Throttle and Spark

Caitlyn walked briskly alongside Colonel Grayson, the rhythmic sound of their boots echoing against the polished concrete of the airfield. The morning sun beat down on the tarmac, the distant hum of engines filling the air. The adrenaline of the assignment still buzzed in her chest, but Grayson’s sharp tone and steady pace quickly brought her focus back to the task at hand.

“The demonstration tour is important, Kiramman. Recruitment numbers are low, and we need pilots who can inspire,” Grayson said, her voice unwavering, her gaze fixed ahead. “You’ll be flying the Tempest. It’s a solid piece of machinery—sleek, fast, and capable of some of the most advanced maneuvers we’ve ever seen. Get familiar with her. You’ll need to trust her as much as you trust your own instincts out there.”

Caitlyn nodded, a sense of pride swelling in her chest at the mention of the Tempest. She’d heard rumors about the jet’s capabilities—how it could practically read the pilot’s mind in mid-flight, adjusting with near-perfect precision. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the controls.

Grayson came to a halt in front of a hangar. “This is it,” she said. “The falcon. An f-16." She said proudly.

The hangar door slowly rolled open, revealing the sleek form of the jet, bathed in the golden light of the morning sun. Its engines hummed softly as if waiting for her command. Caitlyn felt a surge of excitement but masked it quickly, her face neutral as always.

“You’ll be on your own for now,” Grayson said, hier voice devoid of warmth. “Get accustomed to the cockpit, run through your checks. I’ll check back in later.”

Caitlyn watched Grayson turn and leave, her heavy footsteps fading in the distance. As the airfield fell into a quieter rhythm, Caitlyn approached the jet, her fingers trailing along its smooth, metallic surface. She bent down to check the landing gear, her mind already ticking through a checklist of things she’d need to do before takeoff.

But as she turned to head to the cockpit, a pink hint in the corner of her eyes caught her attention across the tarmac.

A mechanic was crouched beside a nearby fighter jet, arms buried deep inside the exposed engine bay. She was roughened, toned, and completely absorbed in her work, muscles flexing as she adjusted something within the turbofan’s intricate system. Her tank top, damp with sweat, bore the Air Force insignia across the back, while her flight jacket hung loosely around her waist. Grease smudged her forearms, staining the rolled-up cuffs of her baggy jeans.

Caitlyn forced herself to look away. It didn’t matter that the woman moved with an effortless kind of skill, or that there was something striking about the way she carried herself. It really didn’t matter how unfairly good she looked doing it.

She turned back to her own jet, exhaling sharply. Focus, she told herself. Now was not the time for flaunting over random women, you're better than that, she thought.

Caitlyn ran a hand along the sleek fuselage of the F-16 Falcon, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingertips. It was a beautiful machine, a perfect balance of power and precision. She had flown similar models before, but this one was hers now—at least for the duration of the tour. She stepped back, eyes trailing along the contours of the aircraft, taking in every detail with the sharp attentiveness drilled into her through years of training.

Her gaze, however, kept drifting.

The mechanic—whoever she was—hadn’t moved much from her position, still half-buried in the guts of the fighter jet she was working on. Caitlyn watched as the woman leaned further into the open engine panel, fingers working deftly over some unseen component. The muscles in her arms shifted with each movement, the fabric of her tank top clinging to her toned back, the air force logo stretched slightly across her shoulder blades.

Caitlyn inhaled sharply and forced her attention back to her own jet.

She walked the perimeter, examining the Falcon’s weapon hardpoints, its landing gear, its intake. Her mind was on the aircraft, on its specs, on how it would handle—until, once again, her gaze flickered back to the other woman. There was something about the way she moved, the effortless confidence in her hands as she worked. Caitlyn clenched her jaw. Focus, Kiramman.

Then, something caught her eye.

The engine bay the mechanic was working on—there was a misalignment in one of the components, subtle but unmistakable. Caitlyn knew jets like the back of her hand, and if left unchecked, that misalignment could lead to serious issues. She hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer.

“Hey,” she called, voice sharper than intended. The mechanic barely turned her head.

Caitlyn sighed, pushing down the flustered edge in her chest. “Your turbine coupling is off,” she said, arms crossing over her chest. “If you leave it like that, it’ll cause compressor stalls under high thrust.”

The mechanic stiffened, pulling herself out from the engine compartment. When she turned fully to face Caitlyn, her expression was unreadable—except for the slight narrowing of her eyes, a flicker of something defensive in them.

“I know what I’m doing,” the woman shot back, wiping her hands on a rag. “I don’t need some pilot hovering over me with half-baked pointers.”

Caitlyn arched a brow, irritation flaring. “Half-baked? It’s basic engineering. But sure, go ahead and ignore it—hope you like flameouts.”

The mechanic scoffed, tossing the rag over her shoulder. “Wow. You always this charming, or am I just lucky today?”

Caitlyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. Great. Just great. She huffed, turning back to her Falcon before she could snap again.

So much for the charming pinkette butch caitlyns been mentally drooling over for the last..six minutes, or so. Ugh.

____

Vi sat in the bustling cafeteria, a steaming plate of food in front of her. She had barely taken a bite before she muttered something incoherent under her breath.

One of the guys sitting across from her—a scruffy-looking sergeant with an easy smirk—looked up from his tray. “what?”

Vi sighed, stabbing a piece of food with her fork. “that stuck-up tall pilot with the blue hair. Had a pretty little run-in with her today.”

The other guy at the table, a younger mechanic with grease-stained hands, snorted. “You mean Kiramman?”

Vi frowned. “Kiramman?”

The sergeant chuckled, leaning back. “Yeah, Caitlyn Kiramman. Colonel’s kid. Top pilot. Big deal around here.”

Vi stopped mid-chew, blinking. Kiramman. The name stirred something in her brain, but she couldn’t quite place it. She glanced over at the far end of the cafeteria, where Caitlyn sat, poised and proper even while eating.

Vi exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. Figures.

She glances back at kiramm-- caitlyn, she mentally corrects herself, again, watching for a moment.

Vi leaned back slightly, chewing slower as she observed Caitlyn from across the room. The way she carried herself—rigid posture, every movement deliberate—screamed discipline. Even here, in a noisy cafeteria, Caitlyn looked like she belonged somewhere else. Somewhere cleaner. More polished. Not here, among the grease-streaked mechanics and rowdy soldiers.

“She doesn’t look so special,” Vi muttered, though the words felt hollow even as she said them.

The younger mechanic chuckled. “Yeah? Try telling that to the brass. She’s one of the best pilots we’ve got. Top of every flight evaluation, runs a tight ship. Doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

Vi rolled her eyes. Yeah, I got that part already.

The sergeant smirked. “Sounds like someone’s got a little problem with authority.”

Vi scoffed, shoving another bite of food into her mouth. “More like authority’s got a problem with me.”

Her eyes flickered back to Caitlyn, despite herself. It wasn’t just the attitude that had gotten under her skin—there was something else. A nagging familiarity she couldn’t shake. Kiramman. The name sat on her tongue like an old memory just out of reach.

Caitlyn suddenly stood, gathering her things with that same practiced efficiency, and Vi quickly looked away, scowling at her tray. Whatever. It didn’t matter. They’d probably never have to deal with each other again.

__

The steam of the shower room clouded around vi asbshe washed up. Showers weren't open to her as much as she'd liked, but when they were, she spent a good amount of time in there, given there's not people waiting to shower behind her.

She made her way back to her barracks in a new tank top and jeans, drying her hair out with a hand towel. She felt better now, less tense, less irritated, less greasy.

"Violet, mechanic 516?" Graysons voice rang put behind vi. She stopped in her tracks, and looked over one broad shoulder. Once her eyes successfully found Grayson, standing tall behind her, she spoke.

"This is she," said, raising a brow as she gave Grayson a once-over with her eyes. Grayson clicked her tongue.

“The higher-ups have been watching you, Vi. You handle these jets with efficiency—fast and flawless.” Grayson’s voice carried that familiar edge of pride.

Vi cocked her head, silently urging her to get to the point.

Grayson chuckled, clasping her hands behind her back. “Alright, alright. Here it is—you’re being assigned to a pilot for the upcoming tour. You’ll travel with her, keep her jet in top condition, and ensure it’s always ready for the sky.”

Vi’s brows lifted slightly. “So I’m some pilot’s personal mechanic?”

Grayson gave a single nod.

Vi straightened, surprise flickering across her face before a slow smirk tugged at her lips. “Color me intrigued.” She turned fully toward Grayson, taking a step closer. “It’d be an honor, Colonel.” Her tone was casual, but there was a spark of genuine excitement beneath it. “So, uh… do I get to fly my o—”

“You leave tomorrow.” Grayson cut in smoothly. “Pack your gear—extra uniform, toiletries, government ID—” She paused, eyeing Vi pointedly. “And that’s it. You’ll be departing with Pilot Kiramman at 11:25 sharp.”

Vi froze. Tomorrow? Damn, she had to find her ID—hadn’t seen that thing in months. And—

Wait.

Kiramman?

The same stuck-up, blue-haired pilot from earlier? Her pilot?

Vi opened her mouth to protest. “But, Colonel—”

“What’s done is done.” Grayson didn’t give her a chance. “Get packing, now. Good luck, Violet.” And with that, she turned and walked away.

Vi stood there, staring after her, processing.

Well… shit.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. All she had to do was make sure Kiramman’s jet didn’t explode mid-flight. Should be easy enough..