StoriesBlog The petty officer did the same, then turned to her with a tired smile that creased the corners of his eyes. “Good flight, ma’am,” he said.
Elowen returned the smile, genuine and warm. “Good crew,” she replied, because it was true. A pilot was only as good as the people around her, and she had the best.
They climbed out of the helicopter, their boots hitting the tarmac with solid thuds that echoed in the quiet night. The other two crew members followed, stretching and yawning, the exhaustion of the long night finally catching up with them now that the mission was complete. A ground crew member approached with a clipboard, ready to begin the post-flight inspection, and Elowen signed off on the paperwork.
She walked toward the barracks. The base was quiet at this hour, most of the personnel either asleep or off-duty. The night air was cool and still, carrying the scent of jet fuel and cut grass and something indefinable that was just the smell of military bases everywhere.
The stars were bright overhead, undimmed by the modest lighting of the base, spread across the sky in a magnificent display that never got old. Elowen walked slowly, in no hurry to reach her quarters, letting the events of the night settle in her mind like sediment in water.
She thought about Marin’s apology, the raw sincerity in her voice. She thought about Captain Graves’ salute, the weight of that gesture. She thought about the look on Bridger’s face when she had told him she knew about the email thread.
She thought about the girl she had been ten years ago, sitting alone in the cafeteria with her engineering textbook, reading about flight dynamics and dreaming of a life beyond the walls of Glenridge Academy. That girl had been invisible to everyone around her, written off as nothing. But that girl had also been determined.
She had refused to let their cruelty define her, or limit her, or convince her that their assessment of her worth was accurate. She had taken every ounce of pain and doubt and loneliness and turned it into fuel. And now, that girl was gone. In her place stood a woman who had flown rescue missions in hostile territory, who had saved lives under fire, who had earned the respect of her peers and the recognition of her superiors.
Elowen reached her quarters and paused outside the door. She looked up at the stars one more time, the same stars she had looked at as a teenager lying in bed in her childhood home. Back then, the stars had felt impossibly far away. Now, she flew among them.
She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. The room was small and functional, containing only the essentials: a bed with military corners, a desk with a lamp and a few technical manuals, a locker for her uniforms. Elowen sat on the edge of the bed and removed her boots, unlacing them carefully and setting them neatly beside the door.
She unzipped her flight suit and hung it carefully in the locker, her movements methodical and precise. Then she sat back down on the bed and stared at the wall, letting the silence fill the space around her. She thought about the reunion one last time, allowing herself to process it fully now that she was alone and safe.
The look on their faces had been worth every second of the long flight, not because she wanted them to suffer, but because their reaction was proof. Proof that she had won. Proof that their cruelty had failed.
Elowen lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. She felt tired, but it was a good kind of tired, the kind that came from completing a mission, from doing what needed to be done. Somewhere, far away, in a city she would never return to, four people sat alone in the darkness, confronting the weight of their own choices.
Bridger at his window. Sloane in the garden. Paxton in his car. Lennox at his desk. They would carry this night with them for the rest of their lives as a reckoning.
And Elowen, lying in her quarters on a military base hundreds of miles away, felt nothing toward them. Not anger. Not satisfaction. Not even pity. Just indifference.
The next morning, Elowen woke early, as she always did, her internal clock set by years of military routine. The first light of dawn was just beginning to seep through, painting the walls with soft gray light. She dressed in her uniform, laced up her boots, made her bed with hospital corners, and headed to the mess hall for breakfast.
She sat alone at a table near the window, a position she had always preferred, eating quietly and watching the sun rise over the distant hills. A fellow pilot approached, a woman named Lieutenant Hayes, who Elowen had flown with on several occasions.
“Mind if I join you?” Hayes asked, holding a tray.
Elowen nodded. “Go ahead.”
Hayes sat down and began eating, making small talk about the weather and an upcoming training exercise. Then she paused, setting down her fork, and looked at Elowen with a curious expression.
“I heard you went to a reunion last night,” she said, her tone casual but interested.
Elowen glanced up from her breakfast. “Word travels fast,” she said with a slight smile.
Hayes shrugged. “Small base. Everyone knows everyone’s business eventually. So, how was it?”
Elowen considered the question, taking a sip of her coffee before responding. “It was exactly what I expected,” she said finally.
Hayes waited for more, clearly hoping for details or a story. But when Elowen did not elaborate, she shrugged and went back to her food, accepting the boundary without pushing. “Fair enough.”
They ate in comfortable silence after that. When they finished, they cleared their trays together and headed out, walking toward the flight line where the day’s training was about to begin. The Apache sat waiting on the tarmac, gleaming in the morning light, ready for whatever mission came next.
Elowen climbed into the cockpit and began her pre-flight checks. The controls responded to her touch, familiar and reliable. This was where she belonged. Not in a ballroom full of people who had never understood her, but here, in the cockpit of a machine built for precision and purpose, surrounded by people who valued competence and courage above all else.
The rotors began to spin, the sound building from a whisper to a roar as the engines came to life. Elowen lifted off smoothly, the ground falling away beneath her. She banked the aircraft and headed toward the training range, the familiar landmarks passing beneath her, the world spreading out in every direction.
Up here, she was free. Free to be exactly who she was without explanation or apology. She had gone to the reunion not for revenge, but for closure. And she had found it.
She had proven, beyond any possible doubt, that their cruelty had not broken her. It had forged her, tempered her like steel and fire, burning away weakness and doubt and leaving behind something stronger than they could ever imagine. The helicopter disappeared into the distance, becoming a small speck against the vast blue sky, carrying with it a woman who had become a legend.
And somewhere, in a city far behind her, the torn-up lawn of the Cascadia Grand Estate remained. The marks in the grass were deep and unmistakable, carved into the earth by the weight of an Apache helicopter. The groundskeepers would repair it eventually, but for now, the marks remained, a silent reminder visible to anyone who passed by.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, warming the earth, illuminating the torn grass and the empty ballroom and the city beyond. Life continued as it always did. But for the people who had been in that ballroom, who had witnessed what happened when casual cruelty met earned dignity, something had changed.
A seed had been planted, a question raised that could not be unasked: If they had been so wrong about Elowen, what else were they wrong about? And high above it all, cutting through the clear morning air with purpose and precision, Elowen flew onward toward whatever came next, carrying with her the quiet confidence of someone who had faced her past and found that it had no power over her future.