Killshot
Nothing else really matters when you’re 60,000 feet up in the air.
At initial takeoff, your body is catapulted back in your seat as twin-jet engines expulse 35,000 pounds of thrust at the rear. There’s the gritty anticipation as rubber wheels skid across hard tarmac, the friction rattling your cockpit before the final feeling of weightlessness pushes you upwards and airborne into the sky.
Climbing hundreds of feet by the second, once-giant buildings and dips in the terrain shrink into miniscule specs beneath you. Thighs squeezing, blood pumping, eardrums bursting as your body fights to combat the G-force.
But only when it’s you, your jet, the soft clouds, and nothing else as far as the eye can see, only then do you experience true freedom.
For Lieutenant Violet “Vanguard” Vanderson, the liberation of cruising the skies had called to her since she was just a girl. Ever since she was young, there was only one answer whenever someone asked what she wanted to be when she grew up.
She wanted to be the best damn aviator the Zaun Navy had ever seen.
When all her friends were applying to Zaun Tech after graduation, or checking out classes at the local community college, Vi had practically sprinted to the recruitment office. She’d nearly taken the recruiter’s hand off when she shook it, dodging the eager calls and offers from the air force and army employees trying to poach her into their own flight programmes, to make a beeline for the navy’s stand.
Six months later she was a commissioned Zaun Navy officer. Two years after that, she’d graduated the arduous naval flight school, qualified to fly the fleet’s finest multi-million cog jets into the heat of battle.
Pinning her sleek metal wings, the navy’s marking for all of its pilots, onto her dress blues for the first time was a high like none other. Vi had been chasing that feeling ever since. It wasn’t just a symbol to her; it was a memoir of her hard work, her dedication to her country, the promise she made to her 8 year old self.
Despite her enthusiasm and passion for her job, the adaptation to fleet life didn’t come without its… difficulties. Vi struggled with a lot of the regulations implemented by the Zaun Navy. Having to dress a certain way. Having to cut your hair a certain way. Speaking, talking, acting in a certain manner. There was a rule for everything within the fleet, no matter how big or small.
It was a disagreement with one of these rules (namely calling a senior officer a very, very colourful array of vocabulary after one too many beers in the officers’ mess) that had landed Vi onto aerial patrol duty with her trusted wingman, Ekko “Little Man” Lanes, a callsign he’d picked up after everyone realised he was a foot shorter than the rest of the troop in their annual squadron-wide photoshoot.
Wherever Ekko went, Vi followed, and vice versa. Inseparable since their youth, they’d been by each other’s side for everything from pre-K teeball to initial officer training and flight school. There was no-one Vi trusted more with her life, a point she had made clear to the senior officers of the Zaun Navy very early on. And for whatever stupid reason, they’d elected to keep the pair together.
“Talk to me, Little Man,” Vi chided over the cockpit intercom. Trying to talk to her wingman outside of the radios built into their flight helmets was useless; the thunderous roar of their F22 Raptor’s afterburner drowned out all sound.
Ekko hummed over the line, his voice crackled and distorted. “I don’t see anything, Vi,” he said curtly. “Maybe it was a false alarm?”
Vi snorted and shook her head. “Navy don’t make mistakes, Little Man.”
An hour before, naval intelligence had picked up on an unknown aircraft entering Zaun airspace. The fighter jet fleet had been scrambled, but only one unfortunate pair of pilots had been sent up in a single F22.
That unfortunate pair had of course been Vi and Ekko.
Ekko sighed heavily and shifted in the rear. Vi felt his pain; the standard-issue bucket seats across all jets were ridiculously uncomfortable, especially on long flights. “There’s nothing on the Radar, man,” he whined. “I bet it’s those damn birds again, I keep telling-“
The sound of slow, steady, analogue beeping cut Ekko off. Vi grinned ear-to-ear as a tiny green dot appeared on the Radar on her instrument panel, too. “Just a false alarm, huh?” she drawled sarcastically.
Before her wingman could respond, Vi grabbed the control column between her legs and jolted it to the left. Ekko yelped as the jet lurched through the air, engines screaming as it cut a perfect arc through the nearest cloud. It was go-time.
The green blip on their Radar drew closer and closer as the pilots homed in on their target. Vi could hear Ekko moving around behind her, switches flicking as he prepared their weapons systems just in case.
This was the part of the job Vi loved the most. The thrill of the hunt. A perfect dogfight, evasive manoeuvres, getting the jump on an enemy aircraft and watching with satisfaction as it tailspun towards the ground after a strategically timed Sidewinder missile.
As the jet ripped through the air, a single dark splodge appeared on the horizon, growing larger by the millisecond. “12 o’clock, Vi,” Ekko chimed over the radio.
“I see ‘em,” Vi grunted. Her gaze didn’t shift away from the enemy aircraft once. It was cruising at a comfortable speed, seemingly unaware – or unbothered – by the danger hurtling towards them.
When they finally got close enough to see the emblems embossed onto the side of the unknown aircraft, Vi couldn’t help but feel a deep wallow of dissatisfaction in her chest. “It’s a goddamn Piltie jet,” she grumbled disappointedly.
“Really?” Ekko glanced briefly out of the bubble canopy. Vi was matching the other jet’s speed now, but still providing a safe distance between the two jets’ wings. She heard Ekko sigh. “Yep, that’s one of theirs. They’re way out of their jurisdiction, though.”
Frustration bubbled inside of Vi. They’d busted their asses flying all the way out here for this? She gritted her teeth, glaring over at the jet with ferocity like she was trying to explode it with her eyes.
Ekko spoke confidently back to base as Vi continued to stare, gaze unfaltering. “Big Bird, this is Viper-1, false alarm. I repeat, false alarm. Bogey identified as friendly jet. Out.” He exhaled deeply before switching back over to his private connection with Vi. “C’mon, man, let’s just head back home.”
Vi moved to obey, adjusting her grip on the control column, when suddenly an idea sprung to mind. A very stupid, very senseless idea. She leant back in her bucket seat. “Ekko, as respected officers of the Zaun Navy, we’re expected to maintain international relations, no?”
Vi didn’t need to explain further. Ekko knew what she was insinuating exactly, and he didn’t like it one bit. “Vi, please-“
Vi interrupted Ekko’s protest by swinging their F22 closer to the Piltovian aircraft. The wings of the two jets were inches apart, barely missing each other as they matched speed hurtling through the air.
Unclipping her facepiece, she let the rubber swing loosely by her chin as she glanced over at the Piltover pilot. They were close enough that she could see pilot’s helmet; their face was obstructed by their own respirator, but she grinned over at them nonetheless, throwing up a peacesign with her two fingers.
The other pilot tilted their head at Vi. She couldn’t see their expression but could picture their confusion – and that was enough for her.
With a giggle, Vi peeled their F22 away and headed them both back to base.
***
Post-flight meetings always made Vi feel like she was back at school. Regardless of if it was a standard training mission, or if the Battle of Noxus had been recreated over their heads, the admiral insisted on a rundown afterwards.
Vi and Ekko stood outside of the admiral’s office, awaiting the call to come in. Ekko’s knee was bouncing violently with nerves, whereas Vi was failing to hide the boredom plastered across her face. She stared out at the various posters and notices pinned up to the corkboard in front of them, words and phrases she’d read a thousand times before, gaze occasionally flickering when other officers and general enlisted passed them in the corridor.
“Come in!” a voice finally boomed from inside. Vi and Ekko piled into the cramped office obediently.
Upon their arrival, there were two indications that they were in deep, deep trouble.
One, Admiral Silco hadn’t asked either of them to take a seat.
Two, his one good eye was twitching manically, a habit which only emerged when he was very nervous or very angry.
Silco’s hand flickered at the landline perched atop his desk. His lips curled into a frown as he looked up at them from his grand armchair. “I’ve just had an interesting conversation with the Commodore of the Royal Piltovian Air Force,” he growled lowly. “Would either of you care to explain why he was rambling about a Zaun Navy jet endangering the lives of one of his pilots?”
Vi snorted. “Endangering is a strong term, sir.”
Silco’s hand slapped down on the tabletop before him. His left eye fluttered between the two of them, while the milky orb where his right eye should have been stared straight forward.
Vi had heard whispers of how the admiral had lost his eye. Some said he put his head too near a live afterburner when he was just a young officer, others said it had been shot out by a stray round which had penetrated his canopy during a dogfight. Regardless, it made him look terrifying – especially when he was angry.
“And how would you describe it, then, Vanderson?” Silco snapped.
Clearing her throat, Vi spoke for them again. “We were keeping up foreign relations, sir. The pilot should be thankful, really. They entered our airspace, we were within our rights to shoot them down there and then.”
Silco groaned and ran a hand through his thick greasy hair. “Always shoot first, ask questions later with you, isn’t it, Vanderson?” he spat. “You should count yourselves lucky Commodore Heimerdinger and I are good friends. He was insisting I have you both dishonourably discharged.”
It was Ekko’s turn to talk this time. He shuffled awkwardly in his position of attention. “Sir, with all due respect, we-“
“You two are the best damn pilots we have on this squadron at the moment,” Silco shouted, cutting the other officer off. Vi cocked an eyebrow in confusion; for a man complimenting them, he didn’t sound empathetic at all. “But you’re loose cannons. You march to the beat of your own drums. If we ever went to war, you wouldn’t be an asset, you’d be a liability. That’s why I’m sending you both away.”
Silence. Vi swallowed hard. Being sent away could mean anything from paid leave to Stillwater. “Where are you sending us, sir?” she asked earnestly.
Silco inhaled, like the words were causing him physical pain. “You idiots are going to Top Gun.”
***
Vi was sizing up their classmates the moment she stepped into the training centre on the first day.
Six tables had been rammed into a single stuffy classroom, two chairs accompanying them each. One table for each pilot and their weapons system operator. Most of the seats had already been taken by the other officers, chatting and laughing quietly amongst themselves. Vi noticed the contrast in uniforms, as well. Some wore the standard Zaun military outfits, whereas others were donning their Piltover blues proudly.
“Didn’t know this was a coalition thing,” Vi murmured under her breath to Ekko as they entered.
Her wingman just shrugged dismissively. “I’m not surprised. Most of our ops are with Pilties nowadays.”
Vi hummed in agreement as she scanned the room. There were a few faces she recognised; others were complete strangers.
There was Mel Medarda, who could talk you up a storm then have you on your ass in a dogfight in ten seconds flat.
Loris, the gentle giant weapons system operator who could hit a perfect bullseye at Mach-2 speeds without breaking a sweat.
Steb, a quiet and reserved pilot from Piltover. Vi didn’t know much about him; she doubted anyone did. He barely spoke a word.
Maddie Nolen, another Piltie aviator. Her and Vi had crossed paths a few times on aerial missions before, but Vi didn’t speak to her unless necessary. From the brief interactions they’d had, Vi got the impression that she was a little too eager to people-please.
And of course, sat second row from the front next to Mel, was the person Vi recognised almost instantly. She could spot the indistinguishable square head and blocky shoulders of Jayce Talis a mile off.
The officers had met each other on a multitude of occasions, mostly on coalition operations, where the Royal Piltovian Air Force and Zaun Navy came together for training and missions. Vi was taken aback by Jayce’s mechanical skills; he could have a faulty jet engine up and running in twenty minutes flat with nothing but a rock and an oil rag.
With a grin, Vi strode to the front and placed both hands on those great shoulders, shaking them lightly. “They’re just letting anyone in now, huh?” she beamed, plonking down in the seat in front of them. Ekko slid in next to her reluctantly.
Jayce jumped at the sudden physical contact, but sighed exasperatedly when he realised who it was. “Nice to see you too, Vanderson,” he droned, kicking the back of her chair. “Whose Porsche did you have to polish to get sent here?”
Vi looked over her shoulder at him with a wink. “A lot more than a Porsche,” she retorted.
Jayce grimaced for a moment before cracking into a wide grin. “Good to see you again, asshole.”
Vi opened her mouth to respond, but shut it quickly when the door swung open at the back of the classroom. A greying, broad-shouldered lady stormed through, eyebrows knitted tight, not looking back at the trainees until she was at the front of the class and looming over them all. She too wore an RPAF officer’s uniform, adorned with three light blue stripes running across each sleeve.
The lady spoke clearly and confidently, eyes gradually grazing over each officer in the room. “Good morning to you all,” she drilled, folding her arms behind her back. “My name is Commander Grayson; I oversee the Top Gun programme. You’ve all been sent here because you’re the best that your squadron has to offer; now it’s time to see who’s the best of the best.”
She strolled up and down intermittently as she spoke. “For the next ten weeks, you’ll be competing against each other and pushed to your limits as you learn advanced evasive manoeuvres and firefight tactics.”
Grayson’s arm extended upwards and she gestured towards the back of the room. Everyone’s eyes followed and eventually found what she was pointing towards: a single dark oak plaque, polished profusely, with a list of names and dates engraved into the wood. “The candidate with the highest grades across all classes will graduate top of the class and be invited back to teach new trainees in the future. This is the honour you should strive towards, ladies and gentlemen; not second best, or third best, but top.”
The heads turned around to face Grayson once again, whose expression still remained unreadable. “Your returning Top Gun graduate this year was the first person to ever complete the course under the age of 21. Not only did she come out top of her class, but many of her records remain unbroken to this day.”
The rear doors swung open again. The faint clacking of parade boots against marble echoed through the small classroom as Grayson announced the new arrival, raising her hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you from the Royal Piltovian Air Force, Captain Caitlyn Kiramman. Callsign Killshot.”