The smirk. The heat in her voice. The way she walked away like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Ava reached for the lamp switch and paused.

Then clicked the light off.

The room fell dark.

But the moment still burned.

21:30 hours – A dim corner of the mess hall

Someone had commandeered a bottle of decent scotch from the officer’s lounge. A few tin cups were passed around. The bomber crew was clustered near one end of the long table, feet up, hair down, still riding the high from a clean inspection and a day without turbulence.

“She absolutely paused,” Spooner said, pointing her cup at the air for emphasis. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“That wasn’t a pause,” Astra replied. “That was a system error. Like watching a machine hiccup.”

“Exactly!” Spooner said. “A glitch. The Captain Doom matrix is breaking.”

Kendra smirked. “And guess who made it glitch?”

Everyone looked at Sara’s empty seat.

Amaya raised a brow. “You think she’s getting to her?”

“I think she already did,” Nora said softly, sipping from her tin cup. “And Ava doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Mona leaned in, wide-eyed. “Wait, you guys think there’s like… a thing between them?”

“It’s not a thing yet,” Astra said. “It’s a tension. The unresolved kind. Like thunder before the lightning.”

“Or dynamite before the spark,” Gideon added helpfully.

Spooner leaned back, stretching. “You think Ava’s ever even—”

“She’s Ava,” Amaya cut in. “If she ever did, she buried it five miles deep with a classified stamp.”
Nate and Zari had joined the other end of the table, catching the tail end of the conversation as Behrad poured another round.

“What’s this?” Nate asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Astra said. “Just some light character analysis.”

Behrad grinned. “Translation: Ava flinched when Sara got close and now no one can talk about anything else.”

Zari sipped her drink and nodded. “That tracks.”

Nate chuckled. “I’ve known Ava a long time. I’ve seen her go toe-to-toe with brass and come out colder. But Sara? She’s different.”

“You think she likes her?” Mona asked, almost whispering.

Zari shrugged. “Maybe not yet. But she notices her. And that’s... more than anyone else has managed in a long time.”

Amaya lifted her cup, voice soft but sure. “And Sara? She’s not afraid of the cold. She’s the type to lean in and wait for it to thaw.”

The group quieted a moment.

Then Spooner, ever the mood-breaker, lifted her drink. “To emotional frostbite and the women who walk into it without a jacket.”

Everyone groaned and clinked tin cups with tired grins.

23:04 hours – Outside the mess hall

Ava had just finished walking perimeter—an old habit from before the war, before everything. She didn’t sleep much, especially after close calls. The cold helped her think. The quiet helped her forget.

She was rounding the corner near the mess when she heard her name.

Low voices. Laughter. A cup thudding against a table.

“…I swear she flinched. Right when Sara got close.”

Ava froze.

It was Spooner’s voice—unmistakable, full of smug amusement.

“She didn’t flinch,” someone else said. Zari? “She short-circuited. Slight eye twitch, jaw lock, classic Ava malfunction.”

More laughter.

“Hey,” Behrad added, “don’t look at me, I’m just here for the drink and emotional carnage.”

“Captain Doom, getting rattled?” Nate said. “That might be the end of the world.”

Ava’s jaw clenched. She should’ve walked away.

Instead, she listened.

“…She notices her,” Zari said. “And Sara? She doesn’t scare easy. She’ll keep pushing.”

Ava didn’t wait to hear more. She turned sharply and walked off, her boots echoing a little too loud on the gravel.

07:00 hours – Briefing Room A

The next morning, the base was on edge.

A surprise briefing had been called. No explanations. Every flight lead, navigator, and weapons specialist packed the room, half-awake but alert. The air crackled with nerves.

Colonel Bishop stood at the front, maps pinned behind him, arms crossed like thunderclouds.

“This isn’t a drill,” he said. “We’ve received intel that a munitions transport is moving under heavy guard near Calais. If we can intercept, we can delay enemy resupply for weeks.”

Murmurs rippled across the room.

Bishop cut through them. “This will be a coordinated strike. One bomber crew. Two escort wings. Close air support. We’re expecting ground fire, interceptors, and no backup if it goes south.”

He looked down at his clipboard.

“Sharpe. You’re flying lead on escort.”

Ava straightened, her voice cool. “Understood.”

Bishop nodded. “Lance—you and your crew will be our bomber team.”

Ava didn’t turn her head. But she didn’t have to.

She could feel Sara’s eyes slide toward her. Felt the weight of that look like a slow drag across raw nerves.

“Mission goes wheels up at 1500. You’ll have eight hours to prepare, coordinate, and not kill each other in the process.”

He looked right at Ava when he said it.

Then, just to twist the knife:

“I want cooperation. Not a pissing contest.”

Sara leaned back in her chair and whispered, just loud enough to be heard:

“Well. This should be fun.”

Ava didn’t flinch this time.

But her grip on the pen in her hand cracked the casing down the middle.

07:45 hours – Outside the hangar

The briefing had dispersed, crews scattering to prep and strategize. Ava walked out first, shoulders stiff, jaw set, a storm cloud with a flight plan.

Zari jogged to catch up. “Hey—so, that mission…”

Ava kept walking.

Nate and Behrad fell in behind, sharing a quick look.

“You okay?” Nate asked carefully.

Ava didn’t answer.

Zari frowned. “Okay, what’s going on? You’ve barely said two words since we left the mess last night.”

Ava stopped suddenly and turned to face them, her voice like cold steel.

“Funny. Last night, you all had plenty to say.”

The silence that followed was immediate and sharp.

Zari blinked. “Wait. You heard that?”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Ava said, arms crossed, eyes locked ahead. “But apparently avoiding a conversation is harder than avoiding enemy fire.”

Behrad raised both hands. “Look, it wasn’t—okay, it was a little bit—”

“A lot,” Ava snapped. “It was a lot.”

Nate winced. “Ava, come on. We were just… talking. Blowing off steam.”

“At my expense,” she said, voice low. “With people I barely know.”

Zari stepped closer. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hit,” Ava said.

The quiet that settled wasn’t awkward—it was heavy.

Nate rubbed the back of his neck. “We didn’t think it would… get to you.”

“That’s the problem,” Ava said quietly, eyes flicking between them. “You didn’t think.”

She turned, walking away with clipped strides.

Behrad looked after her, guilt written all over his face. “We’re definitely the bad guys in this story, huh?”

Zari sighed. “No. Just the ones who forgot she’s still human.”

10:45 hours – Maintenance Yard

Ava hadn’t spoken to them all morning.

Not during the systems check. Not during refueling. Not even during Nate’s truly tragic attempt to rewire the radio mount by himself.

It was subtle at first. A nod instead of a word. A sharp look instead of instructions. But by now, even Behrad had picked up on it.

“She didn’t even grunt at me,” he said, sitting on the edge of a workbench, chewing the edge of a protein bar. “Usually I at least get a ‘don’t touch that.’”

“She’s not mad,” Nate offered, though his voice lacked conviction.

Zari gave him a look. “She’s definitely mad. She's doing that ‘professional to death’ thing she does. Which means she’s mad but too controlled to show it the normal way.”

“I’d prefer yelling,” Behrad muttered. “At least then I’d know when it’s over.”

They glanced across the yard.

Ava stood alone near her Spitfire, checking the tail rudder with clinical focus. Same hands. Same methodical rhythm. But the tension in her shoulders made it clear—this wasn’t routine. This was armor.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zari said, already moving.

Behrad raised his hands. “Godspeed.”

Zari approached casually, hands in her pockets. Ava didn’t look up.

“You’ve been quiet,” Zari offered.

“Busy,” Ava replied, eyes still on the inspection panel.

“You’ve barely looked at us all morning.”

“Still busy.”

Zari sighed. “We were out of line.”

Ava’s wrench paused mid-turn.

“You think I care about what the others say?” she said quietly. “I don’t.”

“But you care what we say.”

Ava didn’t answer.

Zari stepped a little closer. “We made you the punchline, Ava. That wasn’t fair. Especially not in front of people you don’t know.”

Ava set the wrench down with deliberate calm.

“I don’t care what they think,” she said. “But I let you three in. And that doesn’t come with permission to laugh at me when I flinch. Not when it costs me this much just to let people close.”

Zari nodded. “You’re right. We should’ve known better.”

Ava finally looked at her—cool, clipped, but not empty.

“I don’t need jokes,” Ava said. “I need people who’ve got my six.”

Zari smiled softly. “Still got it.”

Ava raised a brow. “We’ll see.”

From behind, Behrad called out hopefully, “What if I bring cookies?”

Ava didn’t turn around. “Depends. Are they ration cookies?”

Behrad held up a tin. “The illegal chocolate kind.”

Ava exhaled—somewhere between a sigh and a suppressed laugh—and finally let the corners of her mouth twitch upward. A truce. For now.

12:42 hours – Tarmac, Main Airfield

Engines roared to life across the line. Propellers sliced through the warm afternoon air. The base buzzed with urgency—the kind that settled in the bones before a mission that might not end with boots on the ground.

Sara’s bomber crew moved with the rhythm of routine: Amaya checked charts one last time, Gideon double-checked calibration, Spooner slapped a fresh magazine into her sidearm with a grin that promised chaos.

Astra stood off to the side, watching the sky like it owed her something.

“Everything set?” Sara called, climbing the ladder into the bomber.

“Always,” Amaya replied, handing off the logbook. “What about you?”

Sara smiled thinly. “I’m ready. It’s the rest of the sky I don’t trust.”

Not far off, Ava stood beside her Spitfire, leather flight cap in hand, goggles dangling from the strap, gaze fixed on the clouds above. She hadn't spoken to Sara, but the way her eyes found the bomber team boarding said plenty.

Zari and Nate moved into position. Behrad gave the bomber crew a playful two-finger salute and got a wink from Spooner in return.

As Sara climbed into the fuselage, she paused.

Looked down the line.

Ava met her eyes across the roar of engines and swirling grit.

No nod. No smile.

But she didn’t look away.

Sara didn’t either.

The engines thundered louder. Crew chiefs signaled with raised fists and thumbs up. It was time.

Sara turned and disappeared into the bomber.

Ava climbed into her fighter, buckled in, and pulled her goggles into place. Her face was blank. Her chest, not so much.

Wheels up in three. No room for doubt. No room for anything else.

The runway stretched out in front of them.

And the sky—clouded, hostile, waiting—opened wide.

Chapter Text

13:17 hours – Above the English Channel

Wind howled through the open sky, clipped only by the synchronized drone of propellers cutting a path across the clouds.

Ava Sharpe flew point.

Her Spitfire, Echo-2213, sliced through the air like a blade—fast, clean, untouchable. Below and behind her, the bomber crew lumbered forward in their heavy metal beast, flanked by Nate and Behrad in their own fighters, keeping tight formation.

“Visibility’s good. No sign of enemy movement,” Ava said into the radio, her voice sharp and calm.

“Copy that,” came Nate’s reply. “Canary team is holding steady.”

From the bomber, Sara’s voice cut in—clear, but laced with command. “Echo-2213, adjust bearing five degrees east. We’re picking up coastal interference.”

Ava hesitated.

Technically, the call was correct. But it chafed.

“Adjusting,” she replied stiffly, already banking.

Inside the bomber, Sara leaned over Amaya’s shoulder as the navigator pointed to the interference ripple on the map.

“She’s trying not to argue with me,” Sara muttered, almost proud.

“She’s trying not to strangle you mid-air,” Astra replied dryly from the rear station.

“Focus,” Amaya warned, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Back in the sky, the formation closed in on target altitude.

Ava’s eyes swept the horizon. Clean. Clear. But her gut itched.

Something was off.

“Canary One, check your six. We’ve got—wait—contact, low and fast, coming in from the east!”

Three enemy fighters burst from a break in the clouds like hornets from a nest.

Shit.

“Contact confirmed!” Nate shouted. “Three Messerschmitts, closing fast!”

“Bomber team hold steady!” Ava barked. “Echo wing engaging.”

The sky broke open.

Nate and Behrad peeled off, guns blazing. Ava looped hard and fast, catching the sunlight just right to blind the lead fighter. Her Spitfire rolled into a tight spiral and dove, clipping the enemy’s wing with a strafing burst of fire.

But a second one latched onto her tail.

Too fast. Too close.

“Come on,” she hissed, pulling high Gs, engine screaming in protest.

“Sharpe, you’ve got one on you,” Sara’s voice cut in. “Breaking formation. We’re coming around.”

“Negative,” Ava snapped. “Stay on the mission—”

But the bomber was already banking wide, its underbelly exposed just long enough for Spooner to line up a shot.

The enemy pilot swerved, and Ava took the opportunity—cutting power, letting the Spitfire drop just enough to throw off pursuit, then firing clean.

One down.

The other turned and scattered.

“Sharpe, status?” Sara asked.

Ava caught her breath. “Still here.”

“And you’re welcome.”

A beat.

No response.

Back in the bomber, Spooner whooped. “That’s what I’m talking about! You see that shot?”

“Good flying,” Amaya said calmly, already checking their position.

Sara leaned toward the mic. “Echo-2213, are you ever going to thank us for saving your ass?”

Silence.

Then Ava’s voice—tight, composed.

“You deviated from the plan.”

“We saved your life...again”

“You got lucky.”

Sara grinned at her crew. “She’s still mad.”

“And she still hasn’t said thank you,” Gideon pointed out.

Amaya chuckled. “Not yet.”

13:28 hours – Just Inland from Calais

The target came into view like a sleeping beast below: a fortified train depot tucked into a rail junction, crawling with trucks, munitions, and anti-aircraft guns already swinging skyward.

“Visual on target,” Amaya reported. “Lining up.”

Ava’s voice cut in. “You’ve got flak batteries east and west. Recommend a diagonal approach, one pass only.”

“Copy that, Echo-2213,” Sara replied. “Canary Team shifting axis.”

“Stay tight,” Ava said. “We don’t get second chances.”

The bomber dropped low—wings level, doors ready—while Ava and the escort fighters danced ahead, strafing ground emplacements. Nate banked left, guns rattling.

“Suppressing fire, go go go—”

From the bomber: “Payload doors open.”

“Mark,” Amaya called.

The earth below exploded in flashes—ordnance tumbling down like iron rain. Direct hits. The rail lines buckled, fuel tanks burst into flame, and the depot lit up with a roar that shook the sky.

Cheers broke over the intercom.

“Direct hit!” Spooner crowed.

But it wasn’t over.

“They’re scrambling!” Behrad shouted. “Fighters incoming from the north—five, maybe six.”

“They were ready,” Nate growled. “Must’ve had backup on standby.”

“Echo-2213, repositioning,” Ava snapped. “Canary, get altitude—fast.”

Sara reacted instantly. “Pulling up. Bomb doors sealed.”

Ava pulled her Spitfire into a steep climb, engines howling. She veered between flak bursts—black smoke trails blossoming around her like deadly flowers.

“Come on,” she muttered, sighting the new Messerschmitts as they closed in.

The sky fractured into chaos.

Tracer fire arced across the clouds. Nate and Behrad darted through the formation like wolves among sharks. Ava locked onto the nearest target, clipped its wing, and rolled out as another zipped behind her.

“Too many,” Nate panted. “We can’t hold all of them.”

“Then don’t hold,” Ava barked. “Break them up.”

One Messerschmitt turned hard, diving toward the bomber. Sara’s crew barely had time to react.

“On our tail!” Kendra shouted.

“I see him—” Sara grabbed the yoke, leveling the plane, steady even as the sky tilted around them.

“Line him up!” Spooner hollered.

The enemy fighter fired—bullets raked across the bomber’s tail, punching through the metal like paper.

“We’re hit!” Astra’s voice rang out from the midsection. “Tail’s taken damage—Kendra’s down!”

Inside the bomber, the mood snapped from tense to frantic.

Kendra had been manning the tail gun, her focus pinned on the rear—until now. She slumped in her harness, blood blooming across her side as smoke curled through the broken paneling.

Sara’s hands tightened on the controls. “Gideon! Get back there. Stabilize her.”

Gideon was already unstrapping herself. “On it.”

“I need her conscious,” Sara said. “Keep her breathing.”

“Working on it,” Gideon called back, already crawling into the smoke-filled tail.

The radio crackled.

“Hang on,” Ava’s voice broke in. “Coming around.”

Her Spitfire roared in from the side, a silver blur cutting through the clouds. She opened fire on the enemy fighter—dead-on, no hesitation.

The Messerschmitt burst into flame and peeled off, spiraling down in a trail of black smoke.

“Enemy down,” Ava confirmed. “You need to move—now.”

Sara exhaled. “Copy. Amaya, adjust heading. Spooner, stay sharp.”

“Always,” Spooner muttered, one eye on the flak clouds still rising in the distance.

In the back, Gideon pressed cloth against Kendra’s wound, murmuring reassurances, hands steady even as the bomber bucked under turbulence.

“She’s stable,” Gideon reported. “But we need to get her on the ground. Soon.”

The formation pulled higher into the safety of open sky.

The silence that followed was sobering. Heavy.

And then:

“Echo-2213…” Sara’s voice cut in, soft but needling. “Still waiting on that thank-you.”

Ava’s voice came back, clipped and unreadable:

“Save it for the debrief.”

14:03 hours – Base Airstrip, England

The first wheels hit the tarmac with a screech of rubber and a jolt of fury.

Sara’s bomber came in hard—too hard—but they had no choice. Smoke poured from the tail section, one of the flaps was stuttering, and Kendra was bleeding out fast in the rear compartment.

Ground crews swarmed as soon as the wheels met dirt.

“Tail gunner down!” Amaya shouted before the hatch even opened. “We need a medic, now!”

Gideon emerged from the hatch first, shirt stained red, eyes wide but focused as she helped lower Kendra onto a stretcher. The younger woman was still breathing, but barely—her lips pale, uniform soaked through.

Spooner jumped down next, weapon still clutched in her hand, adrenaline lighting her up like fire. “Back off, let them through! Give them space!”

Astra followed in silence, jaw locked, covering the chaos with cold efficiency.

Sara was the last to leave the bomber, boots hitting the ground just as Ava’s Spitfire coasted down the runway behind them—clean flight, perfect form, engine ticking hot.

She said nothing as the bomber crew scrambled to the med truck. Her eyes found Kendra—pale, still—and then drifted over to Gideon, hands trembling now that it was over.

Another set of wheels screeched.

Nate’s fighter came down next—hard and limping. His landing gear was damaged, one wing clipped, and as he taxied to a stop, smoke curled from the undercarriage.

Behrad’s plane followed with a rough bounce. He rolled to a halt and climbed out slower than usual, blood running down the side of his temple from a gash that had cracked beneath his goggles.

“I’m fine,” he said to the medic who rushed up, waving her off with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Just cosmetic.”

Nate hopped down from his busted bird and jogged toward Ava, face streaked with oil and sweat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Ava said automatically, scanning the damage.

“You sure?” He nodded toward the bomber. “Because they’re not.”

Ava didn’t answer.

She just stood there, flight cap in hand, the wind tossing strands of her hair across her face, watching as the medic truck sped off toward the infirmary.

Behind her, the tarmac buzzed with noise—sirens, shouted orders, the roar of another crew still coming in.

But Ava didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Chapter Text

14:26 hours – Base Infirmary

The smell of antiseptic hit first. Then the silence—sharp, unnatural. The kind that followed screaming and gunfire, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Kendra lay on a narrow cot, her torso wrapped tight in gauze, IV line snaking from her arm. Pale, unconscious. A monitor beeped steadily beside her.

Gideon sat at her bedside, one hand lightly covering Kendra’s. Her shirt was stained with blood—not her own—but she hadn’t changed. Her notebook lay forgotten in her lap.

Sara stepped into the ward, boots echoing softly on the tile. A medic looked up and approached.

“She’s stable,” he said quietly. “Lost a lot of blood, but we got to her in time. No major organs hit, just torn muscle and surface trauma. She’s lucky.”

Sara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you.”

“She’ll need a few days before she’s even able to sit up.”

The medic left, and Sara moved to the bedside. Gideon looked up, eyes tired and a little unfocused.

“She passed out just after the hit,” Gideon said, voice small. “I kept pressure where I could until they got her down.”

“You did good,” Sara said, lowering herself into the chair next to them. “You kept your head.”

“I didn’t feel like I did,” Gideon admitted.

“You did,” Sara repeated firmly. “You were exactly who she needed.”

The rest of the crew lingered nearby—Amaya quietly folding Kendra’s uniform jacket and placing it in a chair, Mona pacing a corner. Spooner sat beside Astra, unusually silent. None of them left.

“She never wanted to be here,” Gideon murmured, fingers still wrapped around Kendra’s. “But she didn’t hesitate.”

Sara nodded, staring at Kendra’s pale face.

“No. She didn’t.”

Meanwhile – 14:41 hours – Operations Building, Briefing Room

The mood was brittle.

Ava stood at attention in front of the mission board, flight cap still in hand, uniform smudged but intact. Her expression didn’t crack—eyes forward, voice clipped as she delivered her report.

“Enemy resistance was heavier than projected. Payload successful. Return flight compromised due to late-arriving Messerschmitt unit. Two friendly aircraft damaged. One tail gunner wounded.”

Colonel Baxton frowned over his notes. “And deviation from formation protocol?”

“Necessary,” Ava said. “To neutralize incoming fighters and protect the bomber crew.”

There was a pause. A flicker in the Colonel’s eyes. Then: “Very well. Dismissed.”

Ava turned, heels clicking as she left the room.

In the hall outside, Nate and Zari waited.

Behrad leaned against the wall, temple stitched and bandaged, still holding an ice pack to his head. “So… still not a fan of thank-yous?”

“Don’t,” Ava warned.

Nate held up a hand. “Look, none of that was normal. We all saw what happened.”

Zari stepped closer, softer. “Kendra almost died. You saved them.”

“I did my job,” Ava said.

“Yeah,” Zari replied. “But Sara did hers too.”

Ava didn’t respond.

She just kept walking.

21:03 hours – Hangar 4, South End of Base

The air was cooler now. Quieter.

Ava walked alone across the gravel and tarmac, flight boots scuffing lightly as she passed rows of shuttered hangars. No drills, no engines, no shouting. Just the echo of metal creaking in the breeze and the occasional rattle of a chain swinging from an open bay.

She hadn’t planned to go anywhere. But her feet carried her to Hangar 4 anyway.

The lights inside were low—just the amber glow of a work lamp casting long shadows over the nose of her Spitfire, still streaked with soot and oil. She stopped just short of the open bay, hands in the pockets of her jacket.

And froze.

Sara was already there.

She sat cross-legged on a maintenance crate, a half-full canteen resting beside her, jacket unzipped. Her head was tilted back against the fuselage of the bomber parked at the far wall, eyes closed, hair loose and messy from hours of combat and stress.

She didn’t look like a commander.

She looked like someone holding it all together with whatever thread she had left.

Ava started to turn, quietly, but Sara’s voice stopped her.

“You ever wish you could just… fly and forget the rest?”

Ava didn’t answer at first. Then she stepped into the hangar, her voice low. “No.”

Sara cracked one eye open. “Didn’t think so.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken things. The kind of quiet that only comes after shared fire.

Sara finally broke it. “She’s gonna make it.”

Ava nodded once. “I know.”

Sara studied her face. “That’s not why you’re out here.”

“No,” Ava admitted.

Sara didn’t push. She just watched her.

Ava walked over to her Spitfire, hand trailing along the wing like she was grounding herself. “You can do everything right. Plan for every scenario. Train harder than anyone else. And still lose.”

Sara’s voice was softer now. “Yeah.”

“Every time I let someone in, they end up bleeding on the tarmac,” Ava added, her fingers tightening on the metal edge. “Sometimes they don’t come back at all.”

“Then don’t let go of the ones who do.”

Ava looked over at her.

Sara didn’t flinch.

“You think you’re the only one who’s lost people?” Sara asked, not unkindly. “You think I don’t wake up wondering who I’ll bury next?”

Ava didn’t reply.

Sara shrugged, lifting the canteen. “We keep flying anyway.”

Silence again. A different kind now. Less brittle. Less barbed.

“You don’t have to like me,” Sara said as she stood. “But we’re in this together.”

Ava’s gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t cut either. “Then don’t give me a reason not to trust you.”

Sara stepped past her, slow and measured. “Right back at you, Captain Doom.”

She left the hangar without looking back.

Ava stayed behind, staring at the dim glow of the maintenance lamp.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

06:47 hours – Base Mess Hall

The mess hall buzzed with the usual early-morning chaos—clatter of trays, the hiss of burnt coffee, boots scuffing linoleum, and a dozen half-awake conversations rolling over each other like waves.

Sara’s bomber crew had staked their usual table near the corner—close enough to the coffee line, far enough to avoid hearing about which pilot had the best landing the day before.

Sara sat at the end, hands wrapped around a mug, her crew orbiting around her in various stages of alertness.

Spooner and Astra argued over who’d actually spotted the second wave of enemy fighters. Amaya half-listened while organizing a folded map. Nora sat quietly with a book in her lap. Mona looked like she’d barely slept, and Gideon was mid-sip of coffee when the room stilled.

Like someone flipped the power switch.

Boots. Precise. Familiar.

Ava Sharpe.

She entered the mess like a blade, all sharp lines and silent weight, tray in hand, eyes scanning the room once.

Then—without ceremony—she walked straight to their table and sat down across from Sara.

The clatter of silverware stopped. Two nearby soldiers openly stared.

Spooner leaned sideways and whispered to Astra, “Did hell freeze over or did I just hallucinate that?”

Astra stared, then slowly blinked. “Maybe both.”

Gideon, bless her, just smiled like this was perfectly normal. “Good morning, Captain Sharpe.”

Ava gave a small nod. “Morning.”

Sara didn’t say anything at first. She sipped her coffee and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?”

Ava met her gaze coolly. “Strategic repositioning.”

Mona nearly dropped her spoon.

The ripple effect followed fast.

Nate entered a moment later, paused in the doorway, then made a beeline for the bomber crew’s table. “Well, this looks promising.”

Behrad trailed behind him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Is this real? Are we breaking traditions now? Should I sit alphabetically?”

Zari took it all in from across the hall, then calmly picked up her tray and joined the growing crowd. “Well. This should be fun.”

Suddenly the corner table was a combined war room—pilot squad and bomber crew crammed together, glances exchanged like grenades with the pins half-pulled.

Sara smirked, low and quiet. “You do realize sitting here means they’ll expect it again tomorrow.”

Ava didn’t look up from her tray. “I’m not in the mood to argue.”

Before anyone could fire off another line, Gideon cleared her throat.

“All joking aside,” she said gently, “I have an update.”

The table stilled.

“Kendra’s awake,” Gideon said. “Vitals are steady. She’s groggy, in pain, but talking.”

Everyone exhaled.

Even Ava blinked once, the tightness in her shoulders softening a degree.

“She asked about all of you,” Gideon continued, voice trembling with just a hint of emotion. “Said she was sorry she passed out on the job.”

Sara leaned back, smiling faintly. “Tell her the whole crew nearly passed out watching Spooner try to take over tail gun.”

“Hey!” Spooner huffed.

The tension broke with quiet laughter. Something lighter. Something almost normal.

Ava didn’t laugh. But she didn’t leave either.

She stayed.

07:24 hours – Outside the Mess Hall

The early morning light was thin and gold across the tarmac, burning off the last of the mist. Boots crunched over gravel and the distant drone of aircraft being tuned echoed across the base.

Sara stepped out of the mess, coffee in hand, and found Ava leaning against the wall just outside—arms crossed, face turned toward the sun like she was soaking in warmth she’d never admit she needed.

Sara sipped. “You know, people are going to talk.”

Ava didn’t look at her. “They already do.”

“You sat at our table.”

“I needed a seat.”

Sara gave her a look. “That table’s been off-limits to you for months. You’ve practically used barbed wire to keep it that way.”

Ava shrugged. “Changed my mind.”

Sara tilted her head. “Uh-huh. And nothing to do with us saving your ass? Again?”

Ava glanced at her, deadpan. “You need constant validation, don’t you?”

Sara grinned. “Only from the emotionally unavailable.”

Ava looked back out at the flight line, but her lips twitched—just barely.

Sara leaned in slightly, mock-conspiratorial. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep the seating chart quiet. Wouldn’t want to damage your terrifying reputation.”

Ava finally turned to face her. “Terrifying is useful.”

Sara smiled. “So is trust.”

They stood in silence for a beat. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

Then Ava pushed off the wall. “Don’t make a habit of this.”

Sara followed her with her eyes, smirking. “Too late.”

Ava kept walking—but didn’t deny it.

Chapter Text

Two Months Later – 09:02 hours – Base Airstrip

The transport rolled to a stop just past the tower, kicking up a swirl of dust. The door opened, and a familiar boot stepped down onto solid ground.

Kendra Saunders was back.

She looked leaner, tougher. A faint scar peeked out from the edge of her collarbone, and her stride had a new weight—steady, sure. She scanned the airfield, then spotted the bomber crew jogging toward her across the tarmac.

Spooner got there first, nearly knocking her over with a hug. “You look like hell.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Kendra replied, smirking.

Astra hovered behind the group, arms crossed—but even she cracked a rare smile. “About time.”

Amaya placed a gentle hand on Kendra’s arm. “You’ve been missed.”

Gideon was crying and didn’t care who saw. Nora offered a quiet, heartfelt “Welcome back,” and Mona just beamed like a kid at Christmas.

Sara arrived last, her usual cocky smile gentled by something warmer. “We kept your seat warm.”

“Good,” Kendra said. “I want my gun back.”

Laughter broke through the morning haze.

Later – Officers’ Library, North Wing

Ava flipped a page in The Count of Monte Cristo, her brows furrowed in concentration. Across from her, Nora sipped tea with quiet approval.

“You didn’t think you’d like it,” Nora said.

Ava didn’t look up. “I don’t like being wrong.”

“That’s not what I said.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Ava’s mouth. “It’s what you meant.”

The door creaked open and Sara leaned against the frame, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the rare sight of Ava Sharpe doing something as… civil as reading.

“Just when I think I’ve seen everything,” she said, “you turn out to be a book club girl.”

Ava closed the book with a sigh. “Say one word to Nate, and I’ll shove Tolstoy up your tail rudder.”

Nora blinked. “That’s… anatomically confusing.”

Sara just grinned. “Message received.”

But the mood shifted a moment later as a runner came in, breathless, envelope in hand.

“Orders. For both Captains. Command wants you in briefing at 1100. Urgent.”

The laughter died.

Ava took the envelope, eyes scanning the seal. “No rest for the elite.”

Sara’s smirk faded into something more serious. “Let’s find out what fresh hell they’ve cooked up for us this time.”

11:03 hours – Command Briefing Room, East Wing

The room had the feel of a storm cell—quiet, pressurized, waiting for thunder.

Maps littered the long table. Red strings stretched between pins. Recon photos—blurred and grainy—covered a corkboard behind the commanding officer. The lights buzzed overhead like gnats.

Ava stood at one end, arms crossed. Sara mirrored her stance across the table.

Their crews filtered in, standing in clumps behind them—Zari, Nate, Behrad, the bomber girls all present, eyes sharp now, postures alert. Even Kendra, recently cleared for active duty, stood tall.

Colonel Baxton stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension. “New intel confirms Axis activity near a coastal rail depot in occupied France. This location isn’t just moving munitions. It’s moving classified prototypes.”

A click—he changed the slide.

A grainy photo snapped from above: train lines, fuel tanks, something large under tarpaulin and heavy guard.

“High-level intercepts refer to it as Krähe Schwarz. We don’t know exactly what it is—but command believes it’s a weapon platform.”

Sara narrowed her eyes. “Deployment schedule?”

“Departure in thirty-six hours. If it leaves the depot, it vanishes into the mainland. We won’t get another shot.”

Ava’s jaw tensed. “How fortified?”

“Triple-A emplacements on all sides. Luftwaffe patrols sweeping the perimeter every ninety minutes. This won’t be a surgical strike—it’s going to be loud and fast. Your crews will punch a hole. Fighters will cover your exit.”

Zari let out a low whistle. “That’s a meat grinder.”

Baxton didn’t flinch. “That’s war.”

Behrad leaned toward Nate and whispered, “Why do they always brief us after lunch? I hate flying with full stomach.”

Spooner cracked her knuckles. “Sounds like a challenge.”

Sara’s eyes didn’t leave the map. “When do we launch?”

“0500 tomorrow.”

A ripple of murmurs moved through the room.

Ava glanced across the table at Sara. No smirk. No tension. Just a shared glance that said one thing:

Time to go to work.

Baxton looked around the room one final time. “This strike is off books. No glory. No backup. But if we’re right—and this prototype sees combat—we lose more than territory. We lose the edge.”

He paused.

“Dismissed.”

15:17 hours – South Hangars, Mission Prep
The base hummed like a hive.

Mechanics tuned engines to a fine whine. Ground crews loaded payloads by the ton. Uniforms were shed and replaced with flight gear—belts cinched, straps checked, boots tightened like armor.

Inside one hangar, the bomber squad moved like clockwork. Amaya marked altitudes and approach vectors. Spooner calibrated rear guns. Kendra tested the tail rig with one hand still tight from recovery—but she passed every check. Nora and Gideon quietly reviewed the classified recon dossier, eyes darting over details with clinical focus. Mona handed out rations and loaded emergency packs without being asked.

Sara stood at the center, eyes tracking everything, voice sharp but calm.

Across the airfield, Ava’s crew did the same—Zari syncing coordinates with Nate and Behrad, their chalk map riddled with flight lines and fallback points. Ava stood with arms crossed near the nose of her Spitfire, expression unreadable, eyes scanning the bomber across the tarmac.

The same thought lived in every crewmember’s head:

We might not all come back.

22:49 hours – Tactical Planning Room, Lower Level

It was quieter now. The hum had died down. Most of the crews were grabbing rest—or pretending to.

Sara leaned over the mission map, tracing their ingress with one finger, lips pursed.

Ava entered, silently. No announcement. Just the smell of oil and cold air as the door clicked shut behind her.

Sara glanced up. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“I always review before a drop,” Ava replied, joining her by the table. “Even when the plan’s already airtight.”

Sara smirked, just slightly. “Control issues?”

“Survival habits.”

They stared down at the map together. A line traced from the coast, through open sky, into the heart of enemy territory. Too straight. Too narrow.

“Looks clean on paper,” Sara said.

“Paper doesn’t shoot back.”

A beat.

Then Sara added, “We’ve come a long way since formation drills.”

Ava didn’t smile, but her voice softened by a hair. “That doesn’t mean we’ve arrived.”

Sara turned, studying her. “You know, if you want to say something to me before we fly into hell, now’s the time.”

“I’ll say it in the sky,” Ava said. “That’s where it counts.”

Sara stepped closer, tone more sincere now. “You trust me yet?”

Ava didn’t flinch. “I trust results.”

“But you don’t fly alone anymore.”

Ava looked at her. Really looked. Then—almost reluctantly—

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

Sara let the moment settle. Then nodded. “Good.”

Ava exhaled slowly and turned to leave.

“Hey,” Sara called after her.

Ava paused, hand on the doorframe.

Sara’s voice was quieter now, eyes fixed on Ava. “Look… if things get messy out there—just don’t leave anyone behind.”

Ava didn’t hesitate. “I never do.”

Their eyes held for a long beat. Something unsaid passing between them—not quite trust, but no longer doubt.

Sara gave a single nod. “Then we’re good.”

Ava’s voice dropped low as she stepped toward the door. “We’ll bring them home.”

Sara didn’t call after her this time.

She just watched her go.

04:37 hours – Tarmac, Base Airfield

The chill before dawn bit through every layer of wool and leather. The base was lit in half-light—spotlights cutting through the darkness like search beams in no-man’s land. Engines idled low, the scent of fuel and anticipation thick in the air.

Crews moved with silent purpose now. No banter. No swagger. Just practiced, precise movements—the kind you made when you knew what was waiting on the other side.

The bomber squad moved as one, loading final payloads. Amaya checked her flight chart. Spooner tested her gunner’s swivel twice. Gideon secured the med kit. Nora placed her book in the top of her pack like it was a good luck charm. Mona tightened Kendra’s harness with care.
Sara walked the line of her team, eyes steady, jacket buttoned high, gloved hands behind her back. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Across the runway, Nate adjusted his collar. Zari checked her watch and muttered under her breath about crosswinds. Behrad slapped the nose of his aircraft twice, a ritual he’d never admit mattered.

Ava stood with arms crossed, gaze scanning the bombers like she was memorizing them.

Sara’s eyes found her from across the distance. For once, neither looked away.

The whistle blew.

“Crews, mount up!” barked an officer. “Wheels up at 0500!”

Boots hit metal ladders. Canopies opened. Hatches sealed.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky had started to lighten at the edges—cold gray shifting toward something almost gold.

Ava climbed into her Spitfire, flight cap in place, goggles adjusted. Her fingers hovered over the ignition switch. One breath in. One breath out.

From the intercom:

“Echo-2213, you copy?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Let’s go hunting.”

The engines roared to life.

Chapter Text

05:47 hours – Over Occupied France, 10,000 feet

The sky was fire and metal.

Flak ripped through the clouds like black thunderheads, exploding in bone-rattling bursts. Red tracers clawed upward from the ground, painting angry arcs toward the bombers lumbering across enemy territory.

Sara Lance gripped the yoke like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“Two minutes to target!” she barked.

“Too much heat on the right flank,” Amaya reported from the navigator’s station. “They’re bracketing us tighter than predicted.”

Spooner’s voice snarled through the comms. “Tail guns hot—got two birds sniffing our ass. Permission to engage?”

“Permission granted!” Sara snapped.

Gideon, face pale but focused, leaned over Kendra. “Holding at altitude. Pressure dropping in rear bay—hatch took a hit.”

Kendra was already in the tail gunner seat, bracing for another pass. Her knuckles white on the grips. “We’re still in it.”

CRACK-CRACK.

The world jolted. A flak burst exploded just off the tail—too close.

Searing metal sliced through the hull.

Kendra cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the engine roar. Blood bloomed across her flight suit—shoulder, chest, maybe deeper.

“Kendra’s hit!” Gideon shouted. “Shrapnel—she’s bleeding badly!”

“I’ve got it!” Nora was already scrambling across the catwalk to help, med pouch in hand.

Outside the bomber, chaos reigned.

Ava’s voice crackled in. Calm. Precise. Cold as ice.

“Echo-2213 coming up your right. Five fighters inbound from the northeast—two breaking for the bomber line.”

In her Spitfire, Ava locked onto the nearest Messerschmitt diving at the formation.

She pulled the trigger—THRUM.

A burst of fire streaked across the sky. The enemy fighter lurched, smoked, and spun into a spiral toward the trees below.

Sara’s eyes scanned the skies. “Copy that, Echo. Still got two on our six.”

“I see them,” came another voice—Nate. His Spitfire shot past overhead like a silver dagger. “Engaging now.”

BOOM.

The bomb doors dropped open.

“Payload away!” Mona called out, voice tight with adrenaline.

The plane shuddered as the munitions dropped and the weight vanished. Below them, the train depot erupted in smoke and fire. Fuel tanks blew. Steel rail lines twisted like toy tracks.

But no one celebrated.

Amaya shouted, “We’re venting! Port engine’s compromised—we need to divert west!”

“Hold formation!” Sara ordered, even as the bomber lurched again.

In the cockpit of his Spitfire, Behrad swore. “Sara, they’re gaining on you. I'm moving to intercept.”

Ava’s voice cut in again. “Negative. I’ve got them.”

Sara glanced down at her gauges—one engine fading, Kendra injured, the crew rattled but alive.

“Everyone pull out west,” she called. “Climb if you can!”

Ava dove, flanking the last two fighters—her guns roared, and smoke poured from one as it veered off into the haze.

The second peeled away, pursued by Nate, already trading fire.

Inside the bomber, Nora held pressure on Kendra’s wound as Gideon steadied her. “Stay with us,” Nora whispered.

“I’m good,” Kendra gasped. “Just... don’t let us crash.”

06:11 hours – Western Sky, France

The formation turned west, retreating fast through a jagged patch of cloud cover. The target behind them burned like a second sunrise, and flak fire finally began to fade—but the Luftwaffe wasn’t done yet.

Inside her Spitfire, Ava Sharpe kept scanning.

“Echo-2213, still with you,” she confirmed into the mic. “Damage to port wing, but—”

CRACK.

Another burst. This one didn’t miss.

The impact rattled her to the bones. Alarms screamed. Red lights flared across the console. She lost lift on one side as the fuselage groaned beneath her hands.

“Port wing’s gone dead,” she barked. “Losing control.”

From above, Nate’s voice cut in. “Echo, you’re trailing fire. You’ve gotta bail.”

Ava fought the yoke, teeth clenched. “Negative. I can stabilize—”

SPANG. Another hit. Too close. A sharp jolt threw her against the straps. The stick refused to respond.

Nate came around on her wing, voice grim. “Echo, you are not making it back in that bird.”

Ava stared at the rising treetops, her jaw locked.

“…Copy. Ejecting.”

She reached for the release, ripped the hatch, and launched.

A flash of silk bloomed behind her as the chute caught. Her Spitfire spiraled away—one last scream of engine before it vanished behind a hillside.

“Echo’s out,” Nate called to all units. “I repeat—Sharpe’s down. Confirmed chute over the woods south of target zone.”

Inside the bomber—chaos again.

Sara went dead quiet.

No orders. No movement. Just one second of stillness like she’d been hit too.

Then:

“Gideon.”

The younger woman looked up, mid-bandage, wide-eyed. “Yes, Captain?”

“You’re flying this bird back.”

“What?”

Sara was already pulling off her harness, grabbing her parachute. “You’ve done full co-pilot simulations and manual drills. You’re the smartest person here. You can fly us home.”

Astra turned, shouting over the roar. “Sara—what the hell are you doing?!”

“Saving her.”

Spooner looked like she’d swallowed a live round. “You’re gonna jump?”

“She won’t survive long alone on the ground. She just went down over occupied territory.”

Amaya’s voice cracked from the nav seat. “You don’t even know where she landed!”

“I’ll find her.”

“Sara!” Nora’s voice rang out, rare and firm. “This is insane.”

But Sara was already at the hatch. “Gideon, take the seat. Keep them in formation. Fly low and west. Stay with Nate and Behrad.”

Gideon moved, trembling but determined.

Sara glanced back once. Her crew—her family—watching her like the world had tilted.

Then she turned, clipped her chute into place, and—with no ceremony—

Jumped.

06:27 hours – Forest Outskirts, Occupied France

Sara hit the ground hard.

Her chute snagged a tree on the way down, turning her descent into a controlled crash. She rolled once on impact, dirt and dead leaves biting her palms, but she came up fast—unclipping the harness, drawing the sidearm strapped to her thigh.

The woods around her were dense, silent, and unfamiliar. Not far off, a column of smoke curled above the treetops—thin and dark and unmistakable.

Ava.

Sara ran.

Every step pounded like gunfire in her chest. The world had narrowed to breath and motion, the faint echo of engines vanishing above her. She had maybe twenty minutes before German patrols started sweeping the crash radius.

And she wasn’t just a soldier now—she was a rescue team of one.

She ducked under branches, vaulted a downed log, skidded down a slope. Her boots hit charred earth near a fresh scar in the treeline where Ava’s Spitfire had torn through on descent.

And then—movement.

A glimpse of a boot, half-buried under brush. Then a shoulder. A flash of a flight suit.

Ava.

Sara dropped to her knees.

“Ava—hey. Hey!”

Ava stirred, eyes fluttering open. She was on her side, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her. Her lips parted, hoarse and dry.

“…Lance?”

Sara let out a breath that shook. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“What—what the hell—”

“Shhh. You’re alive. That’s the only part that matters right now.”

Ava coughed, tried to sit up, winced. “You… jumped?”

Sara was already assessing the injury—bracing her leg, checking for breaks.

“Figured someone should catch you before the Nazis did.”

Ava blinked at her, groggy and furious. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

Sara grinned, tight and adrenaline-sharp. “You haven’t seen my greatest hits yet.”

Ava tried to glare. Failed. Her body was still in shock, but her voice was just strong enough to mutter:

“You’re impossible.”

Sara’s hands moved with controlled precision. “Good. Now shut up and let me save your life, again.”

06:54 hours – Wooded Ravine, Northern France

The trees whispered overhead, wind pushing smoke east like it was trying to erase the wreckage behind them.

Sara had Ava’s arm slung across her shoulders, moving one careful step at a time. Ava’s breath came ragged through gritted teeth.

“Just a bit farther,” Sara muttered.

“Your ‘bit farther’ is feeling like a propaganda lie,” Ava hissed.

“You’re still talking. You’ll live.”

They crested a small rise and descended into a ravine thick with brush and low rock outcroppings. Sara stopped at the mouth of a half-collapsed shelter—roots growing through the stones, hidden in a way that only someone who knew the land might notice.

She ducked low, guiding Ava inside.

“What is this?” Ava asked, grimacing as she eased down against a wall.

Sara didn’t answer right away. She scanned the treeline, double-checked the trail behind them for broken branches or boot prints. When she was satisfied, she returned and knelt by Ava’s side, pulling gauze and a syringe from a small field kit.

Ava raised a brow. “You always carry morphine on recon missions?”

Sara didn’t flinch. “Comes in handy.”

A beat.

“How did you even know this was here?” Ava asked.

Sara finally looked at her.

“I’ve been here before.”

Ava blinked. “You mean… this area?”

Sara sat back on her heels, wiping blood from Ava’s brow with a torn cloth. “Occupied territory. Three years ago. I wasn’t flying then.”

“…What were you doing?”

Sara hesitated for a second. Then:

“MI6.”

Ava stared at her.

Sara kept working. “I was embedded with the French Resistance. Pulled intel. Extracted targets. Sabotaged trains, mostly. Nyssa and I were a two-person cell for six months.”

The name landed like a small grenade in the space between them.

Ava said nothing at first. Just watched her with eyes that no longer saw the same Sara Lance.

“You were a spy.”

“I was a survivor.”

Silence stretched.

Sara set the bandage in place and sat back. Her hands finally stopped moving. “I know a farmhouse about two clicks from here. Abandoned last time I passed through. If we can make it by nightfall, we’ll have shelter. Maybe a radio.”

Ava exhaled slowly. “And if we can’t?”

“Then we hold here and I go find help.”

Ava leaned her head back, exhaustion catching up. “You’re insane.”

Sara’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’d have done the same.”

Ava opened her eyes and looked at her—really looked at her. Something had shifted.

Sara Lance wasn’t just a bomber captain with an attitude.

She was something far more dangerous.

And maybe… something far more like Ava than she’d ever realized.

17:32 hours – Edge of Saint-Michel Woodlands, France

Twilight bled into the trees like smoke.

Sara kept her steps deliberate, helping Ava limp along the uneven forest floor. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows between gnarled trunks and thickets.

Ava's leg was bound tightly beneath torn flight pants, her breath short, but her grip steady on Sara’s shoulder. She didn’t complain. Not once. That told Sara more than any curse or sarcasm could.

“You doing okay?” Sara asked under her breath.

“You ask me that again,” Ava muttered, “I might shoot you.”

Sara smirked. “Still got some fight. That’s good.”

The farmhouse was close—she could feel it. Half memory, half instinct. She’d passed it once years ago, just before blowing up a German fuel convoy with Nyssa in the dead of night.

Crack.

Both women froze.

Sara dropped, pulling Ava with her into the brush. Voices. Distant, but sharp. German. Patrol.

They lay still—pressed into mud and moss, Ava’s shoulder against Sara’s chest. Sara held her breath, one hand on her sidearm, the other steadying Ava’s arm so it wouldn’t drag and leave a trail.

Boots crunched the path above them. A flashlight beam sliced through the trees, pausing too long just feet away.

Ava’s fingers curled instinctively into Sara’s jacket.

Sara didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The beam swung away. The voices drifted off. A beat. Two.

Sara exhaled.

“Come on,” she whispered. “We’re close.”

19:01 hours – Abandoned Farmhouse, Southern Field Border

The house was still standing—barely.

Shutters long gone, windows shattered, but the frame was solid. The root cellar was hidden beneath a warped floorboard, right where Sara remembered it. She pried it open and helped Ava down into the stone shelter below.

Inside: dry space, a rusted lantern, and just enough room to stretch out on uneven ground.

Safe.

For now.

Sara lit the lantern. The dim light painted them in shadow. Ava leaned back against the wall, sweat on her brow, jaw clenched from pain and exertion.

“You okay?” Sara asked again, quieter now.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Ava said, but her voice was too soft to carry any real venom.

Sara sat across from her, arms draped over her knees.

“You really were a spy,” Ava said after a beat. “You and Nyssa.”

“Yeah,” Sara said. “That version of me doesn’t make the brochures.”

“You ever think you’d end up back here? In the same war, different battlefield?”

Sara looked at her. “No. But then again, I didn’t think I’d end up in a Spitfire formation next to Captain Doom, either.”

Ava’s lips twitched. Almost a smile.

Outside, night settled. The wind sighed through the crumbling walls above.

Inside, something quiet passed between them.

Not trust.

But something in that direction.

20:03 hours – Root Cellar Shelter, Abandoned Farmhouse

The silence inside the cellar wasn’t the kind that pressed in. It was the kind that breathed.

Ava sat with her head against the stone wall, leg stretched out, wrapped in a makeshift splint. Her flight jacket was off, folded behind her, revealing the sweat-stained white shirt beneath. The lantern flickered on its last wick, shadows dancing across her face.

Sara was across from her, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching her through the firelight. Not studying. Not calculating.

Just watching.

Ava broke the silence. “I didn’t know about the spy thing.”

Sara shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly on my personnel file.”

“I assumed you were just another hotshot pilot with a flair for dramatics and a superiority complex.”

Sara gave a faint smile. “Well, two out of three, maybe.”

Ava didn’t smile back—not fully. But something in her shoulders loosened.

Then: “Charlie would’ve liked you.”

The words were soft. Uninvited. They surprised even Ava.

Sara didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly: “I know who she was. Amaya told me.”

Ava’s eyes didn’t leave the wall. “We were cadets together. She used to pull me back when I pushed too hard. The only one who could.”

Sara nodded slowly. “You don’t let people close.”

Ava’s laugh was bitter. “People close tend to die.”

Sara didn’t argue.

She leaned forward, voice low. “I used to think that, too. After Nyssa. After the mission that went sideways in Marseilles. I stopped letting people see past the job. Safer that way.”

“Is it?”

Sara looked up. “No. Just lonelier.”

The two women sat in the silence again. Not awkward this time. Just still.

Then Ava said, “You shouldn’t have jumped.”

Sara smirked. “You would’ve.”

Ava didn’t deny it. “That’s not the point.”

“Maybe not. But it’s the truth.”

Another silence. This one heavier. Then—

“I didn’t say thank you,” Ava said.

Sara raised an eyebrow. “No. You didn’t.”

“I’m not… good at that sort of thing.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Ava finally met her eyes. “But I mean it.”

Sara nodded. “I know.”

She stood and crossed to the far wall, checking the small slit window near the ceiling. Moonlight slivered through. No movement. No sound.

“We should rest,” she said. “There’s a chance the base sends recon by morning. If not…”

“We move,” Ava finished.

Sara turned back toward her, hand on the lantern, ready to snuff the light.

“Hey, Lance,” Ava said.

Sara looked back.

“You still have that superiority complex.”

Sara smiled. “Good. I’d hate to lose my edge.”

She lowered the lantern into darkness.

Chapter Text

08:17 hours – Allied Airfield, Briefing Quarters

The tension in the room could’ve downed a plane on its own.

Every available map was spread across the planning table—France carved up in ink lines, grease-pencil flight paths, and red circles marking “last seen” zones. Empty coffee mugs and burned-out cigarettes littered every surface. Radios crackled, voices half-lost in static. And through it all, the room pulsed with the kind of anxious energy only born from silence and waiting.

Nate paced like a man about to launch himself into orbit.

“She pulled her chute. I saw it. White canopy. Fully deployed.” His voice was taut, tired, but adamant. “She got out.”

Astra rolled her eyes. “So she’s not paste in a crater. Great. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t scooped up by a German patrol two minutes later.”

“Or worse,” Nora added, quiet but unflinching.

Behrad looked up from where he was fiddling with a pocket knife, leg bouncing. “You guys really have no chill.”

“Forgive us for panicking,” Spooner drawled, “when both our commanding officers decided to take a joy dive behind enemy lines.”

“She didn’t jump for fun,” Amaya said from her corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Sara saw Ava go down and made a choice.”

Zari snorted as she entered the room, wiping oil from her hands with a rag. “Yeah, a dumb choice. But a brave one. Sounds like her, honestly.”

Nate finally stopped pacing. “So we’re all agreed—they’re both alive.”

Astra arched a brow. “We’re agreed they’re both reckless.”

“Same thing,” Behrad offered. “In war logic.”

Gideon stepped through the door at that moment, paper in hand and hair still a little messy from a night in the comms tent. “Recon out of Rouen picked up a plume of smoke near the treeline south of the impact site. Timing lines up with their last known. We can’t confirm, but…” she hesitated.

“They’re alive,” Nate said, not missing a beat.

“Or someone lit a bonfire with a bad attitude,” Spooner muttered.

Behrad leaned forward over the table. “We need to go after them. Ava wouldn’t leave us behind.”

“She would if it was tactical,” Zari pointed out.

“Yeah, but Sara wouldn’t,” Mona added softly. “She jumped out of a bomber. That’s not logic, that’s loyalty.”

“Or insanity,” Astra mumbled.

Amaya’s voice cut through the noise. “Doesn’t matter. We’re the only ones who know them well enough to find them before the Germans do.”

Nora glanced at the map, trailing a finger along the tree line. “They’ll move at night. Ava’s injured—we know that much. Which means Sara’s going to be looking for shelter, not distance.”

“And if they found shelter,” Gideon added, “they’re going to be holed up waiting on us.”

“So let’s go get them,” Nate said, as if it were that simple.

Zari sighed. “You’re talking about flying into an active patrol sector with no official clearance and limited fuel.”

Behrad grinned. “You make it sound like a bad idea.”

“It is a bad idea,” Zari snapped. “Which means it’s exactly the kind of plan they’d pull.”

Spooner was already pushing crates around. “Alright. So who do we talk to about ‘borrowing’ a plane?”

Gideon raised a hand. “Technically, I still have access to the maintenance logs. If we needed to make a patrol ‘appear’ scheduled…”

Astra looked up. “Wait—we’re doing this?”

“Hell yes we’re doing this,” Nate said.

“Unapproved rescue mission,” Amaya murmured, already rolling up her sleeves. “Just like the old days.”

Mona brightened. “We had old days?”

“You’re having them now,” Spooner grinned.

Zari groaned. “You’re all crazy.”

“Crazy,” Behrad said, holstering his pistol, “is just code for loyal when it’s personal.”

They all paused.

Nora nodded toward the door. “Then let’s make it personal.”

09:03 hours – Hangar 3, Allied Airfield

The moment the plan clicked into motion, everything shifted.

Zari had barely slipped the requisition form through the maintenance office before she was hustling across the tarmac, boots echoing against the metal. Two Spitfires and one stripped-down bomber sat quietly in Hangar 3—technically out of commission for minor repairs.

Technically.

“Gideon!” she hissed through her teeth as she reached the bay door. “Where are we on that diagnostic fudge?”

Gideon spun from the comm panel, grease smudged across her temple. “All systems ‘malfunctioned’ just long enough to disappear from today’s rotation.”

Zari blinked. “You’re terrifying.”

“I know.”

Inside, Nate and Behrad were strapping gear into a Spitfire’s storage compartment. Behrad adjusted his flight vest, cheeks still pale under the stitched gash near his jaw.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Zari asked, eyeing him.

Behrad flashed a tired grin. “Please. I’ve had hangovers worse than a little shrapnel.”

Nate tossed her a headset. “We’ll head out first. Small and fast—cover the bomber.”

Spooner came through the hangar doors, shotgun over her shoulder like it belonged there. “Alright, who's ready to break ten separate articles of military protocol?”

Astra followed, scowling. “Only ten?”

Mona jogged up behind them, fumbling to buckle her harness while trying not to trip. “This is really happening. Like, real-life mission to save the squad captains. I didn’t even think I’d pass basic flight sim.”

Amaya was already at the bomber’s nose, checking the nose-mounted compass and muttering coordinates to herself.

Nora stood to the side, quiet but calm. Her presence grounded the group like the eye of a storm.

“Call signs?” Zari asked.

Nate replied first: “Atlas. Behrad’s Drift. We’re sky cover.”

Astra glanced at Spooner. “We’re ground-side assault. Valkyrie team.”

Mona raised a hand, half-joking. “Can I be Rookie One?”

“No,” everyone said in unison.

Gideon turned back from the comms and looked at Amaya. “Still no signal from Sara or Ava. But no distress beacon either. That’s... something.”

“It means we still have a window,” Amaya said.

A pause hung in the air. Weighty. Real.

Then Nate said, “Let’s go get our girls.”

09:47 hours – Runway 2

The Spitfires launched first, streaking into the rising sun like arrows loosed from a drawn bow.

Behind them, the bomber roared to life, run by a skeleton crew of those too loyal—and too reckless—to let command stop them.

This wasn’t protocol.

This wasn’t sanctioned.

But it was necessary.

And if anyone asked what they were doing?

They’d say it was a training exercise.

One with teeth.

10:36 hours – En Route Over Northern France

Inside the Bomber

The drone of the engines filled the cabin like a second heartbeat. Everyone was strapped in tight, gear stowed, radios crackling as they passed deeper into hostile skies.

Zari looked green.

“Tell me again,” she groaned, gripping the side panel, “why the hell I thought riding in the belly of a bomber was a good idea.”

“You didn’t think,” Spooner said, clearly enjoying this. “You followed your best friend onto a deathtrap because you’re loyal and stupid in equal measure.”

Zari glared. “You people are evil.”

“You people?” Astra echoed dryly from across the aisle. “We’re your backup singers now?”

“I didn’t know it was gonna bounce like this,” Zari muttered, pressing her head against the metal and breathing through her mouth. “Spitfires glide. This thing feels like it’s growling through turbulence on purpose.”

Mona, wide-eyed but holding it together, leaned in. “Do you want a mint?”

“I want to be unconscious,” Zari said, pained.

At the head of the cabin, Gideon had her eyes glued to a map, tracing a path with one finger while speaking into a headset.

“Okay, according to the most recent coded drops from intelligence, we have a French Resistance-aligned stronghold approximately thirty clicks south of Rouen. It’s a small agricultural airfield—abandoned by the Germans after sabotage operations last winter.”

“So it’s unguarded?” Amaya asked.

“Mostly. Resistance fighters have kept a low presence and fortified the landing strip. They’ve cleared a field wide enough to receive one bomber and up to three smaller craft.”

“Perfect,” Astra said, cocking her weapon. “We land, we move. No nonsense.”

“No nonsense,” Spooner echoed, smirking.

“Except the puking,” Zari mumbled.

“Seriously,” Mona whispered, “you’re, like, a genius with machines. But motion sickness?”

“Air combat is fine,” Zari snapped. “This is just flying in a giant tin coffin with turbulence and no dignity.”

Astra raised a brow. “She’s gonna throw up on someone’s boots before this mission’s done.”

Gideon, remarkably calm, said, “Let’s try to avoid internal casualties. Estimated landing in ten minutes. Weather’s holding, no enemy air signatures yet.”

Nora spoke for the first time in a while. “They’ll know soon enough. Smoke plumes from Sara and Ava’s descent may have given them a radius to sweep.”

Behrad crackled in over the radio from his Spitfire overhead. “Copy that. Atlas and Drift are on standby. No enemy visuals yet, but we’re keeping our eyes wide.”

“Copy, Atlas,” Amaya said into her own comms. “We’ll make it quick. Resistance field in sight.”

“Hope they have a welcome party,” Spooner muttered, checking her gear again.

Zari groaned one more time, then: “If I puke, I’m blaming Ava.”

The whole cabin jolted slightly as they dropped altitude, the engines adjusting pitch as the tree line of northern France began to rise in the windows.

Below them: a patchwork of farmland, thin roads, and one narrow, camouflaged strip of runway coming into view.

Above them: silent sky, holding its breath.

Ahead of them: two missing soldiers, one war, and a hundred risks they hadn’t yet counted.

10:48 hours – Resistance Landing Field, Occupied Northern France

The bomber touched down harder than anyone liked.

Wheels screeched across the narrow stretch of hidden airstrip as trees rushed by on either side, camouflaging the field so well it looked like the plane had landed straight into a forest. The moment the engines wound down, the rear hatch dropped open and the team moved fast.

Nora was first off, scanning the treeline with sharp eyes and a steady rifle. Astra and Spooner followed, guns ready. Amaya hit the dirt with a map in hand and already called out bearings.

Zari stumbled out last, slightly pale but upright.

“Still intact,” she muttered. “Mostly.”

A group of five Resistance fighters emerged from the tree line—scruffy, armed, and speaking fast French.

Amaya stepped forward and answered fluently, her voice calm but authoritative. After a brief exchange, the lead fighter nodded and gestured toward a beaten path through the woods.

“They saw smoke two days ago,” Amaya translated. “Near an old farmhouse in the southern woods. No patrols spotted since. They’ve marked the location on our map. It's a hike.”

“How far?” Spooner asked, already hoisting her pack.

“Five kilometers,” Gideon answered. “On foot.”

“Through occupied territory,” Nora added.

“Sounds like a walk in the park,” Astra said, loading a fresh clip into her weapon.

Zari took a deep breath and shouldered her bag. “We get in, find them, and get out. No heroics.”

Spooner grinned. “No promises.”

Behrad crackled in again over the comms from above. “Heads up, we’ve got light cloud cover rolling in. Good for stealth. Bad for visibility. We’ll circle until fuel demands otherwise.”

“Copy that,” Amaya replied. “Radio silence from here on out. See you when we see you.”

The Resistance fighter handed over a hand-drawn map and one small med kit. He offered a silent nod.

No goodbyes.

Only war.

11:17 hours – Deep Woods, Advancing on Foot

The team moved through thick underbrush in tight formation. Spooner took point, rifle up. Astra kept to her right, Amaya behind with the map. Nora and Gideon flanked the rear, Zari somewhere between “quietly determined” and “visibly regretting everything.”

Mona, surprisingly, had grown quieter with each step, eyes sharp and steps cautious.

Every twig snap made someone flinch.

Every gust of wind sounded too much like boots.

After a stretch of walking, Gideon whispered, “We're within a kilometer.”

Zari, scanning the treeline, said under her breath, “I still can’t believe Ava let herself go down like that.”

“She didn’t,” Amaya said softly. “She protected the rest of us.”

Spooner added, “And Sara didn’t let her stay down alone.”

“I just hope they haven’t gotten themselves caught,” Astra said.

“They haven’t,” Nora said, with quiet certainty.

The team moved on, the farmhouse now somewhere ahead in the woods.

No one said it, but they all knew:

If Ava and Sara weren’t at that farmhouse… the odds of finding them again dropped to near zero.

But for now, they had hope.

And weapons.

And a plan.

12:08 hours – Ridgeline Overlooking the Farmhouse

Astra dropped to her belly and motioned the others to do the same.

One by one, they crept to the edge of the ridge, foliage dense enough to cover their forms but sparse enough to offer a grim, clear view of the scene below.

The farmhouse.

And a Nazi encampment swarming around it like hornets.

Six trucks were parked haphazardly in the muddy yard, their black crosses unmistakable. A large field radio had been set up near a burned-out cart, and a white-canvas command tent flapped near the tree line. A half-dozen soldiers milled about—smoking, barking orders, checking weapons. Another squad jogged in from the road with what looked like supply crates.

Spooner exhaled through her teeth. “Well, this got complicated.”

“Why are they still here?” Mona asked, voice barely above a breath.

“They’re using the crash as justification to dig in,” Gideon murmured, pulling out a small pair of field binoculars. “If this area was soft-patrolled before, they’ll fortify now. Ava and Sara stirred the hornet’s nest.”

Nora pointed silently.

Two soldiers entered the farmhouse. Another exited not long after, shaking his head at the one posted outside. There was no urgency. No signs of prisoners. Just rotation.

“They’ve been through it already,” Amaya said. “No longer searching. Just camping.”

“Which means,” Zari added, “they don’t think anyone’s still inside.”

“But someone is,” Gideon said. “Look there—back window.”

They all squinted. A flicker of movement—a curtain drawn back and quickly closed.

Zari swore under her breath. “That’s Ava. That has to be Ava.”

“Too disciplined to peek twice,” Spooner muttered. “That’s her.”

“Then Sara’s with her,” Amaya added.

Astra rolled onto her back, scanning the tree canopy. “We don’t have air support. And we don’t have the numbers to take them head-on.”

“No frontal assault,” Amaya agreed. “We’d get slaughtered.”

Gideon traced a new path on the map. “There’s a drainage culvert running behind the property. If they’re hiding in the root cellar, we might be able to breach from underground. But it’s narrow—single file, at best.”

“So what’s the play?” Zari asked.

Astra didn’t look away from the farmhouse. “Patience. Shadow them. Wait for the right moment. We’ll get them out.”

Nora spoke, low and steady. “We’re not leaving without them.”

Spooner cocked her pistol with a familiar click. “Then let’s get comfortable. The devils came to the door—now we wait for it to open.”

12:12 hours – Root Cellar, Occupied Farmhouse

The floorboards above them creaked again.

Ava’s hand slid instinctively to the sidearm resting across her thigh. She didn’t need to glance at Sara to know she was doing the same.

They had stopped counting the enemy footsteps hours ago.

They’d heard boots enter. Leave. Return. Laugh. Shout. At one point, someone had urinated against the wall outside their hiding place. The stench still lingered near the trapdoor.

Their breath came quieter now. Slower. Tuned to survival.

Sara crouched at the base of the ladder, her ear pressed to the wood. She shifted, barely a sound, then turned toward Ava, who leaned against the stone wall, leg stretched out stiff with the splint still secured.

“They’re setting up camp,” Sara whispered. “I counted at least three new pairs of boots in the last hour.”

Ava’s jaw clenched. “We’re running out of time.”

Sara gave her a look. “We ran out two days ago.”

“I can’t run on this leg.”

“Then we crawl.”

Ava let out a slow breath through her nose, the only sign of how much pain she was really in. “You should’ve left me.”

Sara didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Instead, she shifted to the edge of the cellar where the sliver of light came through the narrow stone window. She knelt, careful not to disturb the dust or draw attention from the outside, and peeked through.

Movement. Uniforms. Black trucks. The red-and-white of the swastika flag flapping in the wind.

“They’ve fortified the perimeter. Looks like a command tent out there.”

“Lovely,” Ava muttered.

Sara kept watching. “No signs they’ve found the hatch. But if they do—”

“We don’t get taken alive.”

Sara didn’t flinch. “We won’t.”

Another silence fell.

Then Ava shifted, the strain of movement clear in the tight lines around her mouth. “What are you seeing?”

Sara didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Cloud movement. Birds shifted northeast. Something startled them.”

Ava sat up straighter, pulse quickening. “Recon?”

Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”

They locked eyes across the gloom of the cellar.

Hope—dangerous, fragile—hung between them.

“If it is…” Sara said, almost to herself, “they’re gonna need one hell of a plan.”

Ava cracked a mirthless smile. “They’ve got Zari. She probably built one while throwing up.”

Sara snorted quietly. “She’s gonna kill me when we get back.”

“If we get back,” Ava corrected.

Sara’s hand drifted briefly over her jacket pocket—over a worn photograph folded flat and creased with time. “We will.”

Outside, boots crunched. Voices barked orders. A shadow passed the window again.

The storm hadn’t passed.

It had simply gathered at their doorstep.

16:40 hours – Woods Overlooking Occupied Farmhouse

They lay flat under a mess of thornbrush and pine, hidden by camouflage netting they'd scrounged from the bomber. From their vantage, the farmhouse was a smudge of tan stone and smoke, surrounded by the rhythmic patrols of Nazi boots and the sputtering murmur of idling engines.

“I say we storm the place,” Spooner muttered, eyeing the guards through her scope. “Quick and loud.”

“And die quick and loud?” Astra replied, unimpressed. “Hard pass.”

“We need cover of darkness,” Amaya said, voice steady. “Sara knows how to survive in shadows. She’ll keep Ava hidden. But we’ll never get in clean during daylight.”

Gideon agreed, fingers already sketching rough timings in her notebook. “We’ll lose two, maybe three more hours of daylight. After that, they won’t see us coming.”

Nora shifted to look at the others. “What if they move out before then?”

“They won’t,” Amaya said. “They’re dug in for now.”

Spooner shook her head. “Still too many unknowns.”

Zari, lying on her side with one arm slung over her eyes, finally spoke up.

“I could make a truck explode.”

Everyone turned.

“You what now?” Mona asked.

Zari peeled her arm back, blinking up at the leaves above. “If I can get down there... ten minutes, give or take. I get under one of those trucks, pull the pressure hose on the fuel intake, maybe reroute a spark from the battery fuse… boom.”

“You’d be in the camp,” Gideon pointed out, gently. “With guards.”

“Yeah, but they won’t be expecting a mechanic crawling around. I look like I belong with a wrench in my hand.”

“She’s not wrong,” Astra admitted.

Spooner narrowed her eyes. “That’s assuming you don’t get shot on sight.”

“I won’t,” Zari said. “Because you’ll all be watching for the signal. When it goes up? Chaos. Confusion. You slip in, grab Ava and Sara, and we vanish back into the woods.”

“Zari…” Amaya started.

But Zari shook her head. “They jumped for each other. I can crawl under a truck.”

The silence that followed was thick with admiration and dread.

Finally, Gideon spoke. “We’ll need exact timing. Communication. Backup in case something goes wrong.”

“Which it will,” Astra said dryly.

Spooner grinned. “Yeah, but it’ll be our kind of wrong.”

Nora said simply, “Let’s make it count.”

They leaned in together, marking the plan in pine needles and whispers. The light was fading. The danger was rising.

But the resolve?

It had never burned brighter.

Chapter Text

20:11 hours – Root Cellar, Occupied Farmhouse

The air had gone still.

Not quiet. The world above was never quiet—not with boots shuffling on creaky floorboards, or the occasional snap of a twig from the patrols outside. But still. Like the farmhouse itself was holding its breath.

Ava shifted, adjusting the pressure on her wrapped leg with a soft grunt. The movement drew Sara’s attention, even though she was already watching. Her pistol sat idle in her lap now, cleaning forgotten.

Ava caught her staring. “Something on my face?”

Sara shrugged. “Not that you’d let it show.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, then Ava spoke again—low, even, like the thought had been eating at her for hours.

“You never told me why.”

Sara blinked. “Why what?”

Ava’s eyes didn’t move. “Why you jumped.”

Sara’s jaw twitched. “Because you would’ve died.”

“You didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.”

“You needed backup.”

Ava leaned back against the stone wall, head tipping just slightly. “No one else would’ve done that.”

Sara gave a soft scoff. “You think too highly of me.”

“I don’t think highly of anyone,” Ava said. “Which is why I’m asking.”

Sara opened her mouth, then shut it again. She looked toward the narrow shaft of moonlight cutting through the cellar’s tiny window.

She finally said, “Because I couldn’t stand the idea of you alone out here.”

“That’s not a mission reason.”

“No,” Sara agreed, voice quieter now. “It’s not.”

She shifted, the leather of her jacket creaking in the dark. “I’ve done things like this before. Been behind enemy lines. Hid in worse places than this. But I’ve never done it for someone I barely knew.”

Ava turned her head. “So why me?”

Sara didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was softer. Honest.

“Because you’re infuriating. You don’t bend, don’t blink. And because somewhere between all that ice and control is someone who’s carrying more than she lets on.” She met Ava’s eyes. “And I wanted to see what happens when someone shows up for her.”

Ava stared.

Sara added, almost playfully, “Also… there’s a rumor going around that I have a type.”

“Oh?”

“Emotionally unavailable, emotionally repressed… lethal when annoyed.”

“That tracks.”

Sara leaned forward slightly. “You’re angry with me. I can see it. But you’re not pushing me away. Not like the others.”

Ava’s jaw clenched. “You didn’t give me time to.”

“Didn’t think I had time,” Sara murmured. “I thought… if I waited even five minutes to jump after you, it would’ve been too late.”

Ava didn’t reply right away.

Then: “That’s a reckless way to show interest.”

Sara gave a quiet smile. “I don’t really do subtle.”

Ava held her gaze, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You realize this doesn’t change anything.”

Sara nodded. “Wasn’t trying to change you.”

“Then what were you trying to do?”

“I was trying,” Sara said, “to keep you alive.”

And for a moment—just a moment—the ice cracked.

Not much. But enough.

Outside, the breeze shifted again. A distant voice barked something in German. Footsteps passed above.

Sara leaned back into the shadows, tension coiled in her frame.

Ava watched her.

And said, very quietly, “You’re still out of your damn mind.”

Sara smirked. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

21:03 hours – Edge of the Encampment, Resistance-Held Forest Line

The night air was heavy with tension—and exhaust fumes.

Zari crouched in the shadows, a spanner in one hand, grease already smeared along her sleeve. Her dark cap was pulled low over her brow, and she wore a drab mechanic’s coat swiped from a Resistance outpost—slightly oversized, reeking of old fuel, but it would pass at a glance.

She could hear them.

German voices laughing near a campfire.

A soldier shouting something about rations. Another yelling about a missing boot.

“Idiots,” she muttered under her breath, checking the straps on her small toolkit. “You’re guarding the sharpest woman I know, and you're worried about shoes.”

Behind her in the treeline, Amaya and Spooner lay belly-down, watching her go. Spooner had one hand on her pistol. Amaya’s fingers rested over a sketch of the farmhouse, her lips moving silently in what looked like a prayer.

Zari didn’t look back.

She crept forward—low and smooth—using the tall grass and parked trucks as cover.

The second vehicle was the one she wanted: a Panzer utility transport with an exposed undercarriage and the perfect spot to cause a controlled, flashy, tire-shredding explosion.

She slid underneath like she was born for it.

Once hidden beneath the belly of the truck, she worked fast—her breathing slow, hands steady. Disconnect the regulator hose. Strip the insulation near the battery line. Jam the pressure-release valve half-open.

“Easy,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve done worse. You rebuilt a Spitfire engine with duct tape and a prayer. You can blow up a truck.”

Something thudded nearby.

A boot.

Close.

She froze.

The soldier was pacing just a few feet from the truck. She heard the scrape of a lighter. The hiss of a cigarette.

Zari held her breath. Her fingers didn’t stop.

Ten more seconds.

The fuse wire clicked into place, tucked neatly beside the manifold.

Five more.

She jammed the final connection and set the makeshift timer—a tiny spark delay that would give her exactly two minutes to clear the blast radius.

Then she slid back out, boots low, body pressed tight to the frame.

She moved without breathing, crawling through mud, keeping to shadows, until the woods were within reach again.

Spooner’s voice whispered through the darkness. “Z, you copy?”

She reached the brush line, rolling behind a fallen log. “It’s live. Two minutes.”

They scattered. Gideon started counting. Nora covered their retreat with a rifle poised on the ridge. Amaya touched Zari’s shoulder once, briefly, as if to say good work—then turned toward the farmhouse.

Behind them, the quiet night grew charged with tension.

And then—

BOOM.

The truck erupted in a bloom of fire and shrapnel, the sound ripping through the woods like thunder.

Shouts erupted. Orders barked in German. Floodlights swung wildly across the clearing.

From the cellar beneath the farmhouse, Ava and Sara felt the world above them tremble.

Sara grabbed her sidearm. Ava tightened her grip on the knife at her hip.

Whatever was happening…

…it had begun.

21:07 hours – Root Cellar, Occupied Farmhouse

The earth shook.

Not much—but enough to rain a dusting of grit from the cellar beams. Ava jerked upright, instinct already flaring behind her eyes. Sara was faster. She was on her feet, weapon raised toward the trapdoor, scanning for the source.

“What the hell—?” Ava breathed.

Another shout from outside. Barked orders in German. The rumble of confused boots. Then the pop-hiss of flames.

Sara leaned to the tiny cellar window, her eyes narrowing. “Something exploded. One of their trucks.”

Ava shifted, pain lighting up her leg. “They wouldn’t blow their own equipment.”

“No,” Sara said slowly. “But Zari might.”

That brought Ava up short.

Sara was already moving—rechecking the rounds in her pistol, slipping her jacket over her shoulders. She glanced down at Ava. “Think you can walk?”

“I can move,” Ava muttered, bracing herself against the wall.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Ava met her eyes. “I’ll manage.”

Sara knelt beside her, one hand brushing lightly over her splint. “Good. Because this? This is our window.”

21:07 hours – Treeline Near the Farmhouse

Spooner surged forward, Astra flanking her left, rifle raised and jaw set. Gideon and Nora held back just enough to give cover, while Mona kept her eyes peeled for any stragglers moving toward the fire.

Smoke choked the clearing. Two soldiers screamed near the blaze. Others fanned out in confusion, weapons half-raised, unsure where to point them.

“Straight to the cellar,” Amaya said, ducking behind a fence post. “We grab them and go.”

“I’ve got movement at the west side,” Gideon whispered through the comm. “They’re circling.”

“Give us three minutes,” Astra replied.

Zari was right behind them, still catching her breath from the sprint back up the hill. “Please tell me someone got a picture of that fireball.”

“No time for scrapbooking, Tomaz,” Spooner grunted.

They reached the outer wall of the farmhouse, slipping between shadows. Astra pressed her back to the stone near the root cellar entrance.

Mona looked to her. “Ready?”

“Always.”

Astra yanked the trapdoor open.

21:10 hours – Root Cellar, Occupied Farmhouse

It was surreal—hearing boots above them, but not the enemy's.

Sara aimed her weapon up, but froze when she heard the whisper:

“Canary?”

Sara blinked.

“Astra?” she called softly.

A second later, Astra’s face appeared at the top of the ladder, eyes sharp and mouth pulled into the barest grin.

“Took your damn time,” Sara said.

“You’re welcome,” Astra replied. “We’re not dying for you… flirt later.”

Ava was already halfway to her feet, gripping Sara’s arm for balance.

When Astra saw her, something flickered across her face. Not surprise. Not exactly relief.

Just—urgency.

“We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reorganize,” Astra said.

Sara helped Ava up the last rung with a grunt. “Then let’s move.”

As they emerged into the smoke-hazed night, the two crews reunited in swift, efficient movements. Nora took Ava’s other arm. Gideon offered a painkiller and a canteen without a word. Zari mouthed “told you so” at Ava as they limped past, but her grin was half-reverent.

Mona watched Sara and Ava with wide eyes. “You two good?”

Sara didn’t answer. She just nodded once, clipped and focused.

But her hand remained on Ava’s arm longer than it needed to.

21:26 hours – Outskirts of the Encampment, Northern Woodline

The forest swallowed them.

One by one, they slipped into the cover of the trees—Sara and Ava in the middle of the formation, bracketed by Nora and Amaya, with Spooner and Astra on point. Zari brought up the rear, keeping low and checking for tracks.

The air reeked of fuel and distant fire. Somewhere behind them, the camp still shouted in chaos. But it wouldn’t last.

“They’ll start patrols within fifteen minutes,” Gideon said softly, pacing beside Spooner, eyes scanning left to right. “Standard sweep pattern, expanding outward. That gives us a window to clear the woods and make it to the airstrip.”

“Assuming they don’t have dogs,” Spooner muttered.

“They don’t,” Zari said confidently. “I checked the cages near the mess tent.”

“You checked—?”

“Can we not do this now?” Astra snapped.

Sara adjusted her grip under Ava’s arm. “Just tell me how far.”

“Three klicks,” Amaya said, voice like steel. “Low trail. Muddy, but not watched.”

Nora turned. “We stick to the streambed?”

Amaya nodded. “Won’t leave tracks.”

Spooner gestured to the left. “Then we stay river-bound and silent. No footsteps, no sound. Just ghosts.”

21:38 hours – Streambed Trail

They moved like shadows, boots half-submerged in the slow-moving water. Ava gritted her teeth against every jolt to her injured leg, sweat beading along her brow despite the night air. Sara never let go—her pace adjusted to match Ava’s exactly.

“You okay?” Sara asked under her breath.

Ava didn’t answer.

Sara pressed anyway. “You fall, I’m carrying you.”

“I don’t fall,” Ava muttered.

Zari, a few steps ahead, turned just enough to smirk over her shoulder. “That’s Captain Doom for ‘thanks, I’m fine.’”

“Noted,” Gideon said.

21:52 hours – Edge of the Resistance Airstrip

The bomber was in sight. Camouflaged, prepped, and blessedly real.

Zari nearly cried when she saw it.

A few Resistance fighters waved them in from the tree line, weapons slung but eyes sharp. The path was clear. For a moment, it felt like relief.

Until a sharp whistle split the air.

A shout.

Then—gunfire.

“DOWN!” Spooner yelled.

Rifles cracked behind them. The underbrush lit up in muzzle flashes. A Nazi patrol—ten strong—had flanked the tree line.

“Ambush!” Astra snapped, dropping to one knee and firing back.

Spooner lit up her sidearm, already barking targets. “Two by the fuel drum! One’s reloading!”

Sara pulled Ava behind a crate near the bomber’s ramp, shielding her with her body as bullets pinged off metal. “Stay down!”

“I’m fine—” Ava started, wincing from her leg.

“Humor me,” Sara hissed, returning fire with two sharp shots over the crate.

Gideon crouched low, grabbing Mona and shoving her toward the rear hatch. “Get inside! Prep engines!”

Zari ducked behind a wheel strut, fumbling for her pistol. “Of course they show up now—of course!”

Amaya and Nora moved like synchronized fury, picking off targets as the Resistance fighters returned fire. One fell, hit in the shoulder—but the rest held firm.

“Three more on the left!” Nora called.

“I’ve got them!” Spooner growled.

The firefight surged. Trees splintered. Smoke rose from a second fuel drum that caught a bullet and ignited, casting flickering light over the clearing.

Ava, still half-covered by Sara, dragged her own sidearm out. “Give me a line of sight.”

Sara looked at her, then shifted just enough for Ava to squeeze two shots past her shoulder.

Both hit.

“Remind me never to underestimate you,” Sara muttered.

“You already do,” Ava said, calm as ever—except for the slight tremble in her hand.

“Resistance!” Amaya called. “Push right flank!”

With a sudden burst of return fire and an improvised smoke grenade from Zari’s kit, the crew gained the upper hand. One final push cleared the edge of the trees.

“MOVE!” Astra shouted. “Everybody inside! Now!”

Sara helped Ava up the ramp just as Spooner laid down covering fire. Mona slammed the rear hatch shut behind them, out of breath, cheeks streaked with ash.

“Engines hot!” Gideon yelled from the cockpit.

“Go!” Sara barked.

The bomber roared to life. The Resistance fighters peeled away into the forest. The wheels kicked up dirt as the plane surged forward down the makeshift runway, bullets still chasing them as they climbed into the sky.

Only when the clouds swallowed them did the crew finally breathe.

In the quiet hum of the cabin, Nora whispered, “We made it.”

Zari dropped onto a crate, heart racing. “Barely.”

Sara turned to check on Ava—blood smeared on her sleeve, hair damp, eyes still sharp despite it all.

“You good?” she asked.

Ava nodded once. “Let’s never do that again.”

Sara gave a breathless laugh. “No promises.”

And then her knees gave out.

The smile vanished. Her body slumped.

“Sara—!” Ava lunged forward, catching her just before she hit the floor, easing her down with one arm braced behind her back.

That’s when she saw it.

Blood—dark and steady—dripping from the hemline of Sara’s shirt, soaking into her waistband, now smeared across Ava’s glove.

“Medic!” Ava shouted, voice cracking through the quiet.

The rest of the crew turned in a flash. Nora and Amaya were at her side immediately. Gideon left the controls to Mona, dashing down the length of the cabin with a first aid kit already in hand.

“She’s been hit,” Ava said, pressing both hands to the wound just below Sara’s ribs. “She didn’t say—she didn’t say anything.”

“She probably didn’t know how bad it was,” Gideon said, kneeling beside her, already cutting away the fabric.

“She kept going,” Ava whispered, eyes locked on Sara’s pale face. “She got me out… and then this…”

“She’ll be okay,” Amaya said, forcing calm into her voice. “She has to be.”

Spooner hovered behind them, jaw clenched. Zari sat frozen, hands fisted around the edge of the crate. Astra leaned on the bulkhead, quiet.

“She jumped out of a plane for you,” Nora murmured. “Of course she wasn’t going to say she was hurt.”

Ava didn’t answer. She just kept pressure on the wound.

Sara’s head lolled, then stirred faintly. Her lips parted, whispering something almost too soft to catch.

“… you… called me Sara…”

And then she slipped under again.

22:14 hours – In Transit, Resistance Bomber En Route to Allied Base

The cabin throbbed with engine noise and tension.

Medical gauze soaked red. Empty morphine ampoules rolled gently across the floor with every turbulence bump. Sara lay still on the bench, her shirt half open, a pressure wrap bound tight around her ribs. Her face was pale, lips tinged gray-blue at the corners, jaw slack in unconsciousness.

Ava hadn’t moved.

She sat beside her, one gloved hand braced on the edge of the bench, the other resting—unwillingly—against Sara’s shoulder. Her knuckles were white. Her jaw set so tight it hurt.

She hated this.

Not the blood. Not the risk. She’d signed up for both.

She hated the feeling.

She hated how seeing Sara fall had knocked the air from her lungs.

Hated how her first thought hadn’t been tactical—it had been No. Not her. Not now.

She hadn’t felt this helpless since—

Ava squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t go there.

Sara shifted slightly in her sleep. A pained breath escaped her lips, and Ava’s grip on her shoulder instinctively tightened, trying to ground her.

Zari sat across from them, arms folded, watching silently.

“You should get some rest,” she said gently.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Zari replied. “But okay.”

Ava didn’t answer.

She looked down at Sara again.

“You’re reckless,” she muttered. “You jump out of planes, run into bullets, mouth off to captains, and act like none of it matters.”

No response. Of course not.

Ava leaned closer, voice low and sharp now. “But it matters. Damn it, it matters.”

She wasn’t sure who she was angrier at.

At herself—for letting Sara in.

At Sara—for forcing her way in.

At the universe—for what it always did when Ava let herself feel anything.

Her voice was quieter now. Hoarse.

“You weren’t supposed to mean anything. You were just supposed to be another assignment. Another temporary.”

Sara didn’t stir.

“You weren’t supposed to matter,” Ava whispered.

And yet her hand didn’t move from Sara’s shoulder. Not even when Zari quietly passed her a canteen. Not even when Gideon came by to check Sara’s vitals again.

Outside, the stars wheeled over the clouds. Inside, the bomber kept flying east—toward base. Toward hope. Toward whatever came next.

Ava just sat there, furious with herself for hoping.

Chapter Text

23:06 hours – Allied Base, Runway 3

The wheels screeched against the tarmac, jolting the bomber’s battered frame as it touched down. The plane taxied roughly toward the waiting med team, its engines coughing smoke and heat into the night.

Floodlights cut across the scene, throwing long shadows across the cracked pavement. Sirens flickered faint red as medics rushed in, stretchers waiting just beyond the loading ramp.

Inside, the crew barely spoke.

Spooner stood by the rear hatch, ready to open it. Gideon paced quietly, reciting Sara’s vitals. Amaya wiped the blood from her hands. Zari said nothing at all.

And Ava—

Ava stayed seated beside Sara, her expression hard again. The lines of worry had vanished from her brow, replaced by something cold. Familiar. Untouchable.

The second the hatch dropped, the medics surged forward.

“She’s stable but low on blood,” Gideon reported calmly, stepping aside. “Morphine administered at 22:19. GSW to lower left quadrant—”

They were already lifting Sara onto a stretcher.

Ava didn’t help.

She didn’t move.

She just stood back and watched.

One of the medics glanced at her. “You coming?”

Ava’s voice was ice. “No.”

The medic blinked, then nodded and turned away.

They wheeled Sara across the tarmac, her blonde hair streaked with sweat and ash, lips pale, chest barely rising. The team followed in a quiet cluster—Mona’s hand clutched tight in Nora’s, Amaya trailing close behind, Spooner’s fists tight at her sides.

Zari looked back once, waiting.

Ava didn’t meet her eyes.

She turned and walked the other way.

Not toward the med tent. Not toward her quarters. Just—away.

Boots echoing on concrete. Spine ramrod straight. Face unreadable.

The lights of the base glowed behind her, catching only the edges of her silhouette.

And just like that, Captain Doom returned.

23:18 hours – Allied Base, Outer Airstrip

The air bit colder out here.

Ava walked past the last row of hangars, where the runway lights faded and the gravel gave under her boots. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t need to. Forward was enough.

The ache had settled just beneath her ribs. Not from her leg. Not from the mission.

From her.

From whatever had cracked open the moment Sara dropped into that field. The moment she’d looked up and seen that damn bomber circling like an angel of chaos. The moment Sara had collapsed in her arms.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

Ava clenched her jaw, fists tight in the pockets of her flight jacket. Every step farther from the lights behind her made it easier to breathe. A little.

The world was easier at arm’s length.

Easier when she didn’t have to feel the warm weight of someone’s shoulder against hers. Or remember how it had felt to sit there in the cabin, watching the pulse at Sara’s throat and begging—silently—for it to keep going.

She stopped by a row of abandoned oil drums, shadows stretching long in the moonlight. Her breath steamed.

She pulled off one glove and pressed a hand to her stomach.

The ache was still there.

It didn’t throb. Didn’t sting. It just sat in her, a heavy thing. A real thing.

A thing she hated.

She dropped onto an overturned crate and stared up at the stars, blinking hard.

They shouldn’t have sent Sara. Anyone else. Any other pilot.

No one else would’ve jumped.

No one else would’ve looked her in the eye and said, “You're too damn good to die in a field like that.”

Ava swallowed against the burn in her throat.

She hated that Sara had jumped.

Hated that she’d meant what she said.

And more than anything—Ava hated that she’d believed her.

Because now there was no going back. No clean line between professional and personal. Between safe and dangerous.

Now there was a girl bleeding out on a stretcher with a half-smile and a death wish—and Ava’s whole body felt like it was still falling through the sky.

She exhaled slowly.

And locked the ache away.

One wall at a time.

23:34 hours – Base Infirmary, Recovery Wing

The med tent buzzed low with generator hums and clipped conversation. Rows of cots lined the canvas walls, but one had more visitors than the rest.

Sara Lance lay motionless, color slowly returning to her face under the dim fluorescents. Her bandage had been changed twice. IVs pumped in slow, steady rhythm. A heart monitor beeped just above a whisper.

The rest of the bomber crew had gone quiet.

Mona sat cross-legged at the foot of the cot, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her boots were still muddy, and her hands shook every few minutes—she just kept stuffing them in her jacket pockets, hoping no one noticed.

Spooner paced.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“You’re going to wear a groove,” Astra said, arms folded, perched on a chair that looked like it might snap under her.

Spooner paused. “Then maybe someone will notice.”

Nora looked up from where she was braiding and unbraiding the same piece of twine. “People noticed. That’s why we’re here.”

Amaya sat nearest to Sara’s left hand, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. “She’s stable,” she said quietly. “But that was too close.”

“She didn’t even tell us,” Gideon added, voice strained. “She was bleeding the whole flight.”

“She told Ava,” Mona murmured.

That earned a few glances.

“She didn’t,” Gideon corrected gently.

“Still…” Mona hugged her knees. “Captain Doom didn’t leave her side.”

That name made Astra snort softly.

“Yeah,” Spooner said. “And then she did.”

Silence hung there like smoke.

No one said what they were thinking—that Ava Sharpe had turned cold again, that she’d vanished the second Sara was safe. That it hurt to watch it happen.

The monitor beeped again.

Then Sara moved.

Just a twitch—one hand tightening slightly in Amaya’s. A shallow breath. Her brow furrowing.

“Sara?” Amaya leaned in. “Hey. You with us?”

A faint groan. Her lips parted.

A beat.

Then: “...tell Doom I’m not dead yet.”

Half the crew exhaled at once.

Spooner collapsed into a chair. Nora cracked a smile. Gideon clutched the rail of the bed like a lifeline.

“She really doesn’t know how to quit,” Astra muttered—but there was pride in it, too.

Sara’s eyes blinked open, barely slits.

“Water?” she rasped.

Mona scrambled up. “On it!”

Amaya brushed a bit of hair back from Sara’s forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Did I win?” Sara murmured, half-lucid.

Gideon tilted her head. “Define ‘win.’”

“I found her,” Sara whispered. “She’s fine. That’s enough.”

And then her eyes fluttered closed again, not from pain—but rest.

For the first time in hours, the crew let themselves believe she might actually be okay.

08:02 hours – Hangar 2, Allied Base

The morning fog clung low to the ground as Zari and Nate crossed the airstrip. Inside Hangar 2, a single Spitfire sat fueled and ready, the metallic gleam of morning sun catching its wing.

Ava was already climbing the short ladder to the cockpit, clipboard tucked under her arm, gear bag half-strapped to her back. Her gait was off—barely noticeable if you didn’t know her. But Nate and Zari did.

Every third step came with the faintest limp.

Zari didn’t waste time. “You’re leaving?”

Ava didn’t look down. “Repair run. Ferrying a bird to Northolt. Wiring fix. Should be a few hours.”

“This morning?” Nate asked. “Right now?”

“That’s usually how flights work.”

Zari stepped closer. “You heard she’s awake.”

Ava paused—just for half a beat—before tightening a strap on her bag. “She doesn’t need me.”

“You sat with her the entire flight back,” Zari said, voice sharper now. “And now you’re going radio silent?”

“It’s not radio silence. It’s a flight assignment.”

Nate frowned. “Is your leg even cleared for that?”

“Minimal strain. It’s just a ferry job.”

Zari stepped into her path. “You’re running.”

Ava’s mouth twitched. “It’s a straight shot east. Hardly evasive.”

“You’re not mad at her,” Nate said. “You’re mad because she means something now. And that terrifies you.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. She moved around them both, slower than usual but still steady.

“She jumped into enemy territory,” Zari said, following. “She nearly died for you. And now you’re pretending none of it mattered?”

“I didn’t ask her to come.”

“But you wanted her to.”

That stopped Ava—just for a moment.

She turned back toward the plane, voice even, distant. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted. She’s safe. That’s all that counts.”

Nate looked at the limp again, quiet for a second. “Then why does it still look like you’re hurting?”

Ava didn’t answer. She climbed into the cockpit, one leg favoring the other. The engine sputtered, then caught with a familiar roar.

Zari stepped back, arms folded, watching the Spitfire taxi toward the runway. Her expression was unreadable.

“She’s not running from us,” she said finally.

Nate shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “No?”

“She’s running from herself.”

The plane turned at the edge of the strip, engines revving, wheels just lifting as it took off into the fog.

Nate tilted his head. “You ever seen her this messed up?”

“She broke her nose once trying to headbutt a door during a training sim,” Zari offered. “Didn’t blink.”

“Okay, but emotionally messed up.”

Zari blew out a breath. “First time for everything.”

Nate gave a low whistle. “So what—you think she’s in love with her?”

Zari snorted. “Please. This is Ava. She probably hasn’t even admitted to herself that she likes her.”

Nate grinned. “Right. The emotional awareness of a brick wall.”

“Correction,” Zari said. “A heavily armored, emotionally repressed fighter pilot brick wall.”

“Who’s currently flying away from her problems.”

“Classic Doom.”

Nate looked up at the thinning cloud trail behind the Spitfire. “Should we tell Sara?”

Zari shook her head. “Let Ava crash into it on her own. She’s good at pulling herself out of nosedives.”

Nate arched a brow. “But what happens if she doesn’t?”

Zari’s eyes followed the plane until it vanished beyond the trees.

“Then she’s not the only one who’s gonna crash.”

Chapter Text

Day 3 – Temporary Airfield, Northern France

The repair run had turned into a three-day layover. Ava's Spitfire sat grounded, awaiting a part that had been delayed due to weather. The town was small, the kind where everyone knew each other, and Ava had spent most of her time avoiding conversation, nursing coffee in the local café, and trying not to think about Sara.

On the third morning, as she stepped into the café, the café bell jingled softly as Ava ducked inside, brushing wind from her collar. She didn’t expect much—just coffee and a quiet corner far from anything that reminded her of war, or wounded pilots, or Sara Lance’s voice in her ear.

She looked up.

And everything stopped.

Standing at the counter, uniform pressed, honey-brown hair twisted into a regulation bun, was Lieutenant Emily Carter.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Emily turned, and their eyes locked.

“…Ava?”

Ava blinked. “Emily.”

The words hung there like fog—old names, old ghosts.

Emily stepped away from the counter slowly, like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome. “I… wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Same,” Ava said. “Last I heard, you were in Hawaii.”

“Was.” Emily gestured to a nearby table. “Got reassigned last month. Transport wounded from the southern front.”

Ava hesitated, then followed her to the table.

They sat. A waitress brought two coffees without being asked. Emily stirred hers with military precision. Ava didn’t touch hers.

“Still black?” Emily asked softly.

Ava nodded. “You remembered.”

A pause.

“So,” Emily tried. “Flying Spitfires now?”

“Mostly.”

“Still running headfirst into things you can’t fix?”

Ava huffed a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “You sound like Zari when I break something.”

“You sound like you haven’t changed.”

Ava leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. “Didn’t know you were looking.”

Emily’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s the problem. No one ever really gets to look with you.”

The air between them thickened. Familiar. Unresolved.

Emily looked down at the table, then back up—more gently this time. “I heard about Charlie.”

Ava flinched, just slightly.

“Word gets around,” Emily continued, her voice quiet and careful. “Killed on a bomber run a few months back?”

Ava didn’t answer at first. Then she nodded. “Yeah. She was one of the good ones.”

“You two were close?”

“She was… a pain in the ass,” Ava said, and her voice cracked just a little. “She made fun of my flying. Called me ‘Captain Doom.’ But she was the best damn shot in the sky.”

Emily let the silence breathe for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally.

Ava nodded again, jaw clenched.

Emily’s gaze dropped briefly, then moved to Ava’s leg as she shifted in the seat. “Your leg.”

“It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine.”

“Just took a hit on a mission. Got out lucky.”

Emily’s brow creased. “Wait… you’re the same Captain Doom that went down in France? They say someone jumped into enemy territory to get you out.”

Ava hesitated. “They talk too much.”

“You didn’t answer.”

Ava’s fingers curled around her coffee cup. “Yeah. Someone jumped.”

Emily studied her. “A friend?”

“No.”

Emily raised an eyebrow.

Ava sighed. “Not exactly.”

Emily smiled faintly. “She get under your skin?”

Ava didn’t respond.

“She must mean something,” Emily continued. “To make you hesitate.”

Ava looked out the window. The wind was kicking up dust across the empty main street. “I didn’t ask her to do that.”

“But she did it anyway.”

A long beat passed.

“You don’t let people in, Ava,” Emily said softly. “You never did. But maybe that’s not because they can’t get close. Maybe it’s because when they do… it matters.”

Ava said nothing.

Emily stood, smoothing her uniform. “I’m glad you made it out. Even if it had to be someone else that pulled you back.”

Ava finally looked up. “I didn’t think I needed anyone.”

Emily tilted her head, gave her a small, knowing smile. “That was always your problem.”

She walked to the door, paused, and added without turning back: “Don’t wait until it’s too late to figure out what you actually want, Sharpe.”

The bell jingled behind her as she left.

Ava stayed at the table long after her coffee went cold.

Tarmac – Allied Airfield, Early Afternoon

The familiar growl of a Spitfire engine echoed across the base, growing louder as the single plane banked low over the runway. Zari shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting against the sun.

“That her?” Nate asked beside her, already knowing the answer.

Zari didn’t look away. “Yeah. That’s Echo.”

They both waited as Ava’s plane touched down with practiced grace—smooth, controlled, and cold. The propeller slowed, the engine coughing into silence as the aircraft rolled to a stop. Even before the wheels settled, Ava was already moving. She popped the canopy, climbed down, and landed with a stiff hop. Her limp was subtle, but it was there.

Nate stepped forward. “Long flight?”

Ava didn’t answer right away. She tugged off her gloves, shoved them in her jacket pocket, and started walking past them toward the hangar.

Zari frowned. ““You disappear for five days and don’t even bring us pastries? Rude.”

“We thought something happened.” Nate added.

“Something did,” Ava said without stopping. “Weather.”

Nate and Zari exchanged a look before jogging to catch up with her.

“You missed a lot,” Nate said. “Sara’s up. Healing.”

Ava’s only response was a nod. Not relief. Not curiosity. Just movement.

“She asked about you,” Zari added, watching closely for a reaction. “Wanted to know if you were alright.”

“I’m fine.”

Zari fell into step beside her. “You’re limping.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Like hell it is. Ava—”

“Drop it,” Ava snapped, then paused. The hangar door loomed just ahead. Her voice lowered. “I’m back. That’s all that matters.”

Nate stepped in front of her, not letting her pass. “You disappeared, Ava. After everything. You don’t get to pretend this is just another sortie.”

Ava’s eyes met his—icy and unreadable. “I do if I want to stay sane.”

There was a beat of silence before Zari said, “The bomber crew’s been worried. Amaya, Gideon, even Spooner. You could at least—”

“I don’t need more people worried about me,” Ava cut in. “I have enough ghosts. I don’t need to make more.”

Zari’s expression softened. “No one’s trying to replace Charlie.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Ava’s voice wavered, just for a second. “You think I don’t know what it feels like to let people in and then lose them?”

She looked past them, toward the edge of the runway.

“Keep your distance,” she muttered. “It’s safer that way.”

Then she walked into the hangar, the chill of her retreat leaving Zari and Nate rooted in place.

“She’s got her walls back up,” Zari said quietly.

Nate exhaled. “Yeah. And this time, I’m not sure anyone’s getting through.”

Week One

Gideon walked into the mess hall with two trays and looked around, puzzled. “She was just here. I swear I saw her five minutes ago.”

Sara blinked. “Ava?”

Gideon nodded, setting one tray down where Ava had sat—an empty seat, the coffee still warm. “She left. Didn’t even take her toast.”

Sara frowned. “She do that a lot?”

Spooner answered from a few tables down. “She’s like smoke lately. Here one second, gone the next.”

“She’s avoiding us,” Nora said flatly, not even looking up from her book.

“Not just us,” Amaya added. “Everyone. Even Zari.”

Sara’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
Week Two

In the hangar, Astra stood with a wrench in hand, eyeing Ava’s Spitfire.

“I’ve been trying to sync flight rotations for two days. She slips through the schedule like a damn shadow.”

“Maybe she’s testing the invisibility cloak,” Mona muttered.

“She’s hiding,” Kendra said, quietly.

Sara rolled her shoulder carefully, the one still stiff from the bullet wound. “She’s not hiding.”

Spooner snorted. “Then what would you call it?”

“She’s regrouping,” Sara said, a little too firmly. “She’s—processing.”

Astra shook her head. “She’s sulking with altitude.”

Week Three

Zari cornered Behrad outside the comms tent. “Have you seen her?”

Behrad looked genuinely confused. “Not since Monday. Maybe Sunday? I don't even know anymore.”

“She's avoiding you too?” Zari asked.

Behrad hesitated. “I thought it was just me.”

“It’s not,” Zari said, her voice tight. “She’s shutting everyone out. Even Nate.”

In the infirmary, later that day

Sara sat propped up in her cot, her stitches finally removed. Amaya sat beside her, flipping a pencil between her fingers.

“She won’t even make eye contact,” Sara said quietly. “I saved her life. Again. And she can’t even—”

“She’s scared,” Amaya said, calm but certain.

“Of what?”

“You.”

Sara blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You scare her,” Amaya said. “Not because you’re reckless or loud or commanding. Because you got in.”

Sara looked away.

Amaya continued, gently. “You crawled past the perimeter she’s had up for years. Charlie, war, loss—Ava’s been living in a bunker long before this base. You slipped under the door.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Sara said.

“I know,” Amaya said. “But you did. And now she’s back to boarding up the cracks.”

Sara was quiet for a long time. Then: “I hate that I miss someone who won’t even look at me.”

Mona appeared in the doorway then, chewing a cracker. “Anyone else think Captain Doom’s just emotionally constipated?”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“…What?” she said. “It’s a medical term. Probably.”

Later, nightfall

Nate stood outside the hangar, arms crossed, watching Ava’s plane gleam under the moonlight.

“She’s in there, isn’t she?” he asked quietly.

Zari nodded. “Lights flickered on ten minutes ago. Then off.”

“She’s punishing herself.”

“She’s scared,” Zari corrected.

Nate sighed. “Same thing, sometimes.”

Ava’s Room

The door slammed open.

Ava jumped, already scowling. “What the hell do you think you’re—”

“I’m done,” Sara snapped, storming into the room. “You’ve ignored everyone for weeks, avoided every meal, every meeting, every damn glance—and I’m done pretending that’s normal.”

Ava folded her arms, voice icy. “Get out of my room.”

“No,” Sara said, slamming the door shut behind her. “You don’t get to run away and hide like a damn coward.”

That landed.

Ava’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know you’ve shut out everyone who gives a damn!” Sara barked. “Zari, Nate, even Behrad. Me.”

At that, Ava moved—fast, jerking upright so suddenly her boot caught the frame of the cot. A metal clatter echoed as the small tin hidden beneath shot out, flipped open, and scattered its contents across the floor.

Sara looked down. Something slid to a stop at her boot.

A photo.

She bent down and picked it up, eyes scanning the image—five young faces in worn flight gear, caught in a rare moment of joy. Three men she didn’t recognize. Charlie, young and laughing. And Ava, grinning like she’d never lost anything in her life.

Sara blinked. “Who—”

“They’re dead,” Ava snapped.

Sara looked up.

“You wanna know who they were?” Ava growled. “My team. My crew. My whole damn world before this one. And now they’re gone. Every single one of them.”

Her voice rose as she stepped forward, daring Sara to stay. “You think I don’t have a reason to shut you all out? You think this is just some cold act for fun?”

Sara held up the photo. “Then why keep this? Why hide it?”

“Because it’s mine!” Ava shouted. “Because every time I look at it, I remember what happens when I let people in. They die. That’s what happens.”

Sara’s mouth opened, but Ava cut her off.

“You want answers? Fine. Charlie was the last of them. I watched her go down in flames. The others—missions gone wrong, flak, gunfire, bad intel. I stopped counting the funerals.”

She stepped back, breathing hard. “You wanna know why I shut you out? Because you were starting to feel like them. Like someone I couldn’t afford to lose.”

Her voice dropped, hard and sharp. “And that scared the hell out of me.”

Sara stood there, fists clenched, the photo still in her hand. The silence between them was thick and ugly.

Then Ava said, voice low and lethal: “So don’t barge into my room demanding answers like you’re entitled to them. You want a thank you for saving my life? Get in line behind the ghosts.”

Sara stared at her for a long moment, then set the photo down on Ava’s cot. Her jaw tightened.

“Fine,” she said. “You want to be alone? Mission accomplished.”

She turned on her heel and slammed the door on her way out.

Ava stood there in the wreckage of her past, her chest heaving, her hands clenched so tight her knuckles blanched white.

She didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Chapter Text

06:00 Hours, Main Briefing Hall

The briefing room buzzed with low chatter and clinking enamel mugs. Maps covered the walls. A large chalkboard displayed flight paths, targets, and squadrons scrawled in confident block letters. The air felt heavy, like it knew something was about to break.

The door opened.

Captain Sharpe entered without ceremony, her uniform crisp, her expression unreadable. She moved straight to the front, eyes scanning the board. Her name was there—but not alongside the usual suspects.

Ava Sharpe – Echo-2213
Assigned: Phoenix Crew, Bomber #3
Escort Wingman: Lt. Caldwell

Nate and Behrad exchanged a glance from their usual corner. They were listed beside Bomber #2, right under Sara’s crew.

Sara sat near the front, arms crossed, scanning the layout. When she saw Ava’s name paired with the Phoenix crew, something in her jaw tightened.

She didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Commander Blake took the podium. A weathered man with a permanent scowl and a limp from another war, he didn’t waste time.

“This is a coordinated strike against the Rouen supply line,” he began. “Primary target: German fuel depots. Secondary: communications outposts surrounding the railyard. Fighter cover will be staggered by squadron. Bombers will approach in three waves, formation spread. We want impact, not precision. Light it up.”

He tapped the board with a pointer. “Phoenix, Canary, and Viper crews—you’re wave two. Sharpe, you’re with Phoenix this round.”

Ava didn’t blink.

Blake continued, “Wingmen, stick tight. The Luftwaffe has been active along this corridor. If we get separated, we don’t regroup—we survive. You all know the rules. Hit hard. Come home.”

The room shifted with tension as assignments were confirmed. Quiet murmurs passed between familiar crews.

Only Ava stood alone, arms crossed, eyes locked on the board like it was a contract she couldn’t break.

Sara leaned over to Behrad and whispered, “Since when is she not with us?”

Behrad shrugged, but even he looked uneasy. “Command must be trying to separate the drama.”

Nate didn’t say a word. He was too busy watching Ava. The way her shoulders stayed stiff. The way she didn’t look at any of them.

As the crews stood to prep, Commander Blake added, “Takeoff’s at 0900. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Boots echoed. Crews broke into groups. Except Ava.

She moved out without a word, heading straight for the hangars.

Sara watched her go, then stood.

“You okay?” Nora asked, pulling on her jacket.

Sara’s voice was low. “Not even a little.”

06:40 Hours, Hangar 3

The Phoenix hangar was alive with movement—mechanics shouting over engines, tools clattering, boots stomping—but everything slowed when Ava walked in.

Flight cap under her arm, jaw tight, eyes forward.

Three men leaned against the undercarriage of the Phoenix bomber, coffee mugs in hand, sharing whatever smug joke had just died on their lips.

“You’re lost, sweetheart,” one of them drawled. He was wiry, with a cocky smirk and eyes that swept over Ava’s uniform like it didn’t belong.

Ava didn’t flinch. “Echo-2213. Assigned escort.”

“Escort, huh?” another chimed in, broader-shouldered, voice full of mock surprise. “Didn’t know command was handing out medals for pretty faces.”

The third, blond and chewing a toothpick, tilted his head. “Ace Sharpe, huh? Thought you’d be taller. Or maybe just meaner looking.”

Ava stepped closer, cold and measured. “You boys done measuring egos? Or should I wait while you take your shirts off and cry about it?”

That earned a sharp snort from the broad-shouldered one. “Feisty. Hope that sticks when we’re taking fire.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ava said. “You’ll have plenty of time to admire my form while I’m saving your asses.”

A clank above interrupted the standoff as boots hit the metal ladder and a fourth man descended from the bomber hatch. He wore a captain’s bar and a scowl that had seen too many bad mornings.

Captain Howland.

“What the hell’s going on?” he barked, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

“Escort’s here,” said Blondie, motioning lazily toward Ava. “Thought you said we were flying with a fighter pilot, not a—”

“She is a fighter pilot,” Howland snapped. “The best one command could spare. You got a problem with that, airman?”

The crew went quiet.

Ava kept her voice even. “I don’t need a warm welcome. Just eyes up and your formation tight.”

Howland gave her a long look, then nodded. “Good. I need people who follow orders, not ones who piss themselves when things go sideways. If she keeps us alive, I don’t give a damn what she looks like.”

He jerked a thumb toward the Spitfire at the far end of the hangar. “Your bird’s waiting, Sharpe. Preflight in ten.”

Ava didn’t wait for the snide remarks to resume. She turned on her heel and walked off, boots loud against the concrete.

Behind her, one of the airmen muttered, “Gonna be a long ride with Captain Ice Queen on our six.”

Howland barked, “Say that again and you’re off this flight.”

No one said anything else.

13:58 Hours, Skies over France

The clouds shredded around them in violent bursts of flak.

Ava’s Spitfire cut through the chaos like a blade—tight, deliberate, every movement calculated.

“Phoenix One, tighten your altitude. You’re drifting high into the kill zone,” she said into the comms, voice clipped, calm despite the storm. “Repeat, drop ten degrees and pull left.”

No response.

Below, the Phoenix bomber held its course, but its right wingman—Second Lieutenant Briggs—peeled wide, chasing something shiny. Chasing glory.

“Echo-2213 to Briggs, fall back into formation. Now.”

Still nothing. Just static and the roar of engines.

Ava cursed under her breath, looping to follow. “You’re gonna get yourself lit up—”

A puff of smoke bloomed just ahead of Briggs. A shell burst too close. His plane jerked violently.

“Jesus!” he barked over comms, finally. “Almost lost control—”

“No shit,” Ava snapped. “Stay on mission or stay behind.”

“Thought I saw a fighter on your six.”

“You didn’t. You saw a shadow.”

Another burst shook the air near the Phoenix’s underbelly.

“Command to Phoenix Escort, status?”

“Phoenix is intact,” Ava reported, flipping to evasive flight patterns. “But my wingman’s trying to solo this op.”

She pushed her Spitfire hard, looping back over the bomber to cover its blind spot.

“Briggs, stay glued or I swear I’ll shoot your tail off myself.”

He fell back in, wobbling, the arrogance bleeding out of his voice. “Copy that.”

But Ava’s blood was up now. Not fear—rage. Rage at being assigned to a crew that didn’t trust her. Rage at babysitting pilots who wouldn’t listen. Rage at herself for caring.

Her voice cut through the comms like ice. “You don’t get points for dying brave, Lieutenant. You get points for bringing your crew home.”

Captain Howland came in a second later, gruff and controlled. “Appreciate the save, Echo-2213. Stay on us.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, eyes locked on the sky ahead.

Not until this was done.

14:11 Hours, Over Occupied Territory

The clouds broke open into clear skies—and with them came hell.

Three Luftwaffe Messerschmitts dove in from the east, glinting like knives in the sun.

“Enemy fighters inbound—two o’clock high!” Ava barked, twisting her Spitfire hard to intercept. “Phoenix, stay tight. Do not break formation unless I say.”

The bomber’s formation scattered instinctively, training clashing with panic. Ava’s eyes snapped to the lead.

“Hold the line, Phoenix. We’re nearly over the target zone—fuel depot’s dead ahead.”

But her wingman, Briggs, was already spiraling away.

“Briggs! Fall back into position!” Ava shouted, watching as he banked to engage one of the Messerschmitts head-on.

“I’ve got a clear shot,” Briggs said, breathless. “I can take him—”

“That’s not your job!” Ava growled. “Your job is to keep this bomber alive long enough to drop payload!”

Ava twisted into a dive, trying to draw off the enemy plane tailing the Phoenix, while still keeping half an eye on Briggs’s reckless pursuit.

Howland’s voice crackled over the comms. “Echo, we’re off course. Navigator’s compensating but we’re drifting—”

“Because your idiot wingman is dragging you out of position,” Ava spat, jerking her stick to line up a shot. Her guns roared. One Messerschmitt veered off smoking, but not down.

“Phoenix, turn three degrees north. If we miss that depot, this whole run is wasted.”

“We can’t turn with that Luftwaffe bastard on our tail,” one of the crew shouted.

Ava’s jaw clenched. She fired again, clipped a wing—enough to scatter them for a beat.

“Echo-2213 to Briggs. You break formation again and you will be cited for insubordination. Fall. In.”

“I almost had him,” Briggs muttered.

“‘Almost’ doesn’t fill a bomb bay,” Ava snapped. “You just blew our angle.”

The Phoenix bomber was correcting course, but the depot was slipping fast out of optimal range.

“This is your last warning,” she said coldly. “We drop in thirty. If we miss, that’s on you.”

“Echo-2213,” Howland came in grimly, “we’re going manual. Target's close enough.”

Ava swept low, clearing the way with a final burst of gunfire. Flak snapped like bones around her as the Phoenix lined up.

“Drop clean,” she ordered. “Make it count.”

A moment later, the bombs fell.

The explosion lit up the ground below in a blooming wave of orange and black.

Direct hit.

Ava let out a breath—but it was brief.

“Fighters regrouping,” she said. “We’re not out yet.”

14:24 Hours, Skies Over the Drop Zone
The sky was on fire.

Smoke columns curled up from the fuel depot below, blotting the horizon in thick, angry plumes. The Phoenix bomber pulled away, tail damaged, but still flying—barely.

Ava looped back to cover them. “Phoenix, stay low and west. We’ll follow the river bend.”

But Briggs wasn’t listening. Again.

“Enemy on your six, Echo,” he called out, already pulling away to intercept.

“I see him—don’t break pattern!” Ava snapped. “We move as a unit—”

But he was gone, chasing a target too fast and too far.

The Messerschmitt behind Ava peeled in sharp—tight, aggressive, guns flashing.

“Shit—” Ava jerked hard right. Her canopy flared with sparks as tracer rounds whizzed past her wing. She felt the lurch of turbulence as something clipped her underside.

Warning lights blinked on her dash.

“I’m hit,” Ava growled, leveling out. “Minimal damage. Still flying.”

But her voice was tense. Her movements more reactive now. And the Messerschmitt wasn’t letting up.

“Briggs, get back here!” she barked.

“Almost got him!”

“You’re gonna get me killed!”

She twisted again—tight spiral, evading fire, but losing altitude fast.

The comm crackled—another voice.

“Echo-2213, this is Atlas. We’ve got eyes on you.”

Nate.

And just behind him, another Spitfire.

“Drift’s got your wing,” Behrad said. “Hang tight.”

Ava couldn’t reply—not with the sky closing in. The Messerschmitt was gaining, forcing her into a dive she couldn’t pull out of clean. Her pulse pounded.

“Drift, take high,” Nate called. “I’ll sweep his tail.”

The two Spitfires moved in unison—clean, fast, practiced. Behrad cut above Ava’s position, drawing fire. Nate came in behind the enemy like a hammer.

One clean burst—and the Messerschmitt spiraled out, trailing smoke, down for good.

Ava righted her plane, chest heaving.

“You good, Echo?” Nate asked.

“Clear,” she said, voice sharp as ever. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Behrad—Drift—said, a little breathless. “We figured you’d be too stubborn to call for help.”

“You figured right.”

A pause.

Her eyes darted back toward the bomber crew’s last known position.

Because she already knew who had sent them.

Sara.

Again.

14:51 Hours, Temporary Airfield, Northern France

The tarmac shimmered with heat and exhaust as the Phoenix bomber wheezed to a halt.

Ava landed moments later, her Spitfire rocking slightly as she taxied in, ripped wing trailing smoke.

She yanked the canopy open before the ground crew could reach her and jumped down, booted feet hitting the ground hard. Her jaw was tight, eyes burning behind her goggles.

Across the tarmac, Briggs was already out of his cockpit, casually lighting a cigarette like he hadn’t nearly gotten her killed.

Ava stormed across the open space.

“Hey!” she barked.

Briggs turned, smug. “What?”

“You disobeyed direct orders—again.”

“I did what I had to do. You were too busy micromanaging to see the opening.”

“You call that an opening?” Ava snapped. “You dragged the bomber off-course, nearly missed the drop, and left me exposed.”

Briggs took a step forward, jaw squared. “I got us back. We hit the damn target, didn’t we?”

“You got lucky. They saved us,” she hissed, pointing toward the hangar, where Drift and Nate were just dismounting. “You want a medal for almost getting everyone killed?”

Briggs sneered. “I’m not taking orders from some ice queen with a death wish.”

And that was it.

Ava didn’t think—she lunged. Shoulder first. The cigarette went flying as they crashed into each other. Fists connected. Someone shouted.

She slammed him into the side of the hangar wall. “You arrogant son of a—”

“Ava!” a voice cut through the chaos.

Sara.

Boots thundered across the concrete.

“Back off!” she ordered, grabbing Ava’s arm and yanking her away from Briggs.

He stumbled back, nose bleeding, half a grin on his face like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

Ava shook Sara off, but didn’t move toward him again.

“You should be grounded for that stunt,” Ava spat.

“File a report,” Briggs sneered. “Oh wait—no one’s gonna take your word. You’re just the decoration they added to make the numbers look better.”

Sara stepped in front of Ava, eyes narrowed. “Say that again.”

Briggs held her gaze, but something in his posture shifted.

Sara didn’t blink. “Ava Sharpe is the reason any of you got back alive. Including you.”

He scoffed. “Didn’t see her shooting down that last fighter.”

“No,” Sara said coldly. “Because she was too busy saving your ass from the one before that.”

Briggs looked between them—then spat blood, turned, and walked off without another word.

Silence lingered.

Ava stared at the ground.

Sara looked at her, voice lower now. “You okay?”

Ava didn’t answer.

“Just say thank you,” Sara added softly, almost teasing.

Ava walked past her without a word.

But her steps were slower now.

And she didn’t let go of the flight cap until she was alone.

16:10 Hours, Base Operations Office

The room smelled like paper, stress, and stale coffee.

Captain Ava Sharpe stood at parade rest, jaw locked, arms behind her back like iron. Her uniform was smudged with grease and dirt, and there was a smear of blood drying on her knuckles.

Across the desk, Commander Pierce flipped through a hastily written incident report with a disapproving sigh. A junior officer stood awkwardly to the side, not daring to breathe too loudly.

“Captain Sharpe,” Pierce said finally, setting the file down. “You want to explain why I had two of my best pilots rolling across the tarmac like drunk bar brawlers?”

Ava didn’t flinch. “Briggs disobeyed direct orders. Twice. Took the bomber off target. Nearly cost us the mission.”

Pierce rubbed his temple. “I read the flight logs. There was improvisation.”

“There was recklessness. He left the bomber exposed and almost got me shot out of the sky.”

Pierce glanced at the bruise forming on her cheek. “So you punched him?”

“I put him against a wall,” Ava said coolly. “And then I stopped. I showed more restraint than he did in the air.”

Sara stepped forward from the side of the room where she'd been leaning against a filing cabinet, arms crossed.

“She’s right,” she said, voice calm but firm. “I watched it happen. Ava kept that plane alive. He didn’t listen. And she’s the only reason they completed the run at all.”

Pierce leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know how this looks, right? You’ve got a reputation, Sharpe. And now half the Phoenix crew is convinced you’re insubordinate and unstable.”

Ava’s voice was icy. “They’re not used to being outranked by a woman.”

“That’s not in the report.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Sara arched a brow. “You want a crew that actually follows orders? Reassign her.”

Pierce frowned. “To who?”

“Put her with Canary again.”

Ava snapped her head toward Sara. “I didn’t ask for that.”

Sara shrugged. “Didn’t say you did.”

Pierce sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “You’re both impossible.”

Sara smiled faintly. “And alive.”

A long pause.

Pierce finally picked up his pen. “Briggs is grounded. You’ll get reassigned for the next sortie.”

“To who?” Ava asked, wary.

He glanced at Sara, then at Ava again. “I’ll let you know after command reviews today’s run.”

Ava turned on her heel and left without another word.

Sara lingered just a beat longer—watching.

Then followed.

16:30 Hours, Outside the Operations Office

Ava stormed down the corridor, boots hammering the concrete like gunfire. The heat in her veins had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with Sara Lance—again.

"Hey!" Sara's voice echoed behind her.

Ava didn’t stop.

“I said hey!” Sara jogged to catch up. “You gonna be pissed all day, or you want to yell it out now?”

Ava whirled around so fast Sara nearly ran into her.

“You had no right,” Ava snapped.

Sara blinked. “I had every right. You almost got killed out there—again.”

“You think that gives you the authority to dictate where I fly?” Ava’s voice was low, furious. “You think because you’ve pulled me out of the fire a few times you get to make my assignments?”

Sara’s brows lifted. “I didn’t hear you objecting last time I jumped into enemy territory to drag you back.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?” Sara stepped closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re mad I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“I don’t need saving,” Ava hissed.

Sara tilted her head. “Could’ve fooled me, Captain Doom.”

“Don’t—” Ava snapped, voice cracking on the edge of fury. “Don’t you dare pull that nickname like it means you know me.”

Sara held her ground. “Maybe I don’t. But I am the one who sees the pilot underneath all that frostbite you call a personality. You’re the best damn flyer we’ve got—and you’re going to get yourself killed if you keep letting every jackass with a bruised ego drag you off course.”

Ava flinched—barely. But it was there.

Sara’s breath caught. “You don’t care, do you?”

Still no answer.

“You really don’t,” she said again, quieter this time. “You don’t care if you come back or not.”

Ava clenched her fists, chest rising and falling fast.

“I don’t need a babysitter, and I sure as hell don’t need you making decisions for me.”

Sara’s voice dropped, softer now—but still firm. “I’m not trying to babysit you, Ava. I’m trying to trust you. But I can’t do that if you're being used as a pawn by a crew who sees you as a joke instead of the asset you are.”

Ava turned to leave again.

“You’re angry because I saw it. Because I said it out loud,” Sara called after her. “But we both know the truth.”

Ava paused—just one second, back still turned.

Then she said, voice razor-sharp, “Maybe I just don’t want to owe you anything.”

And she walked away.

Sara didn’t follow this time. She just stood there, jaw tight, watching Ava vanish again into the shadows of the hangar.

19:10 Hours – Disused Mechanics Bay, Hangar 3

The lights flickered overhead—old bulbs that hummed and cast more shadow than glow. Ava sat alone on the floor of an abandoned mechanics bay, the heavy door pulled halfway shut behind her. The walls were streaked with oil and time, and a broken radio sat dismantled on the bench nearby.

She hadn’t planned to come here. Her boots had simply taken her somewhere no one else would follow.

The cold concrete pressed against her spine as she leaned back, arms resting on her bent knees. The scent of machine grease and dust clung to the air. Comforting, in a strange, ugly way.

She ran a thumb over her bruised knuckles.

Sara knew now. She knew too much.

And still—she had defended her. Stuck her neck out. Chased after her like Ava was something worth saving.

Ava exhaled, hard.

She wasn’t angry anymore. Not at Sara. Not even at Briggs.

She was angry at herself.

For surviving. For caring. For letting someone in again after all this time—and for the jagged, pulsing fear that came with it.

The matchbook from earlier sat on the floor beside her. She struck one—just to watch the flare.

The fire danced for two heartbeats before she let it go out.

In the dark again, Ava whispered the thing she wouldn’t say out loud to anyone. Not even Zari. Not even Nate.

"Please don’t make me care."

But her voice cracked on the last word.

She stayed there until the bulb above her sputtered out, and the hangar went dark.

Chapter Text

06:05 Hours – Officers’ Barracks, Briefing Room Annex**

It was too early for chaos—which meant the crew was only mildly yelling at each other.

“Wait, hold on,” Spooner said, throwing her hands in the air. “They reassigned her permanently?”

“That’s what I heard,” Mona said, half a biscuit frozen mid-air. “Briggs got transferred to that forward base outside Metz. So when his slot opened up, they bumped Ava over full-time to Phoenix crew.”

“Phoenix?” Astra scoffed. “You mean the ‘no girls allowed unless they bring coffee and shut up’ squad?”

“Bunch of smoke-blowing, brass-polishing sky jockeys,” Spooner muttered. “Perfect fit for a cold-blooded ace like Sharpe. Except, oh wait—they hate her.”

Nora stirred her tea without looking up. “They fear her. There’s a difference.”

“She’ll eat them alive,” Amaya said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Eventually.”

Gideon blinked. “Given their previous combat record and her tactical capacity, statistically, she increases their survival chances by 42.7%.”

“Which they’ll definitely thank her for by calling her bossy behind her back,” Kendra muttered from her perch on a nearby cot. Her leg, still bound tight from the last mission, twitched irritably.

Sara sat stiffly at the edge of the table, her jaw clenched.

“She didn’t even tell us,” Mona said. “Just… left.”

“She didn’t ask for this,” Amaya said. “Command reassigned her. She just didn’t fight it.”

“Because she never fights when it comes to herself,” Sara finally snapped, louder than she meant to.

The room went quiet.

“She fights for everyone else. Risks everything. But when it’s her? She doesn’t care.”

Astra crossed her arms. “Well, no offense, but that sounds a hell of a lot like someone I know.”

Everyone looked at Sara.

“What?” she said, defensive.

“You’re both reckless,” Spooner added. “You just wear yours like a leather jacket.”

“She wears hers like a death wish,” Nora murmured.

Sara pushed up from the table and started pacing, her shoulders tight. “She’s flying with people who don’t respect her, who won’t back her if things go sideways. I’ve seen it. And Command just handed her over like a spare tire.”

“She’s still alive,” Amaya offered gently.

“For now,” Sara shot back.

Gideon flipped her clipboard up. “She statistically has better odds with us.”

“She had us,” Sara said, louder. “And she gave it up without even saying why.”

“She didn’t give anything up,” Kendra said. “She doesn’t know how to stay. She only knows how to survive.”

Everyone went quiet again.

Spooner let out a sigh. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Sara froze.

“Nope,” she said. “Not doing this.”

“Oh, you’re doing this,” Mona said with way too much joy. “You’ve got that ‘I can fix her’ energy.”

“I do not.”

“You defended her,” Gideon offered helpfully. “With extreme aggression.”

“Stop helping, Gideon.”

“You’re going to storm a command office and demand her back, aren’t you?” Amaya asked with a small smirk.

“I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure she doesn’t get herself killed flying with a pack of egos who don’t even know which end of the sky to point toward,” Sara snapped.

Spooner leaned back, smirking. “That sounded a lot like love.”

“I will throw this chair,” Sara growled.

Nora, sipping her tea, murmured, “Love makes you reckless.”

Sara turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” Kendra called after her.

“To make sure she doesn’t die,” Sara muttered.

Spooner called after her with a grin, “Make her say thank you this time!”

The door slammed shut behind her.

06:25 Hours – Command Office, Main Operations Building

Sara didn’t knock.

The door slammed against the wall as she strode in, boots biting into the tile, eyes locked like a heat-seeking missile on Major Ellis behind the desk.

Lieutenant Parker flinched. Ellis didn’t.

“Sara,” Ellis said evenly. “To what do we owe the intrusion?”

“You reassigned Ava Sharpe to Phoenix permanently.”

Ellis sighed and leaned back. “Yes. We did.”

“She belongs with Canary. You know that.”

“Sharpe is one of our best, yes. But she’s also… not exactly easy to integrate.”

“You mean she doesn’t smile when the boys ask if she’s lost.”

“We’ve received reports—”

“From Briggs?” Sara cut in, voice ice-sharp. “Because Briggs got transferred after nearly getting her killed. Or did you forget that part?”

Ellis’s expression tightened. Parker shifted in his seat.

Sara stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “We both know this was retaliation. You let Briggs save face, and stuck her somewhere quiet—except now she’s flying missions with Phoenix, who think chain of command is a polite suggestion.”

“She didn’t file a protest.”

“She doesn’t protest,” Sara said. “She disappears. You’re the ones who taught her that.”

Parker tried to ease in. “Captain Lance, even if there were an opening on your crew—”

“There is,” Sara snapped. “You think I don’t know your rosters?”

Ellis folded his hands. “Look, Sara—this isn’t your concern anymore. You’re a squad leader, not—”

“Not what?” Sara asked, quiet now. “Not MI6?”

The room froze.

Ellis’s jaw clenched.

“You really want to have this conversation?” Sara continued, calm and measured now. “Because we can. I’m sure London would love to hear why I’m risking assets on a bomber crew being mismanaged from behind a desk.”

Parker’s knuckles went white around his pen.

“I didn’t invoke that clearance when I joined this squadron,” she went on. “I wanted to serve here. On the ground. With my crew. But don’t think for a second that means I don’t still have pull. Because one call, Major—and I will make it—gets that girl reassigned to wherever the hell I want her.”

Ellis’s voice dropped. “You’re threatening me.”

“I’m protecting one of the best pilots we have. From you.”

Silence settled, thick and charged.

Parker finally spoke. “Captain Sharpe… has a record. A decorated one. But she also has a reputation.”

Sara’s eyes burned into him. “Good. Then you know exactly what she’s capable of. And exactly what a mistake it is to keep wasting her on boys who don’t think she belongs in the sky.”

Ellis exhaled through his nose. “We’ll… review her assignment.”

Sara nodded once. “You do that.”

She turned on her heel and walked out, not bothering to slam the door this time.

Because the silence behind her said everything she needed to hear.

09:40 Hours – Skies Over Southern France**

The sun glared off the nose of Ava’s Spitfire as the Phoenix formation roared across cloud-slashed skies. She flew tight on the port side of the lead bomber, engines humming with quiet tension.

It was her second mission with the all-male Phoenix crew since Briggs’ reassignment, and the novelty of flying with an ace had worn off fast.

“Echo-2213, adjust to 0-9-0 and hold position,” came the voice of Captain Harlow, the Phoenix bomber lead. Gruff. Dismissive. Always just a breath from condescending.

Ava adjusted without reply. She didn’t need to give him words—just performance. Still, it grated.

The squadron pushed toward their target—a munitions depot nestled in a narrow valley near the rail lines. Recon had warned of anti-aircraft batteries tucked in the hills, and Luftwaffe fighters known to scramble quick.

“I’ve got clouds building on the west flank,” Ava called out. “Recommend we shift elevation and split formation before the range. Limit our exposure.”

“Stick to the plan, sweetheart,” came the voice of Lieutenant Markson, her so-called wingman. “No need to get fancy. We’re not here to improvise.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. “I’m not improvising. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“No one asked you, Echo.”

She bit back the retort. Barely.

The clouds grew heavier as they approached the drop zone. Ava’s instincts lit up—wrong angles, too quiet, too clean.

“AA sites are going to open up before we drop,” she warned. “We need to alter descent.”

No response.

Then:

CRACK-BOOM.

Flak burst through the sky in angry black clouds. The Phoenix bombers jolted as the first wave ripped past their formation—close. Too close.

Ava yanked her stick hard, maneuvering between bursts. “Echo-2213 to Phoenix lead—adjust course now or we’re lighting up like parade floats.”

“Negative,” Harlow barked. “Stay in line.”

The bomb bay doors opened.

More flak. More fire.

And then—

“Fighters at three o’clock!” someone yelled over the comms.

Three Messerschmitts screamed out of the clouds like sharks drawn to blood.

Ava swung to engage. Markson broke formation—again—racing ahead to try and peel one off, completely ignoring Ava’s callout.

“You’re too far forward!” she snapped. “Fall back into coverage!”

“Relax, I’ve got it!” Markson crowed.

He didn’t.

The Messerschmitt danced behind him, forcing Ava to roll and dive to cover his blind flank. She took the shot, clipped the enemy’s wing—

—but not before a burst of tracer fire shredded past her canopy.

CRACK—

One round struck dead center, spiderwebbing the glass. Another sliced through the edge of the windshield and exploded in a shower of shards.

A jagged line of glass slashed across Ava’s forehead, just above her right brow. Blood sprang to the surface instantly, hot and fast, slipping down her temple and into her eye.

“Damn it!” she hissed, one hand coming up reflexively before jerking back to the stick. She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision as the pain flared behind her eyes.

“You’re going to get someone killed!”

“Not my fault you can’t keep up, Echo,” Markson fired back, completely oblivious to the mess he'd left in his wake.

Ava didn’t respond.

She couldn’t—not with her vision narrowing and wind tearing through the new hole in her cockpit, glass shards sparkling like snow in the sun.

“Echo-2213 is compromised!” Ava barked. “I need backup!”

A pause—

Then a blessed voice:

“Copy that, Echo. Canary crew is inbound,” came Nate’s steady voice. “Drift and I are coming in from your six.”

Ava exhaled sharp relief.

Moments later, two Spitfires streaked in on either side of her, tight and fast. Nate clipped one of the enemy fighters before it could circle back, while Drift dropped in low and scattered the second from behind.

“You guys timing these rescues for dramatic effect or what?” Ava muttered.

“Hey, we save lives with style,” Drift replied, voice light over the comms.

“You’re welcome,” Nate added.

Ava didn’t answer.

She pulled her plane back into formation, silent as stone.

Because this wasn’t a team.

This was survival.

And she was very, very tired of doing it alone.

Canary Bomber Crew

The low hum of engines filled the bomber, steady and rhythmic—until the radio chatter snapped like static in Sara’s headset.

“Damn it! You’re going to get someone killed!” Ava’s voice, sharp, pained, fraying at the edges.

A beat later:

“Not my fault you can’t keep up, Echo.”

Sara’s spine went rigid. She leaned forward in the jump seat, fingers tightening on the straps across her chest.

“That’s her,” she said aloud. “That’s Ava.”

Gideon’s brow furrowed from the navigator’s desk. “Something’s wrong.”

Amaya was already adjusting frequencies. “I’m picking up the Phoenix formation’s channel. Pulling it in now.”

CRACK—pop—hsssshhht.

A harsh sound came over the radio. Then Nate’s voice, urgent:
“Echo-2213 is compromised! I need backup—now!”

“Hell,” Spooner muttered. “What the hell happened?”

“She’s flying with Phoenix,” Sara said flatly. “What do you think happened?”

Astra scowled. “Those guys barely fly formation, much less follow command.”

Nora looked up from her station. “Do we have a visual on her?”

“Too far out,” Amaya replied. “But Nate and Drift are moving in. They’ve got her six.”

Another voice crackled over the comms—Nate again, breathing heavy:
“She’s hit. Glass is blown. Looks like blood—she’s still flying, but she’s not answering.”
Sara’s chest tightened.

“She’s still up?” Kendra asked quietly.

“For now,” Sara said. “But not for long if those bastards don’t cover her properly.”

“She’s bleeding,” Gideon said softly, voice oddly clinical but full of concern. “Facial injury. Visibility compromised.”

Sara pulled off her headset and stood. “I want eyes on her the second we land.”

“You want to land early?” Spooner asked, already gripping her sidearm like they were about to bail out mid-air.

“No,” Sara said, jaw tight. “I want the second we hit the ground to be fast. Nate and Drift have her, but if she gets in without backup—she’s not going to slow down. Or ask for help.”

“She never does,” Amaya said.

Sara looked out the window, scanning the sky ahead, but Ava’s bird was still too far to make out.

“I swear to God,” she muttered under her breath, “if she goes down again—”

She didn’t finish the thought.

But every member of the Canary crew felt it hanging in the air.

15:03 Hours – Temporary Airfield, Northern France
The Spitfires came in low and fast.

Ava’s plane touched down hard—too hard—but she wrestled the stick with one hand, the other slick with blood. The wheels slammed the earth, bouncing once before skidding into a rough stop on the far end of the tarmac. Her canopy was half-shattered, streaked with crimson and dirt.

Ground crew rushed in, but Ava was already climbing out, wincing as the wind hit her open wound. Blood still trickled from the cut above her brow, half-dried down one cheek.

She barely made it three steps before Captain Harlow stormed toward her, flanked by Markson and the rest of the Phoenix bomber crew.

“You broke formation!” Harlow shouted.

Ava stared him down, eyes cold and rimmed with red. “I saved your drop zone.”

“You disobeyed orders. Again.”

She stalked forward, closing the gap. “Because your golden boy left me exposed.”

“I didn’t need saving,” Markson said, puffing up like a rooster. “I had it handled.”

“You nearly got me killed,” Ava snapped. “You went rogue, ignored my calls, and—” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “—that round should’ve hit you.”

“You’re bleeding,” Markson said mockingly. “Maybe sit down before you faint, sweetheart.”

And just like that—Ava decked him.

A clean, sharp right hook. Markson hit the ground hard.

“Whoa, whoa!” Harlow stepped in, grabbing Ava’s shoulder.

She spun on him, eyes blazing. “You put me with a crew that ignores callouts, ignores airspace, and then have the audacity to question me?”

“You don’t make the calls here.”

“I made the right ones.”

Ava’s fists were still clenched when a voice cut through the noise:

“Back off.”

Sara’s boots hit the pavement with purpose. She was still in her flight jacket, dirt-smudged, eyes blazing. The rest of the Canary crew trailed behind her, but kept their distance.

“This isn’t your command, Lance,” Harlow barked.

“No,” Sara said, coolly. “But it will be if I make one phone call. You know who I am. You know what I did before I took a seat in a bomber. So unless you want me filing a report that includes everything I just heard over open channels, I suggest you stop trying to muscle your way through a conversation with the only reason your crew made it back today.”

Harlow stiffened.

Sara turned to Ava, voice softer. “You okay?”

Ava didn’t answer.

She just turned and walked away, blood still trickling from her temple, every step rigid with fury and pain.

Markson was still on the ground, moaning.

15:18 Hours – Edge of the Airfield
Ava stormed across the far end of the tarmac, one hand pressed to the cut above her eye, blood streaking down her temple, jaw locked tight. She didn’t care where she was going—just away. From the Phoenix crew. From Command. From the humiliation.

From Sara.

But Sara caught up anyway.

“Ava!” she called. “Damn it, Sharpe, would you stop for one second?”

No response.

So Sara grabbed her by the arm.

Ava spun around, eyes flaring with fury. “What?”

“You’re bleeding, you're limping, and you just decked your own wingman! What the hell happened up there?”

“What happened,” Ava spat, “is that you had me reassigned to a crew that doesn’t trust me, doesn’t respect me, and nearly got me killed. Again.”

Sara reeled. “Wait—what?”

“You got what you wanted,” Ava snapped, pulling away from her grip. “I’m off your crew. You can stop pretending I belong there.”

“I didn’t ask for the reassignment,” Sara said, stunned. “I fought it.”

Ava froze, the fire still burning in her eyes. “What?”

“I went to Command,” Sara said. “I demanded to have you back. After what happened on the last run—after what happened to you—I told them Phoenix wasn’t the right fit.”

Ava shook her head once, confused, off-balance.

Sara stepped in closer. “They said you needed to stay with Phoenix. That Briggs was out and you were too good not to fill the gap. I didn’t agree. I argued. Hell, I nearly pulled rank and called in favors I haven’t used since MI6 pulled me out of Warsaw.”

Ava looked away.

“And you think I wanted you gone?” Sara added. “You think I would just throw you to them like that?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ava said hoarsely.

“No, you just assume the worst of everyone the second it gets hard.” Sara’s voice dropped. “That way, no one can hurt you when they leave.”

Ava blinked, jaw tightening. “Don’t.”

“I’m not the enemy here, Ava.”

“You’re not my anything,” Ava said, voice cold, quiet.

Sara flinched. Not visibly. Just enough that Ava saw it.

A long silence.

Then Sara’s voice, low but steady: “You’re bleeding. You should get that looked at.”

She turned without waiting for a response and walked back toward the hangars.

Ava stood still in the wind, blood drying on her skin, alone again.

Chapter Text

07:43 Hours – Canary Crew Quarters

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Spooner squinted over her coffee mug. “Okay, who broke her?”

Sara sat at the small table in the corner, staring at a maintenance report she hadn’t turned a page on in twenty minutes. Her jaw was tight, her fingers clenched around her pen like it had personally offended her.

Astra didn’t look up from cleaning her sidearm. “I’d say she’s brooding.”

“She always broods,” Gideon said, sliding toast onto a plate. “This is different.”

“She’s quiet,” Nora said simply. “Not her usual calculated, confident quiet. This is… sad quiet.”

Amaya glanced over from the bunk she was straightening. “It happened after she talked to Ava.”

Kendra raised an eyebrow. “She finally confronted her?”

“Yeah,” Amaya said. “Cornered her near the tarmac. The whole crew saw them. And afterward, Sara came back looking like someone shot down the sun.”

“Okay,” Mona said, biting her lip. “But what did Ava say?”

Spooner answered without hesitation. “Bet it was cold. Like, arctic.”

Astra looked at Sara again. “She’s been off since the rescue mission. Since the reassignment. Since everything. But today? This isn’t tactical withdrawal. This is heartbreak.”

“She’s in love with her,” Gideon said softly.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “I don’t mean to speak out of turn. I just... observe patterns. She watches Ava when she’s not speaking. She reads flight logs Ava writes. She smiles when she hears her voice over the radio.”

“She hasn’t smiled in two days,” Kendra said.

“She hasn’t slept in two days,” Amaya muttered.

“Should we do something?” Mona asked, looking around like they could team-lift Sara out of her emotional spiral.

Spooner crossed her arms. “So what now? We bake her a pie and write 'Cheer up, Flygirl' on it?”

Mona snorted. “With what flour?”

“Let her be,” Astra said, slinging her jacket over one shoulder. “She’ll work it out. She always does.”

Kendra’s gaze lingered on Sara. “She hasn’t said a word about Ava since the rescue.”

“She hasn’t said much about anything,” Amaya added quietly. “I didn’t hear what was said between them, but... I saw Ava walk away. Whatever it was, it hit her hard.”

Sara still hadn’t looked up.

But her hand was clenched tight around the edge of the report, knuckles white, like she was holding herself together by the corners.

Gideon’s voice was soft. “Whatever happened… I think it mattered more than she wanted it to.”

The room went quiet again.

Outside, planes buzzed on their warm-ups. Inside, no one knew how to fix the one thing that seemed unfixable.

Sara stayed silent.

But her crew had already noticed.

08:17 Hours – Behind the Hangar
The morning chill clung to the metal siding as Sara leaned back against the hangar wall, arms crossed tight over her chest. She wasn’t on duty, but she wore her bomber jacket like armor, jaw clenched as if daring anyone to ask what was wrong.

Anyone but these two.

Amaya approached first, hands in her pockets. She said nothing at first—just leaned against the wall beside her.

Nora followed a beat later, slipping into the space on Sara’s other side. She didn’t speak either.

They stood like that for a full minute. Long enough for Sara to sigh, long enough for her shoulders to drop just slightly.

“I’m fine,” she said, without looking at them.

“No,” Amaya replied softly. “You’re not.”

Sara huffed a bitter breath. “I’m tired, not broken.”

Nora finally spoke. “Tired and broken aren’t that far apart, Sara.”

That earned her a glance.

“I just don’t get it,” Sara muttered. “I’ve been through worse. Loss, betrayal, real heartbreak. But this…”

Amaya tilted her head. “This is different.”

“She got under your skin,” Nora said.

“She got in,” Amaya corrected.

Sara stared out at the tarmac. “I didn’t ask her to.”

Amaya nodded. “No one ever does. That’s the thing about people who matter. They get in anyway.”

Sara went quiet again. Her hands flexed, fingers twitching like she wanted to fight the feeling off.

“She shut me out,” she finally said. “I pushed, and she slammed the door. Like I was the enemy. Like I didn’t—” She stopped herself. “Like I didn’t count.”

“You do,” Amaya said.

“But she can’t afford to admit it,” Nora added, voice low but steady.

Sara blinked.

Nora met her gaze. “Because if she lets herself care… she’ll lose something again. And maybe she thinks she won’t survive that.”

Sara exhaled slowly. “She said I wasn’t her anything.”

“Then why does it hurt so much?” Amaya asked gently.

Sara looked at her. For once, she didn’t have a comeback. Just pain she couldn’t hide anymore.

Nora reached out, touched her sleeve lightly. “That’s the thing about falling, Sara. You don’t always know you’re in it… until you hit the ground.”

Sara swallowed hard, looking away. “She won’t let me in.”

“No,” Amaya agreed. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to.”

09:12 Hours – Officers’ Quarters, Ava’s Barracks

Sara knocked once.

Sharp. Firm.

The kind of knock you didn’t ignore unless you were dead, or avoiding someone on purpose.

Ava didn’t answer.

So Sara opened the door.

The room was dim, the blinds half-drawn against the morning sun. Ava stood with her back to the door, hands braced on the desk like she was holding it down. Like it might fly away if she didn’t.

Sara stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

“I’m not in the mood,” Ava said flatly.

“Too bad,” Sara replied, moving in. “Because I’ve got questions.”

Ava turned slowly, expression unreadable. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“You did.” Sara’s voice stayed level. “Crystal. You’re not interested. You don’t want to care. You’ve made it your full-time job to push me away. Loud and clear.”

Ava didn’t flinch.

Sara took a breath. “But I’m not here because you hurt my feelings.”

“No?” Ava’s voice was sharp.

“I’m here,” Sara said, “because I need to know if you meant it.”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Meant what?”

“That I’m not your anything.”

Ava looked away.

Sara pressed. “Because it didn’t feel like nothing when you got shot down. It didn’t feel like nothing when I jumped. Or when you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

Silence.

Ava’s jaw tightened.

Sara stepped forward, voice quieter now. “I’ve lost people too, Ava. I know what it’s like to build walls so high you forget what the sky looks like. But I’m still here. I keep showing up.”

“That’s your problem,” Ava snapped. “You show up. You care. You make it worse.”

Sara blinked.

Ava’s voice cracked just slightly. “Every time I let someone in, they die. And I’m the one left flying solo, staring at an empty sky.”

Sara absorbed that. Then said, softly, “I’m not dead.”

Ava’s gaze met hers, suddenly furious. “But you could’ve been.”

“I made my choice.”

“You didn’t have to,” Ava shot back. “You never had to.”

“But I did,” Sara said. “Because you matter. And I think you’re angry because deep down… you know I matter to you too.”

Ava went still.

Then, after a long moment—too long—she said nothing. She just looked at Sara with eyes that had already buried too much.

Sara’s jaw tensed.

She exhaled slowly, the hurt just under the surface. “That’s what I thought.”

She took a step—
—but not toward the door.

Forward.

Right into Ava’s space.

Ava blinked as Sara reached up, gently but firmly cupping her face with both hands. Warm palms against cold skin. Unflinching. Steady.

Ava’s voice was low, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

Sara’s eyes never left hers. “Admitting something that could save us both.”

She stepped closer, so close Ava could feel her breath.

“I’m in love with you.”

Silence cracked the air like thunder.

Ava didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, like it was trying to flee.

Sara didn’t let go.

And Ava… didn’t pull away.

Ava didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Sara held her there — not tightly, not forcefully. Just… held. A grounding presence in the middle of everything Ava was trying to outrun.

Her hands trembled at her sides. Her jaw tightened like she wanted to say something — wanted to say everything — but didn’t know how.

Then Ava whispered, “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Sara’s thumbs brushed gently across her cheeks. “Why? Because it’s true?”

Ava’s voice cracked. “Because now I don’t know how to breathe.”

Sara didn’t flinch. “Then let me help you.”

A beat passed. Two.

And then Ava moved.

Fast, but not rough.

She surged forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate — a crash of months of tension, fear, grief, longing. A kiss that tasted like salt and war and finally.

Sara responded instantly, her fingers curling into the back of Ava’s neck, holding on as if to say I’m not letting go.

Ava broke away first, breathless, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe what she’d done.

But Sara just smiled. “There you are.”

Ava exhaled, shaky. “Don’t get used to it.”

Sara leaned in, forehead to forehead. “Too late.”

They stood there, in the quiet of Ava’s quarters, hearts pounding and war still raging outside — but for the first time, the walls between them weren’t bulletproof.

Not anymore.

The room felt heavier now.

Or maybe it was lighter.

Ava didn’t move away, not fully. Her breath brushed against Sara’s lips, her hands still hovering like she wasn’t sure what to do with them now that the fight was over — or at least, paused.

Sara didn’t speak. She just watched her.

Watched the flush creeping up Ava’s throat. The subtle tremble in her jaw. The way her eyes flicked to the door, then back — like part of her still wanted to bolt.

“I’ve never…” Ava began, then stopped. Her voice was too raw, too exposed.

Sara waited.

Ava swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple. Fly the mission. Survive the day. Keep everyone at arm’s length so when they go, it doesn’t gut you.”

Sara’s voice was low. “That’s not living. That’s just lasting.”

Ava looked at her — really looked. “You make me want more than just lasting. And that terrifies me.”

Sara smiled, soft but sure. “Good. Means it’s real.”

Another pause.

Ava finally exhaled. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re impossible.” Sara reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind Ava’s ear. “But I’m still here.”

Ava leaned into the touch just slightly, just enough. “Yeah,” she said, so quiet it was barely sound. “You are.”

They stood there for a long time — no rush, no urgency. Just a moment stolen from the war outside.

Two broken people who didn’t have to be whole to be together.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Ava didn’t say anything when Sara sat down on the edge of her bunk.

She didn’t ask her to leave.

That alone was new.

The lamp on the desk cast a warm, low glow across the room, shadows pooling in the corners. Ava moved around quietly—cleaning up her space.

Sara watched her, arms resting on her knees.

“You always this neat after an emotional breakdown?” she asked softly.

Ava shot her a look over her shoulder. “Don’t push it.”

Sara held up her hands. “Just observing.”

Ava didn’t answer, but her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but not nothing either.

Eventually, she pulled off her jacket and sat beside Sara. Not touching. Not looking at her. Just… there.

It was Sara who broke the silence first. “Do you want me to go?”

Ava shook her head. “No.”

They sat there for a while, saying nothing. Letting the weight of the day—of everything—settle between them.

Then Ava spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “The photo… The three guys. Charlie. Me.”

Sara nodded once, quiet.

“They were the first people who saw me for what I could do, not just what I looked like.” Ava’s eyes were fixed on some far-off memory. “They believed in me when no one else did. And now they’re gone.”

Sara gently reached for her hand, slow and steady. Their fingers touched. Intertwined.

Ava didn’t pull away.

“I’m not trying to replace them,” Sara said quietly.

“I know.” Ava’s voice caught. “That’s the problem. You’re something else. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to know tonight,” Sara said. “Just let me be here.”

Ava looked down at their joined hands.

Then she nodded.

The night stretched around them, heavy and silent, but it wasn’t lonely anymore.

For the first time in a long time, Ava let someone stay.

Chapter Text

07:30 Hours – Mess Tent, Allied Airfield

Spooner didn’t even look up from her plate when she said it.

“Okay, who is she and what has she done with our captain?”

Astra arched a brow. “What now?”

Sara Lance had just walked in — hair damp from a morning shower, flight jacket unzipped, and… smiling. Not grinning, not cocky. Just soft at the edges in a way none of them had seen before.

“She’s got that look,” Spooner said, pointing her spoon dramatically. “That ‘someone kissed me last night and I haven’t stopped thinking about it’ look.”

“She hasn’t barked at anyone yet,” Nora murmured.

“She asked Mona if she slept okay,” Gideon added helpfully. “And then she—get this—apologized for waking her during the emergency drill.”

“She apologized?” Astra blinked. “Now I know something’s wrong.”

Amaya leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re all terrible.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t notice first,” Spooner said.

“Shut up.”

Sara moved through the mess hall with the easy calm of someone who’d made peace with a demon or two overnight. She nodded at them as she passed, plate in hand, eyes bright.

And then the doors creaked open again.

Every head turned.

Ava Sharpe stepped in — flight jacket over her shoulder, her usual guarded expression slightly… less so.

Still cool. Still sharp.

But her eyes skimmed the room, found the bomber crew—
—and lingered just long enough on Sara.

One faint nod.

That was it.

No smile. No words. Just a subtle dip of her chin before she moved to the coffee.

A moment passed like static in the air.

Spooner grinned like she’d cracked a code. “Oh yeah. Someone definitely got kissed.”

“Don’t,” Amaya warned, though she was clearly fighting a smile.

“Oh, I’m not judging,” Spooner said. “I’m just saying — they better not crash and burn before this next mission. I’m getting invested.”

Kendra muttered into her tea. “God help us all.”

Sara slid into her usual seat at the bomber crew’s table like nothing was different at all.

“Morning,” she said casually, stabbing a fork into her scrambled eggs.

The table stared at her.

Hard.

She chewed. Swallowed. Glanced up. “What?”

Spooner leaned in across the table. “You humming this morning too, Captain Sunshine?”
Sara blinked. “No?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Astra said. “You nearly skipped out of the barracks.”

“I do not skip.”

“You don’t usually smile, either,” Nora added. “Not like that…unless”

Sara sipped her coffee, completely unbothered. “Maybe I just slept well.”

Gideon tilted her head. “Statistically, it’s unlikely for a person to experience this kind of mood elevation without a specific—”

“Gideon,” Amaya cut in. “She’s not running a case study.”

Sara smirked and looked at Spooner. “You want to ask the real question or keep circling it like a shy bomber crew?”

Spooner leaned back, smug. “Fine. Did you kiss her or not?”

Sara gave no answer. Just one raised brow.

Mona gasped. “That’s a yes.”

Astra grinned. “Ohhh, this is going to make formation drills very interesting.”

Sara laughed under her breath. “You all done?”

“Not even close,” Spooner said. “But I’ll pause for breakfast.”

Meanwhile, across the mess hall, Ava sat alone.

Corner table. Back to the wall. Coffee in one hand, a flight manual she wasn’t reading in the other.

To most, she looked the same—collected, cool, untouchable.

But Spooner wasn’t most.

She caught it.

That flicker of a glance across the room.

Ava’s eyes settled on Sara for half a second too long.

Then dropped. Back to her mug. Back to pretending the table didn’t exist.

Spooner smirked.

“Oh, she’s so looking,” she whispered.

Amaya glanced discreetly. “And she’s trying so hard not to be caught.”

“She just got caught,” Spooner said.

Gideon looked back and forth between them. “Should we inform her that emotional repression often results in physiological stress responses—?”

“No, Gideon,” Astra said, deadpan. “Let them suffer in silence like the rest of us.”

Sara, very aware of eyes on her, didn’t look back at Ava.

But she was smiling into her coffee.

And for once, no one at the table tried to ruin it.

14:30 Hours – Skies Over the Northern Range

“Echo-2213 to Phoenix Lead, adjust heading five degrees south. Simulated flak ahead.”

Ava’s voice was sharp but steady, crackling through the comms.

Captain Harlow didn’t argue.

“Copy,” he replied quickly, already correcting the bomber’s course.

After his dressing down in the commander’s office last week—something about “blatant insubordination” and “embarrassing the unit”—he knew better than to disobey Captain Doom.

But not everyone was so quick to learn.

Markson, flying as Ava’s wingman, scoffed into his own channel. “Looks clear from here, Echo. Maybe your instruments are just twitchy.”

Ava’s jaw flexed in her cockpit. “They’re not. You’re off course.”

“You worry too much,” Markson replied, voice smug. “You ever try flying a little loose? Might do you good.”

In the Canary bomber trailing nearby, silence fell like a dropped wrench.

“Loose?” Spooner muttered, glancing around. “Did he just suggest Ava Sharpe loosen up?”

“Flying loose gets people killed,” Astra snapped.

Amaya checked her bearings. “Markson’s wingtip is drifting. If this were live—”

“He’d be toast,” Gideon finished, frowning. “And possibly us too, if we were caught in the crossfire.”

Sara leaned forward in her seat, her gaze locked out the side window. She could just barely see Ava’s Spitfire in the sun-glint haze ahead—and she could hear it in her voice.

Tight. Controlled. Boiling just beneath the surface.

“Phoenix-Three, you’re inside my airspace,” Ava said coldly. “Break left. Now.”

“I got it,” Markson answered, but didn’t move.

Sara’s hand gripped the armrest of her chair.

“Why is she still with them?” Nora asked quietly.

“They don’t deserve her,” Mona added.

“She deserves a crew that listens,” Kendra said from the gunner's position. “She deserves—”

“She deserves us,” Amaya said, not quite meaning to say it out loud.

On the comm, Ava cut back in—still calm. Still deadly.

“Last warning, Markson. If you can’t follow a formation drill, I’ll recommend you be grounded until you remember what discipline looks like.”

Markson gave a short bark of a laugh. “That a threat, sweetheart?”

Sara’s hand shot to the comms dial, but Ava beat her to it.

“If I wanted to threaten you,” Ava replied, ice in every syllable, “you’d already know.”

Dead silence on the line.

Inside the Canary bomber, Spooner let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to piss her off.”

Astra shook her head. “Too late.”

Spooner gave a low whistle. “Okay. I want that stitched on a jacket.”

Astra shook her head. “You wouldn’t survive the week.”

Sara didn’t speak. She just stared through the glass, her eyes finding Ava’s shape in the sky—tight, fast, and completely alone.

And she knew right then: she was done watching this happen from the sidelines.

16:00 Hours – Flight Line, Northern Base

The engines were barely cooling when Ava popped her canopy and climbed down from her Spitfire. She unfastened her flight harness with practiced precision, but her expression was storm-silent. Focused.

Markson’s feet had just hit the tarmac when she intercepted him.

“You think this is a joke?” Ava said, low and sharp.

Markson turned, pulling off his gloves lazily. “Relax, Captain. It’s a training run.”

Ava stepped into his space. “You flew out of position, ignored three direct orders, and got too close to the bomber’s wing. If this wasn’t a drill, you’d be bleeding into the Channel.”

Markson smirked. “You don’t like my flying, file a report.”

“Oh, I will,” Ava snapped. “And I’ll make damn sure it lands on the desk of someone who doesn’t care about your daddy’s commission or your charm.”

That wiped the grin off his face.

“You walk around like rank means nothing, but the second you're challenged, you fold. You want to fly like a cowboy? Go find a rodeo. Up here, I’m not your friend. I’m not your equal. I’m your commanding officer.”

She jabbed a finger toward the horizon. “And when you're up there, that means something. Every choice, every drift off course, every second you waste posturing gets people killed.”

Markson’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“I don’t care if you don’t like me,” Ava said. “But you will respect the sky. And if you don’t respect me in it, I’ll make damn sure you’re grounded until you remember how.”

She stepped back, eyes burning through him. “Dismissed.”

Markson turned, stiffly, and walked off without another word.

Across the tarmac, a few Phoenix crew members exchanged looks but said nothing. None of them were smiling.

And not far behind, Sara had just emerged from the debrief tent—watching, unseen, as Ava walked away without breaking stride.

17:20 Hours – Officer’s Barracks, Ava’s Quarters

Ava slammed the door harder than she meant to. The latch clattered, echoing in the quiet room. Her jacket hit the wall next. Then her gloves. Then her boot, kicked across the floor.

She paced once, twice—then ran a hand through her hair and gripped the back of the chair like it might be the only thing holding her upright.

She didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until Sara’s voice landed softly behind her.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

Ava turned, startled, but the fire in her eyes flared instantly.

“Did you follow me?”

“Yes,” Sara said plainly, stepping in and shutting the door behind her. “And don’t pretend you’re surprised.”

Ava huffed, exasperated. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Good,” Sara said, crossing her arms. “Then let’s stop wasting it. What the hell happened up there?”

Ava dropped into the chair like gravity had doubled. She didn’t answer.

Sara stepped closer, her voice quieter. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Ava snapped.

“You’re not.”

A beat passed. Ava’s jaw clenched. Her fingers dug into her thigh.

Then—

“He’s going to get someone killed.”

The words cracked out of her, raw and sharp.

Sara didn’t speak.

Ava stood again, unable to stay still, storming from one side of the room to the other. “He doesn’t listen, he doesn’t respect formation, and he treats every run like a damn game. Like it’s about him.”

Her hand slammed the edge of the dresser. “And they still don’t care. They see me as a problem before they see him as a threat. Because I’m the one calling him out. Because I don’t have the right damn chromosomes.”

Sara took a step closer. “You’re right. So file the report.”

“I will. But that’s not the part that keeps me up at night.” Ava’s voice dropped, turning hollow. “The part that keeps me up is what happens when it’s not me he screws over. What happens when it’s you.”

Sara blinked. “Me?”

Ava met her eyes, and for once, didn’t look away.

“I can survive another hit. Another dogfight. Another asshole wingman. I can survive losing again.” Her voice broke. “But I don’t know if I can survive losing you.”

Silence.

Ava turned her back, ashamed at the crack in her armor.

Sara stepped up behind her, quiet, steady.

“You won’t lose me,” she said.

“You don’t know that,” Ava whispered. “No one ever does.”

Sara’s voice was softer now, barely above a breath. “So what—push me away before it happens? Hurt first before you can be hurt?”

Ava didn’t answer.

Sara placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not alone in this, Ava.”

Another long pause.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” Ava finally said. “I don’t know how to let my guard down and not pay for it.”

Sara’s voice was warm, but firm. “Then let’s figure it out together. One mission at a time.”

Ava turned slowly, eyes glassy, her walls momentarily crumbling.

And for once… she didn’t pull away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Ava stepped forward—hesitant at first, like the decision itself hurt more than any wound. Her fingers curled into Sara’s flight jacket, then slid around her waist. She pulled her close, burying her face into the curve of Sara’s shoulder.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Ava Sharpe allowed herself to need someone.

Sara didn’t hesitate. Her arms came up instinctively, folding around Ava like she’d been built to hold her. Not strong. Not protective. Just present. Just there.

“I hate this,” Ava whispered against her. “I hate needing this.”

“I know,” Sara murmured into her hair.

Ava’s voice cracked, almost inaudible. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

Sara just held her tighter. “You don’t have to know. You just have to stay.”

Ava breathed in—shaky, unsure—and tightened her grip like she might disappear otherwise.

Because the truth she hadn’t been able to say out loud was clawing its way through the rubble of her defenses. She hadn’t just fallen. She’d plummeted. And now here she was, chest hollow and aching, heart full of something terrifyingly real.

Sara Lance.

Of all the reckless, infuriating, stubborn women in the world—Ava had fallen for the one person who saw right through her, who challenged her, who saved her life more than once and refused to let her drift alone.

And somehow, despite every wall and sharp edge, Sara had still stayed.

Ava pulled back just enough to look up at her, forehead resting against Sara’s.

“I think I’m in love with you,” she said softly, like it hurt to admit it. “No—scratch that. I am in love with you. God help me.”

Sara smiled—a rare, quiet kind of smile that didn’t need bravado. Just warmth.

“Took you long enough,” she said gently.

Ava exhaled a shaky laugh, the kind you let out when you’ve been holding your breath too long.

And then, as if gravity had finally settled between them, they kissed again—not frantic, not desperate. Just sure.

When they finally separated, Ava didn’t pull away completely. She stayed close, one hand still gripping Sara’s flight sleeve.

“Just… don’t get yourself killed,” Ava said. “That’s an order.”

Sara smirked. “Copy that, Captain Doom.”

20:12 Hours – Ava’s Quarters, Lights Low

The room was quiet now, save for the soft ticking of the watch on Ava’s nightstand and the distant echo of aircraft engines cooling in the hangars.

Ava sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders finally lowered, the tension bleeding from her muscles in slow, reluctant waves. Sara was beside her, bootless, jacket tossed over a chair, as if her presence alone was helping Ava’s pulse settle.

There was nothing rushed in the way Ava reached for her hand. Just a steady, deliberate connection.

“You make it hard to breathe sometimes,” Ava murmured, voice low.

Sara tilted her head, brushing a thumb across Ava’s knuckles. “Because I’m infuriating, or because you’re terrified?”

Ava looked at her. “Yes.”

Sara smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting in that maddening way that meant she was already winning. “Then maybe stop holding your breath.”

She leaned in, slow and sure, and kissed her again — this time with the weight of all the unspoken confessions they’d spent months avoiding. It wasn’t a kiss of heat or urgency, but of recognition. Of home.

Clothes were shed gradually, not torn away. As if neither of them wanted to break the fragile truce between pain and peace. Ava traced the scars on Sara’s shoulder like they were topography — a map of everything she’d survived. Sara brushed fingertips along the line of Ava’s jaw as if memorizing the shape of a woman she had once only known by reputation and now couldn’t imagine not knowing.

When they finally lay tangled together beneath the worn blanket, breath shallow and shared, it wasn’t about escape. It was about staying.

Ava’s fingers curled at the hem of Sara’s shirt where it bunched at her waist, like if she let go, the world might shift again.

Sara whispered against her ear, lips barely grazing skin: “Still scared?”

Ava exhaled. “Terrified.”

“Me too,” Sara said, resting her forehead against Ava’s. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

Silence, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said.

Ava didn’t answer.

She just pulled Sara closer.

And for the first time since the war began, sleep came without a fight.

Dawn – Ava’s Quarters, Northern Base

The first light of morning crept through the small window, dust motes dancing in its path. The base was just beginning to stir—distant voices, the low whine of engines warming up—but in this room, time moved slower.

Ava lay on her side, facing Sara, hair a mess, one arm tucked under the pillow. For once, her expression was still. Peaceful. No tension around her mouth, no tight line of her jaw. Just quiet.

Sara propped herself on one elbow, watching her.

Ava blinked awake, eyes adjusting, then narrowed slightly at the sight of Sara staring at her.

“What?” she muttered, voice raspy with sleep.

Sara didn’t answer at first. She just smiled. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Sara said gently. “Not the usual smirk or half-wince. The real thing.”

Ava tried to scowl, but it came out crooked—more sheepish than annoyed.

Sara leaned in, brushed a kiss across her forehead. “You should do that more.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Ava murmured, already shifting to sit up.

But Sara caught her wrist, eyes still on her like she was something rare and delicate—something worth holding onto.

“Too late.”

Ava didn’t pull away.

And in that golden sliver of morning light, with sheets tangled around them and the weight of war just beyond the door, Captain Ava Sharpe allowed herself one more moment of soft.

Of safe.

Of real.

Chapter Text

07:45 Hours – Canary Crew Quarters

The crew had gathered for morning debrief like usual—half-dressed, half-awake, and entirely unprepared for the anomaly that was about to walk through the door.

“Five says it’s another grumble and vanish,” Spooner muttered, stifling a yawn.

Astra shrugged, sipping from a tin cup. “She’ll glare, bark something about protocol, and leave. Business as usual.”

Then the door opened.

And Ava Sharpe stepped in.

Not stormed. Not stomped. Stepped—calm, collected. Uniform sharp, braid neater than usual, posture still iron-straight but… looser somehow.

More shocking?

She stopped in front of them.

Hands clasped behind her back, Ava looked at each of them—really looked—and then said, without a trace of irony:

“I owe you all an apology.”

The room froze.

Gideon dropped her pencil. Mona blinked so hard it looked like she reset her brain.

“Wait, what?” Nora asked, squinting.

“I wasn’t fair to you,” Ava continued, voice measured but sincere. “You’ve proven yourselves more than once. I pushed you away when I shouldn’t have. That was on me.”

A beat.

Then…

“Okay, who are you and what have you done with Captain Doom?” Spooner asked.

Astra squinted like Ava might be a hallucination. “Is this a prank?”

“No prank,” Ava said, fighting the ghost of a smile. And then, as if summoned by sheer chaos: she smiled.

It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t smug. It was real.

The crew practically gasped.

“She smiled,” Mona whispered. “I saw it. She smiled.”

“I’m not hallucinating, right?” Gideon checked. “There was a distinct elevation of the corners of her mouth.”

“You good, Captain?” Amaya asked quietly, a knowing look in her eyes.

Ava nodded once. “Better than I’ve been in a while.”

She gave a small, respectful nod to the group, then turned to leave.

But just before the door closed behind her, she added over her shoulder:
“Oh, and good work yesterday. All of you.”

The door clicked shut.

And chaos erupted.

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified,” Spooner said, clutching her coffee like a lifeline.

“Did she hit her head?” Mona asked. “Because I heard concussions can cause mood swings.”

Gideon blinked. “Correlation doesn’t necessarily imply—”

“She smiled, Gideon,” Spooner cut in. “That’s not a smile you make alone.”

“She did come in all not stiff,” Kendra added, eyebrows raised.

“Late and different,” Nora said quietly.

Spooner leaned forward. “Okay, but real question—do we think they kissed?”

“They definitely kissed,” Mona said with absolute conviction.

“They kissed days ago,” Astra said, arms crossed. “The real question is—”

“Did they do it?” Spooner asked, eyes wide.

The room went silent.

“I mean, Sara never denied it,” Amaya said, flipping a page in her logbook with casual grace. “She didn’t confirm it either.”

“I hate how vague she is about everything,” Mona whispered.

“I love how not vague Ava just was,” Kendra murmured, still stunned. “That was an apology. An actual apology.”

Spooner grinned. “Okay, if Ava Sharpe’s out here apologizing and smiling? They definitely did it.”

Gideon blinked again. “Statistically speaking, the probability has increased substantially.”

Everyone groaned.

The door had barely swung shut behind Ava when it creaked open again.

Sara stepped in, flipping through a folded mission log, only half-looking up.

The crew froze like they’d been caught mid-heist.

She paused. “Okay… what did I walk into?”

“Nothing,” Spooner said too quickly, sitting up straighter.

“Absolutely nothing,” Mona echoed, hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl.

Astra didn’t say a word. Just sipped her tea with extreme disinterest.

Sara narrowed her eyes. “You all look like you just committed a war crime.”

“No crimes,” Amaya said calmly. “Just… debriefing.”

“Uh-huh.” Sara looked around. “Why do I feel like I’m the one being interrogated?”

Kendra cleared her throat. “So… Captain Doom stopped by.”

Sara blinked. “Yeah. I saw her leave. Everything okay?”

“Oh, peachy,” Spooner said, leaning forward on her elbows. “She smiled. She apologized. For real. Like, with actual emotion and eye contact. So, naturally, we have questions.”

Sara walked to the coffee pot. “Do you?”

Gideon raised a finger. “Actually, I have a compiled list of possible causes—”

“Gideon, no,” the room said in unison.

“Just wondering,” Astra said casually, “if maybe… certain recent interactions contributed to her new behavior.”

“Interactions?” Sara asked, pouring herself a cup.

“Like a… kiss-shaped interaction,” Mona offered, voice high-pitched with curiosity.

“Or something,” Kendra added quickly. “More than a kiss maybe. Or not. Just spitballing.”

Sara took a long sip.

Set the cup down.

Looked around at every single expectant face in the room.

Then slowly, very slowly, raised one brow. “Are you all twelve?”

Spooner threw her hands in the air. “Come on, just give us something! We’re dying here!”

“She smiled, Lance,” Astra said. “You broke her.”

“I didn’t break her,” Sara said. “Maybe she’s just… evolving.”

Nora, quiet until now, murmured, “So… that’s a yes?”

Sara gave them a cryptic little grin as she walked out the door.

“Maybe.”

She left the room, her entire crew slack jawed in awe.

12:35 Hours, Skies Over Occupied France

The sun cut in and out of clouds above the French countryside. Six bombers—four from Canary, two from Phoenix—moved in formation toward their objective: a fortified Luftwaffe fuel depot tucked just outside Metz. Escorting them were four Spitfires, including Ava’s Echo-2213, drifting tight and vigilant off the port side.

Inside the Canary lead bomber, Sara Lance adjusted her headset, eyes sweeping the clouds ahead. “How’s it looking, Gideon?”

The co-pilot flipped a few toggles. “No major interference on radar yet. But we’re being watched.”

“Always are,” Spooner muttered from the gunner's seat. “Sky’s too quiet.”

Ava’s voice cut across the open comms.

“Phoenix formation, adjust two degrees south. Crosswinds are pulling your line off center.”

“Copy that, Echo-2213,” came the even reply from Captain Harlow aboard Phoenix One.

But then, predictably—

“Don’t see the need,” Markson’s voice cracked in, cocky and self-assured. “Looks straight enough to me.”

Ava’s jaw tightened in the cockpit.

“Markson, adjust course. You’re pulling Phoenix off target.”

“Relax, Sharpe. I’ll make up for it in precision,” he said smugly. “I see a perfect line from here.”

Sara’s voice came over the channel, dry and unimpressed.

“You see clouds and ego, Markson. Adjust your heading.”

“Thanks for the advice, Canary. Maybe try staying on the ground next time.”

“Son of a—” Spooner swore under her breath. “I vote we drop a crate on his cockpit.”

“Echo-2213, Phoenix Two is drifting again,” Gideon reported. “His angle’s going to throw off the entire drop.”

Ava keyed her mic.

“Markson. Final warning. Stay in formation or get off my wing.”

He didn’t respond.

12:47 Hours – Nearing Target Zone

The flak started early.

Black puffs bloomed in the sky like deadly inkblots, tossing the formation in shallow jerks.

“Incoming flak, hold tight!” Nate called from his Spitfire.

“Bombers keep steady,” Sara instructed. “Phoenix Two, do not—”

But he did.

Markson peeled off again, veering out of formation like a showboating hawk, darting beneath the lead Phoenix and angling toward what he assumed was a weaker part of the depot.

“Damn it, Markson!” Ava snapped. “Get back in formation!”

“You want precision? I’ll show you precision.”

His stunt cost them.

German guns on the ground locked onto the movement like it was a beacon. Flak doubled, then tripled. Anti-aircraft batteries lit up from the treeline. Shrapnel ripped through the air in every direction.

Sara watched from her cockpit as one of the blasts shredded across Markson’s Spitfire—catching his left wing and part of the engine mount.

“He’s hit!” Nate called out. “Smoke on the port side!”

Ava tracked him, her heart hammering. “Markson, pull up! Bail out!”

“Controls—jammed—can’t—” Static.

She watched helplessly as his plane dropped out of the sky and disappeared behind the trees in a column of fire.

“Target in sight,” Captain Harlow barked. “Drop now! Drop now!”

Sara clenched her jaw, hands flying across controls. “All Canary units, payload release in 3… 2… now!”

The ground erupted in a chain of thunderous blasts. Flames consumed the depot as smoke rose in sheets toward the heavens.

“Direct hit,” Gideon confirmed.

“All remaining bombers accounted for,” Harlow added grimly. “Minus Phoenix Two.”

13:10 Hours – Still Under Fire

Before anyone could breathe, Luftwaffe fighters tore out of the clouds, three Messerschmitts descending like vultures.

“Tally ho—bandits, high right!” Nate called.

“I’ve got one on Canary Four’s six,” Ava replied. “Breaking off to cover.”

She surged forward, lining up a shot and firing. The first Messerschmitt wobbled, spun, and went down trailing smoke.

Behrad cut wide around a second, trying to bait it. Sara, watching from the lead bomber, lined up the rear guns.

“Mona, you’ve got angle,” she called.

Mona pulled the trigger, flaring bright tracer fire through the sky and shredding the fighter's wing. It spun out and crashed.

“Nice shot,” Astra muttered, impressed despite herself.

But Ava wasn’t so lucky.

The third fighter locked onto her.

“Echo, break left—now!” Nate barked.

She rolled hard, but not fast enough.

A tracer round snapped across her canopy, blowing out the side panel. Shards of glass cut across her temple. Blood blurred her vision.

She kept flying.

“Echo, you good?” Behrad asked.

“I’m fine,” Ava lied.

Sara's voice came through, quieter, tighter. > “You’re bleeding.”

“Still flying.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re observant.”

Sara exhaled. “We’re finishing this together. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Back at you, Canary.”

Together, the team drove back the fighters long enough to break free from enemy airspace.

13:50 Hours – En Route Back to Base

The comms were mostly quiet.

Another mission survived. But it had cost them.

Markson’s arrogance had sealed his fate. And even the Phoenix crew, who hadn’t said a word during the dogfight, now rode in silence.

Ava’s cockpit still had blood dried above her brow. She didn’t mention it.

Sara kept glancing toward Ava’s Spitfire from her cockpit window, jaw tight.

“You saved our tail, Echo,” she finally said.

“Just doing my job,” Ava muttered.

14:38 Hours, Allied Airfield, Northern France

The runway loomed beneath the clouds as the first Spitfires screamed in low, wheels thudding against packed dirt. Dust kicked up as Ava’s Spitfire taxied into its lane, the engine wheezing like it had been through hell—which, honestly, it had.

She popped the canopy with a hiss of pressure and slid down the side of the aircraft, one hand gripping the ladder, the other pressing to the thin cut above her brow. The glass from her shattered panel had left a jagged line from temple to hairline. She hadn't felt it much mid-flight, but now the adrenaline was wearing off—and it stung.

A medic rushed up with a canvas satchel, trying to get her to sit down on a crate beside the bird. Ava waved him off once, then finally let herself sit while he dabbed gently at the blood with antiseptic.

“Hold still,” the medic said.

“Just don’t sew my damn eyelid shut,” Ava muttered.

Footsteps approached—heavy, clipped. Captain Harlow.

He came to stand in front of her, removing his cap with a long breath. He looked rough himself—ash and grime across his bomber jacket, sleeves torn at the cuff, eyes ringed with smoke and sweat. But his voice was calm.

“You did everything you could, Sharpe.”

Ava didn’t respond.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Markson was reckless. He ignored direct orders, broke formation, and compromised the entire operation. You pulled it back.”

“Didn’t pull him back.”

“No one could’ve,” Harlow said quietly. “He made his choices. You made the right ones. I’ll put it in the report.”

Ava finally looked up at him. There was no thanks. Just a tight nod.

Harlow placed a hand on her shoulder—a brief, heavy gesture—and then turned and walked toward the waiting debrief tent.

She winced as the medic pressed the edge of gauze to her cut.

“I said don’t sew my eyelid shut,” she muttered again.

“Relax, Captain Doom,” came another voice—smooth, teasing, unmistakable.

Sara.

She was walking up the runway with her jacket thrown over her shoulder, sweat at her temples, lips curved in that too-easy smirk.

Ava glared at her over the medic’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be debriefing?”

“I like to check on my reckless pilots first,” Sara said, then tilted her head, eyes flicking to Ava’s wound. “That looks nasty.”

“It’ll scar,” Ava muttered.

Sara crouched in front of her, brushing a gloved finger lightly along Ava’s uninjured temple. “Chicks dig scars.”

Ava blinked.

Sara winked, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—Ava forgot how to speak.

“Also,” Sara added, standing again with that maddening confidence, “I’d prefer you not bleed out. Makes my job harder.”

She tossed her jacket over her shoulder again and walked away toward the hangars, calling over her shoulder—

“Debrief in twenty, Captain. Try not to steal all the attention with your war wounds.”

Ava sat there, watching her go, blood still trickling past the medic’s gauze.

“…She’s infuriating,” Ava said under her breath.

The medic chuckled. “That a diagnosis or a confession?”

Ava didn’t answer.

15:02 Hours, Allied Airfield, Northern France

Ava adjusted her jacket, still sore from the flight and the sting above her eye. The medic’s bandage sat awkward on her temple, but she was used to discomfort—it faded when she had something to focus on.

She started toward the debrief tent, boots crunching across gravel and dust as heat shimmered off the runways.

And then she heard it.

A low, unmistakable hum.

At first, just background noise. A trick of the wind. But then—louder. Rhythmic. Approaching.

Engines. Not friendly ones.

She froze mid-step. Her eyes went skyward.

And there they were—black specks on the horizon, growing fast. Formations too tight. Wings too narrow. Shapes that haunted her dreams.

“Luftwaffe,” she muttered, ice running through her veins.

The klaxon hadn’t gone off yet.

No one else had seen them.

But Ava didn’t wait.

She turned on her heel and sprinted.

Straight toward the hangar.

Her Spitfire was still warm from the last mission, still streaked with soot and blood and dust. She didn’t care. Her hands flew over the canopy latch.

“Ava!” a voice yelled behind her.

But she didn’t stop.

Footsteps pounded behind her. Another shout.

Then came more—boots thudding against pavement, gravel spraying from sharp turns.

Zari was next—jacket half on, hair flying loose, expression fierce.

“You always get to have all the fun?” she yelled, vaulting over a crate.

Behrad appeared right behind her, already buckling his harness mid-run. “This is why we never unpack!”

Nate was hot on their heels, tossing aside his clipboard. “Someone want to tell Command we’re saving their asses again?”

From the other side of the yard, Astra was sprinting with her boots barely tied and fury in her eyes. “If I miss my one hot meal for this, someone better be buying me a week of damn desserts!”

They converged at the fighter line.

Ground crews began yelling as the klaxon finally blared to life.

Pilots scrambled.

Chaos ignited.

But Ava was already in her seat, canopy thrown back, headset sliding into place.

“All pilots, scramble,” came the distorted voice over the loudspeaker. “Scramble, scramble!”

Ava’s hand gripped the throttle.

She glanced once—only once—to her left.

Zari gave her a sharp nod from her cockpit.

Nate offered a lopsided grin.

Behrad winked. “Echo-2213, ready to dance?”

Ava’s lips twitched.

Then she looked skyward again.

“Let’s give them hell,” she said, and her engine roared to life.

15:33 Hours – The Skies

Ava spotted the second wave before anyone else.

“Echo-2213, I’ve got three on my right!” she barked. “Where’s backup?”

“I’ve got you,” Zari said.

“No, I don’t—they’re splitting off!”

Ava turned hard. Tracer fire cracked past her canopy. Another hit and her wing groaned. She bit down a curse and dove—until something fast and furious ripped through the clouds beside her.

A Spitfire. Fast. Low.

No callsign.

“Who the hell—?” Behrad’s voice cut in, startled.

But Ava already knew. She knew in her bones.

The unmarked fighter banked upward, gunning straight into the middle of the second Luftwaffe wave. Bullets screamed from its nose.

One Messerschmitt went down in flames.

“Who is that?” Nate demanded.

“That’s…” Zari’s voice faltered. “No way.”

The plane looped around, covering Ava’s blind side without hesitation. Flying like it knew her. Anticipated her.

Because it did.

Sara didn’t say a word on the radio.

But Ava said it for her, so quietly only the inside of her cockpit heard:

“…You idiot.”

Then she pressed the throttle and followed Sara straight into hell.

15:41 Hours, Skies Over Northern France

Smoke trails crisscrossed the sky like furious brushstrokes. The second wave of Luftwaffe fighters had scattered but not retreated. They came in fast, looping and strafing from above, using the sun and chaos to their advantage.

“Zari, cover left!”

“I’m on it!”

“Behrad, break high!”

“I see ‘em, I see ‘em!”

From the ground, the gun crews blasted the sky with flak. Spooner whooped like it was a rodeo, shouting, “Come on, you fascist bastards! I dare you to loop again!”

Sara flew like she'd never stopped. No comms. No hesitation. Just precision—her Spitfire trailing Ava’s six, peeling off when Ava spun, always returning to the formation like a magnet drawn back to steel.

But something changed.

Ava’s voice crackled in the comms—focused. Sharper than usual.

“This one’s different.”

“Echo, say again?” Nate asked, breathing hard as he rolled past a fireball.

Ava didn’t respond right away. Her crosshairs were locked on a black-nosed Messerschmitt that had slipped through the others like a knife. It moved with unnerving calm, dancing around the dogfight, issuing no fire. Just watching.

Then it darted left and dove hard, banking out of the main fight and running low over the tree line.

Ava blinked.

And followed.

“Echo-2213, where are you going?” Behrad shouted.

Nate's voice cut in, urgent. “Ava! Stay on formation—we’ve got birds in the air!”

But Ava was already gone. The other Messerschmitts swirled around the sky like angry hornets, but she was chasing the queen. Or the closest thing to it.

“This one’s leading them,” she muttered into the mic. “I know it.”

Sara saw her peel off.

“Ava?” she finally spoke—breaking her silence for the first time since lifting off. “Come back to formation. We need you here.”

Ava didn’t answer.

15:45 Hours – Edge of the Forest, Northwest Ridge

The chase took her far from the others. Too far.

The black-nosed Messerschmitt dodged through a narrow corridor between hills, hugging the terrain, dipping into clouds.

Ava grit her teeth and stayed on it.

She banked hard—low enough to skim tree tops—and pushed the throttle. But in the turbulence, something sparked. A warning light. Left wing stabilizer. It was minor. She pressed on.

Her thumb hovered over the trigger. Just a few more seconds.

She never saw the second fighter.

The ambush came from the right. A scream of engines. A flash of silver.

CRACK–CRACK–CRACK.

Her canopy splintered.

Glass burst, slicing across her forehead. Blood blurred her vision.

The world spun.

15:48 Hours – Comms Channel

“Ava, do you read?”

Silence.

“Echo-2213, come in!” Zari tried. “Ava?!”

Sara’s voice broke in. “Last anyone see where she went?”

“Northwest ridge,” Behrad said quickly. “She broke off after that black-nosed fighter.”

“Radio’s dead,” Nate said, breathless. “She’s not answering.”

Gideon on the ground sounded tight. “There’s… we’re seeing fire. A crash. Roughly 10 clicks out from your position. No chute spotted.”

“No…” Sara whispered.

They all fell silent.

Even Spooner stopped yelling.

Smoke bloomed in the distance—dark and angry. A wingtip lay broken near the treeline. Too far to ID. But close enough to guess.

Sara’s hands clenched around the flight stick, breath ragged.

“…Echo?”

No response.

Ava Sharpe was gone.

Chapter Text

Somewhere Near the Northwest Ridge

The parachute tore through the trees like ripping silk. Ava hit the ground hard—knee first, shoulder second, breath punched from her lungs.

She ripped off the harness mid-roll, dirt grinding into her palms. Her Spitfire had been lost to smoke and flame, swallowed whole in the sky behind her.

But she was alive.

Barely.

Crack.

A branch snapped.

She ducked behind a fallen log, instincts taking over before her ears caught up. A second parachute drifted to the earth just thirty meters off.

The Messerschmitt pilot.

And he was already moving.

A rifle came up. Ava’s eyes widened. No warning. No chance. Just—

POP–POP–POP.

She dove sideways. Bullets chewed bark behind her. She hit the ground and kept crawling, blood from her forehead mixing with dirt.

More shots. Closer. He was advancing, cool and calculated.

Her own pistol was still strapped to her thigh. She fumbled for it, rolled behind a tree, chest heaving.

Click. Click.

Silence.

He was out.

Her head snapped toward the sound of him reloading.

No time.

Ava surged forward.

She cleared the space between them like a spring snapping free, slamming into him before the rifle was ready. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and rage. His helmet cracked against a rock, but he recovered fast, driving an elbow into her ribs.

Pain flared white-hot, but Ava held on, twisting the rifle away.

He snarled something in German and punched. She caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted it hard until he screamed and the rifle fell.

They were both on their feet now. No weapons. Just fists and fury.

He struck first—a wild swing she dodged barely.

She jabbed twice—chest, chin. He staggered, then rammed her into a tree.

Her head snapped back.

She saw stars.

He pulled a knife.

Ava kicked upward—boot to wrist—sending the blade spinning into the grass. She tackled him again, both of them crashing to the ground.

He went for her throat.

Ava’s fingers found the broken branch.

She didn’t hesitate.

Crack.

He collapsed.

Ava rolled off, coughing, spitting blood and dirt.

Silence again.

Birds scattered.

Wind pressed through the trees.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her vision tunneled, but she forced herself upright, gasping.

She stumbled toward the downed Messerschmitt wreckage. No radio. No help.

But maybe—maybe—

She pressed a trembling hand to her side where bruises bloomed, forcing her legs to move.

She didn’t know where she was.

But she knew who she needed to get back to.

Sara.

Northwest France – Late Afternoon

Ava – Hillside Forest

She had no map. No bearings. Just blood drying at her temple and the sinking light through the canopy.

Ava pushed forward, stumbling through underbrush, one arm wrapped around her ribs. Her side throbbed in rhythm with every step. The enemy pilot’s knife had caught her—just enough to slow her down.

But not enough to stop her.

The distant smoke curled skyward to the east. The wreckage. Her plane.

They’d think she was in it.

Good. Let them believe it—for now.

She had to move fast. Had to get back. Not just to survive. To see her.

Sara.

Ava wiped the blood from her brow with a shaking hand and kept moving.

Sara – Base Perimeter

The air still smelled like gunpowder and panic.

Sara stood in front of what remained of their squadron, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched.

They’d held the line.

Barely.

Behind her, Gideon barked orders at ground crews. Amaya, Nora, and Spooner helped triage wounded. Zari was sitting on a crate, head between her knees, recovering from motion sickness and adrenaline.

But Sara’s eyes were only scanning the horizon.

A flash of fire in the hills. The black tail of a crash still burning.

Behrad and Nate landed ten minutes ago.

No Ava.

“She was tailing one of the Messerschmitts—” Nate said, breathless.

“I tried to follow, but I lost sight of them over the ridge,” Behrad added, his voice cracking with frustration.

Sara’s heart felt like it had caved in. “And then?”

Nate glanced toward the east. “Then there was smoke.”

“She’s not—” Zari started, but her voice faltered.

“She’s not dead,” Sara snapped, sharper than she meant. “We haven’t found a body. No one saw a crash.”

Behrad looked away.

Sara turned, face steel. “I need everyone grounded and in recovery. But I want eyes in the sky as soon as we’re cleared. I want scouts in that forest. We are not writing her off.”

“You really think she made it?” Spooner asked gently.

“I don’t think,” Sara said. “I know.”

Ava – Foot Trail, Unknown Location

She followed the creek downhill, hoping it would lead to something.

Anything.

Her hands were scraped raw. The cut on her side ached with every breath. Her flight suit was ripped, dirt-streaked, and she had no rations. No compass.

But she kept moving.

The silence of the forest started to hum—low and strange.

Birds no longer sang. The wind had shifted.

She froze. Dropped to a crouch. Scanned the tree line.

Footsteps.

Not hers.

Ava’s hand went to her sidearm.

She waited.

The shape passed in the distance—civilian? Resistance? German patrol?

She didn’t wait to find out. She turned and took off the opposite way, legs shaking.

Sara – War Room Tent

Gideon spread a crude map over the table. Red markers dotted the field reports. “If she ejected, it was likely somewhere between here and the ridgeline.”

“That’s forested territory,” Amaya said. “Dense. She could be anywhere.”

“She’ll head back to base,” Zari murmured. “That’s what Ava does. She comes home.”

Sara stood off to the side, arms still crossed, but her shoulders had dropped. Her eyes were haunted, but focused.

“She didn’t come this far to die in a tree line,” she said finally. “And she didn’t fight like hell just to vanish.”

No one spoke.

Finally, Gideon looked up. “So what do we do?”

Sara raised her chin.

“We prep for recon at first light. She’s out there. And I’m going to find her.”

Ava – Woods, Unknown Region – 20:43 Hours

Her breath came ragged.

The trees were getting harder to navigate. The light was gone now—swallowed by thick branches and moonless dark.

Ava had lost the trail hours ago. Her right boot was soaked from crossing the creek, and her bandaged side was bleeding again.

She leaned against a tree, hand trembling as she tried to catch her breath.

Keep going.

The words pounded like a mantra.

Keep going. Get back. Get to her.

A howl cut through the dark. Not a wolf—men. Somewhere west. Ava pressed her back to the tree and pulled her pistol from the holster with blood-slick fingers.

She waited.

The shouts grew quieter. Moving away.

She closed her eyes, jaw clenched, and whispered to no one, “Not tonight.”

Then she kept moving.

Sara – Outside the War Tent – 21:07 Hours

Sara stood just beyond the perimeter of camp, jacket wrapped tight against the wind.

Nora joined her quietly, offering a tin cup of something vaguely warm.

“She’s tough,” Nora said.

“I know.”

“You’re tougher.”

Sara didn’t reply. Her gaze was locked on the darkness beyond the campfires.

“It’s been six hours,” she said finally. “No signal. No flare. No comms.”

Nora hesitated. “She knows someone will come.”

Sara’s voice cracked, low and raw. “She doesn’t expect anyone to come.”

Nora watched her. “But you’re coming.”

Sara didn’t blink. “At first light.”

Ava – 22:19 Hours – Ravine Edge

She didn’t see the edge until it was too late.

One wrong step and the earth crumbled beneath her boot.

Ava hit the slope hard, rolling—branches tearing at her jacket and hands as she slid through dirt and dry leaves.

She slammed to a stop against a log, gasping.

Her leg screamed. Something pulled. Maybe torn.

She didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, gritting her teeth, she sat up—slowly, wincing.

Dark sky above. Blood on her sleeve. But the stars were out now. She found the North Star.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. North.”

Her voice was hoarse. But she started crawling forward.

Sara – Her Tent, Later That Night

She couldn’t sleep. Didn’t even try.

Her cot stayed cold. The lantern was still burning low.

Amaya ducked in quietly. “There’s nothing new.”

Sara just nodded.

Amaya hesitated. “Gideon’s prepping early maps. First light.”

“I’m going,” Sara said.

“You don’t have to—”

“I am.”

They looked at each other.

“I jumped into occupied France for her,” Sara said. “You really think I’m just going to sit here now?”

Amaya nodded slowly, understanding in her eyes. “We’ll go with you.”

Sara nodded. Her voice was steady now. Resigned. Focused.

“She’s alive,” she said.

Then, softer, barely audible—

“She has to be.”

Dawn, Unknown Hillside, Somewhere in Northern France

The first light of dawn broke cold over the hills. Mist clung low to the ground, curling between tree roots and scattering silver across the battered remnants of the night.

Ava Sharpe didn’t move at first.

She sat at the edge of a stream, one boot in the water, blood drying just beneath her collar, one sleeve ripped at the shoulder. Her side throbbing from the stab wound. Her knuckles were raw. Her lip was split. But she was alive.

The enemy pilot hadn’t been so lucky.

She hadn’t wanted to kill him. Not really. But when you’re disarmed and outmatched and someone’s got a bayonet to your throat, you stop thinking in terms of peace. You start thinking in inches. In pressure points. In survival.

Ava had won.

Barely.

And now she was somewhere between nowhere and hell, no idea which direction the base was, no food, one canteen, and a sharp, cold ache in her ribs that suggested she might’ve cracked something during the fall.

But her hands still worked.

Her legs, bruised as they were, still carried her.

And her mind… well. That was a storm all its own.

She kept seeing her—blonde hair whipping in the wind, eyes blazing, voice shouting across the radio just before the whole world exploded.

Sara.

Ava closed her eyes.

She’d left her. She’d gone after the lead fighter because she thought ending the threat would protect Sara. But now? She didn’t know what she’d left her to.

She needed to get back.

Needed to see her.

Not just to prove she was still alive—but to make sure Sara was too.

Ava rose slowly, breath catching in her chest.

A snapped twig turned her sharp. Hand on her sidearm, eyes sweeping the treeline.

Nothing.

Birds.

She exhaled. Tension slipping loose in small, controlled doses.

Then she looked to the rising sun. The base had to be east. Or close.

She picked a direction and started walking.

Step after step.

Each one heavy.

Each one full of something she hadn’t dared name—not in the air, not in the dark, not when her fist connected with the enemy’s throat and not when she woke with dried blood in her mouth.

It wasn’t just adrenaline anymore.

It was Sara.

It had always been Sara.

And Ava Sharpe was going to make it back to her.

Or die trying.

Later That Morning, Deep Woods

Her steps were uneven now. Pain pulsed in her side with every breath, and her boots were caked in mud that clung like guilt. The forest stretched endlessly around her—shadow and green and the occasional crack of something unseen in the brush. She’d been walking for hours, maybe more.

Time meant nothing when your only goal was don’t stop.

Ava’s fingers grazed the bark of a tree as she passed, needing the grounding. The world tilted just slightly—fatigue clawing at her spine—but she kept going.

One foot. Then the other.

She’d survive this. She had to.

Ava pushed through a dense patch of underbrush, only to freeze mid-step.

Voices.

Low. Urgent. Close.

Her hand went to her sidearm again, instinct roaring back to life. She dropped low, shoulder brushing the wet forest floor. Crawled forward just enough to see through the ferns.

Movement. Three figures—armed. Not in enemy gray. In worn bomber jackets. One of them cursing under her breath.

Ava blinked.

That voice.

Spooner.

“…She’s not gonna be happy,” Spooner grumbled, brushing branches aside as she stomped forward. “We’ve been out here for hours.”

“You mean Sara isn’t gonna be happy,” Astra muttered. “I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about finding Captain Doom before she bleeds out in a ditch.”

“Real comforting,” Zari said, squinting into the trees. “But if I know Ava—she’s not dying. She’s pissed.”

Ava straightened slowly, a breath catching in her throat.

Zari.

She stepped out from behind the brush. “Took you long enough.”

Three heads snapped in her direction.

Spooner actually swore aloud. “Holy shit.”

Zari rushed forward first, eyes wide, taking in Ava’s split lip, the blood caked at her temple, the limp.

“Ava! You’re—God, you look like hell.” She didn’t hesitate to wrap her in a careful hug.

Ava tensed. Then—after a beat—let her forehead rest briefly against Zari’s shoulder.

“Nice to see you too,” she rasped.

Astra stepped in next, eyes scanning Ava up and down like a triage report. “You’re walking. That’s something.”

“Barely,” Ava muttered. “Took down a pilot. Cracked a few ribs. Might’ve cursed the forest once or twice.”

Spooner shook her head, already pulling her canteen out. “Sara’s gonna kill us for going rogue.”

Zari smirked. “Then we better get her back before she finds out.”

Ava looked at them—all three of them, dirty and tired and so clearly her people, despite every effort she’d made to stay distant.

“Thanks,” she said, low and hoarse.

Spooner grinned. “Don’t thank us yet. We’ve got five miles of forest and a pissed-off blonde waiting back at base.”

Ava huffed a breath that might’ve been the start of a laugh. “Lead the way.”

They turned as a unit, Ava in the middle, limping but upright, surrounded by three of the most stubborn women on earth.

She didn’t say it out loud.

But in her gut, she felt it: She was going home.

Chapter Text

13:06 Hours – Base Perimeter, Northern France

Shouts erupted from the edge of the woods.

A guard at the perimeter post scrambled down, hollering toward the main tents as three familiar figures stumbled out of the trees—mud-streaked, sweat-drenched, and hauling a fourth between them.

Zari’s jacket was tied around her waist, her sleeves soaked through. Astra was gripping Ava’s left arm, Spooner her right, both of them barely keeping her upright as they emerged from the forest like a ghost story come to life.

Heads snapped up.

Gideon dropped the wrench in her hands. Amaya stood so fast her chair toppled. Nate cursed, sprinting toward them.

And Sara—

Sara broke into a run.

Ava looked like she’d been chewed up by the war and spit out just to spite it. Her hair was matted to her forehead with dried blood. Her uniform was torn and damp. Her side was wrapped in something makeshift and red-soaked. But her eyes—half-lidded and glassy—locked on one thing through the blur.

Sara.

Her steps faltered.

Zari shouted something, but Ava didn’t hear it.

She pulled herself out of their grip—one final effort of sheer will—and staggered forward.

Straight into Sara’s arms.

Sara caught her with a breathless, “Ava!”

Ava slumped forward, her body going limp as everything gave out at once—her knees, her shoulders, her strength. Her cheek pressed into the curve of Sara’s neck, her breath hot and ragged.

“I got back,” she mumbled.

Sara tightened her hold instinctively, one arm across Ava’s back, the other cradling her head. “MEDIC!” she screamed over her shoulder. “We need a medic now!”

Boots pounded on the ground. Someone ran for a stretcher. Zari collapsed to her knees, panting. Astra leaned forward, bracing her hands on her thighs. Spooner dropped next to them, face pale but victorious.

“I told you,” she said to no one in particular. “Captain Doom doesn’t die easy.”

Medics swept in. Sara started to move with them, but Ava’s hand curled into the fabric of her shirt.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered, barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sara said, voice fierce and breaking all at once. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

As Ava was lifted onto the stretcher, her eyes stayed on Sara’s face—until, finally, they slid closed.

And for the first time in days, everyone on base exhaled.

Base Med Bay, Northern France

The med bay was a whirlwind.

Canvas flaps snapped in the wind as the stretcher burst through the doors, surrounded by white coats and barking orders. Ava’s uniform was already being cut away, blood-soaked and stiff. Her skin was pale, clammy. The gash on her stomach had bled through three makeshift wrappings. Her fingers were bent at odd angles. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps—every one of them costing her.

“Laceration to the abdomen, likely infected. Head wound—possible abscess. Broken ribs. Fractured fingers. She's barely conscious—get me a morphine kit and iodine, now!”

Sara shoved in behind them, pushing past a medic who tried to hold her back.

“She stays,” Ava rasped, eyes fluttering open just long enough to see the medic hesitate. “She stays.”

Sara grabbed her hand before the medic could object. “I’m not leaving. Not again.”

A nurse pressed gauze to the stomach wound. Ava arched off the cot with a cry before going limp again.

“BP’s crashing,” one of the doctors said. “We need to stabilize before we lose her.”

They moved fast—saline drip, morphine injection, disinfectant poured directly into the gash on her forehead. Ava bit back a scream, and Sara squeezed her hand tighter.

The head doctor cut through the din. “Someone get me penicillin. If that head wound’s been festering in the field, we don’t have time to wait for a fever to confirm it.”

Sara leaned over her, brushing damp hair from Ava’s face. “Hey. You’re doing great. Just stay with me.”

Ava blinked up at her, unfocused. “Sorry… sorry I—”

“Don’t,” Sara said fiercely. “You don’t get to say sorry. You came back. That’s all that matters.”

A medic working on Ava’s ribs shook his head grimly. “Three, maybe four are broken. Her left lung’s bruised. We’ll need to tape her tight and monitor breathing.”

“She’s going to need time off flight duty,” another added.

“She’s going to need time to live,” Sara snapped. “So fix her.”

The chaos spun on, but Ava’s fingers didn’t let go. Even as she slipped under the weight of drugs and exhaustion, her hand stayed locked in Sara’s.

Only when they started stitching her head wound did she finally fade into unconsciousness, her body too broken to keep fighting.

But she was alive.

And Sara wasn’t letting go.

Not now. Not ever again.

13:49 Hours – Outside the Med Bay

The canvas flap swung shut behind Sara with a harsh snap, the medic standing firm, arms crossed.

Sara didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Not with the blood still on her hands—Ava’s blood. Her jaw clenched as she backed away, her boots unsteady on the packed dirt.

The crew was already there—Amaya pacing in tight circles, Gideon sitting on a crate with her hands clenched, Nora silently watching the med bay flaps like she could will them to reopen.

“She’s still alive,” Spooner said, trying for reassurance.

“She made it back,” Nora added.

Sara didn’t hear any of them. Her ears were ringing, her thoughts a storm.

“I shouldn’t have let her go,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight.”

Zari stepped up, brows furrowed. “You didn’t let her do anything. You know her—she would’ve gone with or without permission.”

“She’s Ava Sharpe,” Mona chimed in, quieter. “She survives.”

Sara’s head shook slowly. “Not always. Not forever.”

Amaya’s voice was gentle. “But she did. She’s in there. With the best medics we’ve got.”

Sara finally looked up. Her eyes were rimmed red, her jaw set in that fragile way that meant she was barely holding it together.

“I jumped out of a damn plane for her,” she whispered. “I’ve broken every rule I’ve ever followed because I couldn’t bear the thought of her going down alone. And now she’s in there and I can’t do anything.”

“You stayed,” Spooner said. “That counts.”

“I need her to wake up,” Sara said. Her voice cracked. “I need her to come back. Not just breathing. Her. The woman who yells at clouds and tells me I’m reckless while she flies straight into hell. The one who pretends she doesn’t care but would burn down the world to keep us safe.”

Gideon stood and approached gently. “She’d say the same about you, Sara.”

But Sara’s mind was spiraling—blood on Ava’s face, the dead silence on comms, the moment she collapsed into her arms. It all looped like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

“What if we were too late?” Sara asked, barely above a whisper.

“We weren’t,” Zari said, gripping her shoulder. “She’s alive. You just have to believe she’s strong enough to come back the rest of the way.”

Sara blinked down tears.

“And if she doesn’t?”

No one answered.

Because they all knew what losing Ava would do to her.

So they sat in the silence, the weight of it shared. Waiting.

Hoping.

Praying the worst part of the war hadn’t just begun.

14:32 Hours – Outside the Med Bay, Base Camp

The quiet had grown oppressive.

No one spoke anymore. Even Spooner had stopped pacing. Amaya sat with her elbows on her knees, head bowed like in prayer. Gideon clutched her field notebook, though she hadn’t written a single word in over thirty minutes. Nora just stared at the flap of the med tent like it might open with good news.

Sara stood apart from them all, arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw rigid. Her eyes were dry, but only because she didn’t have anything left to cry out. She didn’t even notice the medic approaching until he stopped in front of Nate.

“Hey,” the young medic said, voice soft but clear, clipboard in hand. “Are you Lieutenant Heywood?”

Nate stood immediately, the rest of the group snapping to attention like a wire had been pulled.

“Yeah,” Nate said, wary. “That’s me.”

“You’re listed as Captain Sharpe’s next of kin,” the medic explained. “You’re her emergency contact.”

That hit like a punch to the gut.

Zari’s eyes widened. Sara’s breath caught in her throat.

Nate swallowed. “Is she—?”

“She’s stable,” the medic said quickly, glancing between their faces. “We’ve stopped the bleeding, but the abdominal wound is deep, and there’s already signs of infection. Her ribs and fingers are fractured, and there’s trauma to her head. We’ve got to get her into surgery.”

Sara took a shaky step forward. “You said stable.”

The medic nodded. “She is. But that could change quickly. We’re prepping her for air evac now. Transport plane leaves in twenty minutes. She’ll be taken to a field hospital just outside London.”

Nate nodded slowly, trying to process it all. “Can I ride with her?”

“You’re not cleared,” the medic said gently. “But I’ll make sure your name’s on the report. She’ll be in the best hands we’ve got.”

Sara blinked rapidly, her voice raw. “She’s… she’s going back alone?”

The medic hesitated. “We can’t spare a second berth on the evac. Not with how many wounded are rotating out.”

“Bullshit,” Zari muttered under her breath.

But Sara stepped back, jaw clenched. Her heart was breaking again, and this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was helplessness.

“Can I at least see her?” Nate asked, his voice soft.

The medic looked torn. “She’s being moved now. Maybe for a minute. But you’ll need to be quick.”

They didn’t wait for permission.

Nate, Zari, and Sara moved together—silent, tight. The rest of the crew followed a few steps behind, giving space but needing to be close. They rounded the side of the med tent, just in time to see Ava being wheeled out on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over her face, her blonde hair streaked with dried blood. Her uniform was half-cut away, gauze wrapped tight around her abdomen.

She looked small. Too small.

Sara stopped cold.

Zari gasped.

Nate whispered, “Hey… Doom.”

Ava’s eyes flickered open, cloudy but aware. Her gaze barely moved—until it landed on Sara.

And stayed.

Sara stepped forward, lips parting like she might speak.

Ava blinked, slow, heavy. Her voice was weak but laced with her usual bite.

“Don’t cry, Lance. You’ll ruin your rep.”

Sara laughed, and it cracked halfway out.

Nate grinned through the ache. “Still a smartass. She’s definitely going to make it.”

The medic motioned. “We’ve got to go.”

The stretcher started rolling again.

Sara called after her. “I’ll be there when you wake up, Ava. Don’t make me chase you across another continent.”

Ava’s hand lifted faintly off the edge of the stretcher, barely a wave.

Then she was gone.

And the group stood there, the echo of the moment hanging in the air.

None of them said a word.

Because none of them could.

Military Hospital, Southern England – Week 1
Ava woke to sterile white walls and the distant hum of medical equipment. Her side burned like fire, her head throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat, and her fingers were stiff under clean bandages. The last thing she remembered was Zari’s face and Sara’s arms.

Now, she was alone.

“She’s stable,” the nurse had said when she first opened her eyes. “Lucky, they said. That wound was close.”

Ava didn’t feel lucky. She felt… suspended. Floating somewhere between pain and memory.

Temporary Airfield, France – Week 1

Sara wiped soot from her cheek and swung down from the bomber, adrenaline still chasing through her blood.

“They’re not letting up,” Behrad said, jogging to meet her with fresh intel. “Another push tonight. It’s like they know we’re close to breaking them.”

“We are close,” Sara said, teeth clenched. “That’s why they’re desperate.”

Zari passed them, hands slick with grease, eyes scanning for spare parts. “Still no word from England?”

Sara shook her head once. “Radio’s tied up. And if I get one more delay from Command…”

Amaya’s voice cut in from behind her. “You’ll do what, scare them into submission with your pilot glare?”

Sara didn’t smile.

Military Hospital, England – Week 2
Ava stared out the small hospital window. Rain hit the pane in lazy taps. The stitches in her side itched beneath the gauze. Her ribs ached with every breath. The doctors told her to rest.

She walked anyway.

Each step was stiff, slow, stubborn.

She needed to move. Because when she stopped moving, she thought. About the heat of Sara’s hands. About the way her voice had cracked when she yelled for medics.

And about how she hadn’t heard from her since.

Not that Ava blamed her. The war wasn’t over. They were all still in the air.

Just… not together.

Occupied Territory, Northern France – Week 2

The sky roared with engines. The bombing run had gone sideways. Again.

Sara’s voice barked over the comms. “Phoenix 2, adjust left! You’re gonna cross into Canary airspace!”

“Copy that!” Harlow shouted back.

Behrad’s voice: “Sara! We’ve got Luftwaffe tailing!”

“I see them.”

Sara veered left, cut sharp into a defensive loop. Her gunner opened fire. The flak from below painted the sky with deadly glitter.

Inside her head, she heard Ava: You have to fly like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

She did.

Rehabilitation Wing, England – Week 3
“Ace Sharpe,” the orderly teased as he helped her adjust the pressure bandages. “We expected more teeth.”

Ava gave a half-smirk. “Don’t push it.”

They let her try the simulator once—mock cockpit, no lift. She lasted seven minutes before her head started spinning and her stitches tugged. But still, it was progress.

She slept with the photo under her pillow. The one Sara had left in her flight jacket pocket. A crumpled image of the crew—laughing, dirty, alive.

Ava traced the edge of Charlie’s smile in the picture with her thumb.

Base Camp, France – Week 4

The airfield was mud and chaos.

“We’ve got another incoming wave. Forty bombers. High altitude,” Gideon called from the comms.

“Let’s move!” Sara shouted. “Wheels up in ten!”

Spooner slung her rifle over her shoulder. “Tell me again why I didn’t sign up for radio duty?”

“Because you’re a lunatic,” Astra muttered. “Now move.”

As the crew scattered, Sara looked west—toward the coast. Toward the place where Ava had vanished weeks ago. Where no letters reached. Where no confirmation came.

She didn’t say Ava’s name aloud. But every time she flew, it was for her.

Southern England, Rehabilitation Unit– Week 5

Ava’s boots hit the polished floor with slow, deliberate weight, the rhythm of her steps steadier now, though her limp hadn’t fully disappeared. Pain still whispered beneath every motion—her ribs, her side, her pride—but she moved forward anyway, driven by the same stubborn instinct that had always kept her flying.

She didn’t need much these days. Just her chair by the tall window near the end of the hall, the one with a view of a crooked oak tree and just enough sky to make her feel less trapped.

But today, just as she turned the corner, cheers exploded down the corridor.

Shouts. Applause. Laughter. Someone dropped a tray and didn’t even bother to pick it up.

Ava paused, brows drawing together.

A nurse ran by, practically glowing. “It’s over!” she called to no one in particular. “It’s done!”

Ava turned slowly, unsure she’d heard right.

“They surrendered,” said a voice from behind her.

She glanced over.

It was one of the younger soldiers. Barely out of his teens, bandages still wrapping his shoulder. He lay propped up in a cot, staring at the ceiling like he didn’t quite believe it.

“The German army,” he added quietly, eyes blinking fast. “They surrendered.”

Ava stood still for a long beat, her breathing suddenly loud in her own ears. The words hung in the air like smoke—foreign, unreal, impossible.

She turned toward the window, the one she always sat in front of.

The sky beyond was soft gray, streaked with pale sunlight. The tree stood unmoving, unbothered. Just sky, and the whisper of wind.

The boy’s voice cut through again. “So… what do we do now?”

Ava swallowed, throat tight.

She watched a pair of birds rise into the air. She could feel her heartbeat slowing, the ache in her chest deep and hollow and echoing.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. Resolute. A little lost.

“…We go home,” she said.

Then, quieter—almost to herself—

“Wherever the hell that is.”

And for the first time in weeks, Ava let herself wonder what came next. Not just for the war. But for her. For Sara. For everything she’d built and broken along the way.

The cheers rolled on behind her. But Ava just stood there, watching the sky.

Somewhere in France – Forward Operating Airstrip

The comms room had erupted first.

Nora had been the one to burst into the makeshift mess hall, winded and wide-eyed, yelling over the clatter of silverware, “They surrendered!”

“What?” Sara blinked, half a biscuit in her mouth. “Who did?”

“The Nazis,” Nora said, breathless. “The war’s over!”

That got everyone's attention.

Spooner stood so fast her chair toppled over. “You mean over over?”

Amaya, halfway through cleaning her sidearm, dropped the cloth and let out a disbelieving laugh. “No more missions?”

Kendra blinked. “Are we—do we just… stop?”

“I think so,” Gideon said, already calculating logistics with a far-off look, “though supply chains will still need to be rerouted and—”

“Gideon,” Spooner cut in, “breathe. The war’s over. You can chill out for five minutes.”

Zari walked in just in time to catch the end of that and narrowed her eyes. “Why does everyone look like they just saw a ghost?”

“Try a surrender,” Sara said, standing slowly. “Germany’s done.”

Zari froze. “You’re serious?”

“Check the comms,” Nora said. “The whole channel’s lit up.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then—

“DOES THIS MEAN I DON’T HAVE TO EAT POWDERED EGGS ANYMORE?” Spooner yelled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Amaya said dryly. “We’ll be lucky if we get coffee that isn’t half mud.”

Gideon added, “I’ve already started recalculating supply expectations. We may see reductions before increases—”

“Gideon,” they all said in unison.

A beat.

Then Zari raised her tin mug. “To not dying in a fiery explosion?”

Everyone grabbed whatever was nearby—canteens, chipped mugs, a fork in Nora’s case—and clinked them together.

“To not dying,” they echoed.

“Yet,” Kendra muttered, ever the realist.

Before the laughter could die down, a soldier in a dusty uniform approached from outside, holding a folded piece of paper.

“Captain Lance?”

Sara turned, still smiling. “Yeah?”

He handed it over, saluted, and walked away without a word.

Sara unfolded the telegram, expecting orders, maybe debrief logistics.

What she found instead were ten perfect words, typed cleanly in black ink.

“You know where I’ll be. Come find me, my love.”

No name. But she didn’t need one.

Sara didn’t move for a beat. The smile that slowly curled her lips was quiet. Fierce. A little amazed.

“Who’s it from?” Zari asked, noticing the shift in her face.

Sara looked up, eyes glinting with something lighter, freer.

“Captain Doom,” she said.

Chapter Text

Epilogue:

The Farmhouse, Northern France – Late Autumn

The roof groaned softly under Ava’s weight as she balanced on its sloped frame, hammer in hand, the breeze carrying the scent of tilled earth and distant woodsmoke. Her hair was pulled back, a little longer now, paler in the autumn sun. The farmhouse behind her still wore its wounds—shattered beams, bullet holes in the shutters—but the front porch stood straight, the windows held glass again, and inside, the hearth was clean and waiting.

Ava swung the hammer once more, driving the nail home. She’d gotten good at fixing things—just not people. And certainly not herself.

She sat back on her heels, stretching the ache from her shoulders, when a distant crunch of gravel reached her ears.

Bootsteps.

She froze, heart slamming into her ribs like she was twenty thousand feet in the sky again.

She stood, shielding her eyes.

There she was.

Walking up the dirt path like it hadn't been months. Like it hadn’t been war. Like Ava hadn’t almost bled out in this very place and dreamt of this moment every goddamn night since.

Sara Lance.

Leather jacket. Messy braid. Grease-smudged cheek and boots covered in dust. She was thinner, stronger somehow. And her eyes—those impossible eyes—found Ava like they always had. Like a lock. Like a promise.

Ava’s mouth parted. No words came out.

Sara looked up at her. “You always this terrible at answering telegrams?”

Ava didn’t move. Not at first. Then she tossed the hammer down—it hit the grass with a dull thud—and climbed down the ladder one careful rung at a time.

When her boots hit the earth, she stared at Sara. Silent. Still.

Sara stepped in close, arms loose at her sides. “You really bought this place?”

Ava nodded. “Thought it might be good to rebuild something I didn’t destroy.”

Sara laughed—breathy, disbelieving. “You could’ve written more than one line.”

“You found me.”

“I always do.”

There was a long silence. Ava blinked, her voice hoarse. “You came.”

Sara stepped closer. “Took me long enough.”

Ava looked like she might shatter. Or run. Or kiss her. Maybe all three.

“You gonna say something poetic now, Captain Doom?” Sara teased gently.

Ava’s breath hitched. “I missed you.”

Sara’s expression broke wide open.

And that was it.

Ava reached for her, fast and desperate, hands gripping the sides of Sara’s jacket like she might disappear again. Their mouths met, not careful, not soft, but honest—like a goddamn wildfire catching dry brush.

When they pulled apart, Sara touched Ava’s jaw, thumb grazing a scar just under her eye.

Ava murmured, “You’re home now.”

Sara smiled. “That was always the plan.”

The moment stretched—warm and quiet—until the sound of clomping boots and familiar voices shattered it.
“Seriously?” came Spooner’s voice, echoing down the path. “You couldn’t wait five more minutes before making out like a war movie?”

“I told you she’d be up on the roof,” Zari said dryly.

“Technically,” Gideon chimed in, “the odds of Captain Sharpe being located atop the structure were only forty-two percent, but—”

Amaya cut her off, grinning. “Yeah, but come on… it had to be the roof. It’s dramatic.”

Nora folded her arms, looking between them. “So this is it? This is the endgame?”

Behrad nodded, pretending to wipe a tear. “Our grumpy fighter ace found her soft spot. I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

Astra snorted. “I still give them three weeks before one of them throws a wrench through the window.”

“Two,” said Mona confidently.

Sara looked back at them, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, then turned to Ava with a helpless, almost apologetic smile.

“What can I say?” she muttered. “Maybe family’s just the people who annoy you the most… and love you anyway.”

Ava rolled her eyes, but her hand found Sara’s.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

She let herself believe in peace.

In possibility.

In home.

—END—