NOVA
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23/05/2002 - 11am
Alto, New Mexico
Silverwing Base
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I remember career day in first grade like it was yesterday.

I walked into class dressed as a surgeon, sleeves too long, drowning in scrubs my mom stitched from an old bed sheet. Plastic stethoscope around my neck, red cross on my chest drawn in permanent marker. When it was my turn, I stood proud in front of the class and said, "I want to help people like my Daddy, who lost their leg."

Dad lost his leg in Vietnam. Told me once it got bitten off by a crocodile. At five, I believed it. At seven, I knew better. At eight, I stopped hearing stories from him altogether. They got swapped for instructions. Technique.

Back then, I thought I'd grow up to stitch people back together. Turns out, the only thing I ever learned to stitch was my own gashes and the barrel of my Smith & Wesson. Formerly my dad's. Been strapped to my thigh through every op I've run since I was seventeen.

Funny how life reroutes you.

The radio hums faintly behind me as I sit cross-legged on my bed, parts of the pistol fanned out in front of me like I'm piecing together a memory. It's a calming ritual. I clean the barrel slowly, with practiced care. There's something meditative about it. Like just maybe if I polish it enough, the rust inside of me will clear too.

The S&W isn't the newest model. Three years ago, Commander Vincent gifted me a replacement on my service anniversary. Sleek, blue-stripe frame that ran from the barrel to the trigger.

Thing's been in its case under my bed ever since, gathering dust along with the boots that don't fit me anymore. It never felt right in my hand. Didn't have the weight. The history. My old mans kill-streak.

Old habits, old weapons. They don't die easy.

A sharp knock on my door breaks the silence. I don't look up. Just finish one more pass down the barrel, set the cloth aside, then get up and reach for the handle with my elbow. Valerie VanCelli's sharp silhouette stands in the frame, hands on her hips, tapping her boot like she's about to deliver either a mission or a crisis. Consider her something similar to a spokeswoman, but restricted within the Fleetwood organisation.

"Val," I say, smiling with minimal teeth. "Always a pleasure. You look like bad news."

"Carlos Richards is dead," she blurts.

Damn. No easing in. No greeting. Just that. Carlos Richards. The name punches the air out of the room.

I blink. For a second, the name doesn't connect to a face. Then I see him. Tall, buzzcut. Serious but kind. A Hawk group Captain. We worked one joint op back in '99. A good man. Better than most. I actually worked pretty damn well alongside him, considering I haven't harnessed much luck in the past working alongside officers from the Hawks.

"Shit," I say, sitting back down on the bed. "How?"

"Shot in the head. Two weeks ago. His partner filed the report."

Two weeks. No one said a word. I stare down at the pistol in my lap, suddenly aware of the way my fingers tighten around it. "That's a loss," I say quietly. Val squints, as though trying to gauge my sincerity.

"A huge one, Nova. And it's why Commander Vincent wants a word. Now."

Val's already halfway back across base before I can get to my feet and pry about the topic. Typical. She drops bombshells and vanishes before you can ask where the debris's gonna land.

Vincent, our aging, British born and raised Commander is not somebody you want to be late for. I assemble the pistol, snap it into place, and slide it into my belt like muscle memory. Don't ask why I wear it around base, when we're literally in damn Alto. Maybe it's an emotional crutch. Maybe, just maybe, I trust barbed wire fences about as much as I trust unofficial briefings.

The walk to Vincent's office feels longer than usual. Every step echoes louder in my ears. My boots scuff the concrete floor. My gut churns. My mind starts working overtime, drawing lines between Richards' death and the gaping vacancy he's left behind.

It clicks. If one of the two Captain's in a group goes down, they need someone to replace that spot. If nobody else in that Captain's group is adequate enough, they transfer an officer from a different group.

And I am a Captain in the Falcons. A little surprising for a twenty-five year old, but the shock wears off when I remember I knew how to hit a target before I hit puberty.

A Captain goes down, someone's gotta step up.

Reaching his office, my hand hesitates on the door.

If my predictions are correct, I won't be impressed. My leadership in the Falcons has taken off in this past year for the better. I'm finally at a place where I feel settled.

I need to stop catasrophizing. It mightn't even be anything about what I'm anticipating.

"Shields, there's a camera right outside," Vincent's voice crackles through an intercom I don't spot. "Get in."

Slightly mortifying, but of course. No point lingering outside like some nervous rookie. I push open the door.

"Commander V. Val said you wanted a word with me." I say as I step inside, posture squared, like I wasn't just hovering outside like an imbecile a few seconds ago.

"Have a seat, Shields."

He gestures toward the chair opposite him, and it creaks beneath me as I settle in. Vincent links his fingers together, resting them on his desk above some case files. My throat clears itself as some way to break the tense silence.

"Richards' death left a hole," He starts, one of his wrinkled eyes twitching slightly, the other hidden underneath his eye patch.

"Yes, Sir."

"A big one," he continues, popping a humbug into his mouth and swirling it in his cheek. "We kept it quiet. Didn't want speculation until we knew our next step."

Next step.

His thoughts loom behind his eyepatch, a symbol of the decades he's had in this field. Instead of breaking the silence outside of his loud chewing, he picks out a piece of paper and slides it across the desk in my direction. I bring it up to my face.

It's a photograph of someone. An Officer ID picture, I have one exactly like it. They ironically look like mugshots, especially with the height chart on the wall behind.

Olive skin. Thick, unruly dark hair that looks like he ran a hand through it and called it done. Sharp jaw covered in a few days' worth of stubble. Tanned skin stretched over sharp cheekbones. And those eyes. Rich, whiskey-brown and intense.

For a second I don't recognise him. Until I notice the discrete, crooked smirk.

I look up at Vincent over the picture. "Leo Hendrix is my next target? Damn, I've been waiting for this day ever since Santa Elena. Thanks, boss."

Leo Hendrix. Even thinking his name alone makes my blood boil. The most arrogant, infuriating bastard I've ever had the misfortune of working with. He walks like the world owes him something and talks like he's never been wrong a day in his life. Cocky, smug, and so far up his own ass he probably thinks he's God's gift to Fleetwood.

Apparently what I say is the worlds most outstanding comedic line. Vincent practically hocks up the remains of his humbug as he falls into a fit of laughter. My face contorts into utter disbelief, what the fuck is so damn hilarious?

"I'd certainly hope not!" Vincent roars, finally settling down from his laughing fit. "That, is your new partner."

My face drops as I slam the picture down. No fucking way. "You've got to be kidding me."

Vincent cackles. "Glad to see your memory's still sharp, Shields."

I let out a laugh but it's dry, humourless. "Santa Elena? '99? We nearly killed each other instead of the official target."

"That was three years ago." Vincent shrugs, swallowing his humbug before popping another one in. "People change."

"People like Leo Hendrix don't."

He waves me off. "We need someone to step into the Hawks. North and I both agree that it's 'gonna be you."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. My brain tries to form words, but all it finds is a bitter taste and a long term grudge.

"I've built something here," I say finally. "Officer Hart and I, we've got rhythm. You want to dismantle that?"

He nods. "Lisa's solid. But she's not you. And you know who isn't solid right now? Carlos Richards. The Hawks need you now." He leans forward before I can get another word in. "This isn't a punishment. It's trust. Faith. You're the best officer I've got to offer."

And God, do I wish I fucking wasn't. That's the worst part. I believe him. I know I'm good. But I also know what it feels like to be thrown with a new partner who makes you want to commit team homicide.

The eye that isn't looming behind Vincent's eyepatch narrows into a slit. "I can tell you've got a problem with this, Shields."

A small sigh escapes my lips. "Of course I have a damn problem. Hendrix? And me? That's the best we can pull together?"

It's a compliment, but these are not the conditions I want to receive it in.

"You're both loyal. Skilled. He worked with Richards for four years. Knows the Hawks' rhythm better than anyone. You two might surprise each other now, who knows?"

I highly doubt that. "He'll sure be surprised when he wakes up one night to my barrel against his head."

"Shields." He warns. "Make this easier for me."

I don't want to. I want to scream in frustration. But I'm underneath his chain of command, and I'm not currently in any position to overrule this decision. So I take a deep breath and rise slowly. "Understood, Sir."

"You'll be transferred to their base next week. Sorry to usher you away, but they have an important mission coming up. You're the only one within the Fleetwood combat groups who we truly believe can replace Richards in terms of skill."

I glance down at the picture again. If it wasn't Leo Hendrix, I'd admit the man's attractive. He's got that scruffy, lazy charm that screams trouble. But unfortunately, all that potential is buried beneath a mountain of cocky arrogance.

However, it is Leo. Which ruins everything.

"And who the hell is going to replace me in the Falcons?" I mumble, dragging my gaze from the photograph like it's radioactive.

"Yamato Kato. No, he's not quite up to your skill set, but we're not anticipating high-risk missions for the Falcons in the near future. Gives him a chance to grow into the role."

Of course Vincent has an answer for everything. He always does. That's why you never win against men like him. They've played this game longer than you've been breathing. Still, I try.

"And what if me and Hendrix do still despise each other?" I groan, rubbing my temples like that'll make the name disappear.

"Then that's your problem to fix. You're professionals. I trust you not to let personal grievances compromise a mission. Hendrix is a damn good officer, even if he acts like a pain in the ass. You might find common ground."

He speaks with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, one that makes me want to slap out his other eye. Bastard.

"You'll be deployed to Redhawk base a week today, Thursday the 30th. Pack up, prep yourself, and don't make me regret this. I'm putting every ounce of faith I've got in you, Nova. Don't let me down." He looks down and taps his watch like the conversation's over. And it is.

"I've got some calls to make." His hand waves me off, and I take the not-so-subtle cue to leave. Frustration curls tight in my chest, but I don't argue. Not out loud.

I feel like I've been drowned with information. The claustrophobic heat isn't helping as i step outside. Lisa Hart, my now old partner, is already waiting, like she had a front row seat to the whole mess.

"Val told me," she says, falling into step. Her tone is lighter than mine deserves. "Redhawk base, huh? Going to be weird without you, Novie."

Novie. Only Lisa calls me that. If anyone else gave me that nickname, I'd stab them.

"Oh, so Val knew what it was about after all?" I scoff. "Weird doesn't begin to cover it. Feels like I'm being yanked out mid-sentence."

Her ginger curls bounce as she grins. "Well, at least they're yanking you out because you're too good. Not the worst reason to be reassigned."

"It still sucks. If the pressure wasn't already on, it definitely is now," I chuckle, inhaling sharply through my gritted teeth. Reaching my cabin, I push open the door. Lisa follows behind me.

Lisa Hart has been my partner in The Falcons for the past year. She's 30 years old, so older than me, although she joined later. Since she's been here, as well as being my co-captain, I think she views me as a younger sister. Not the type of younger sister whose hair you braid and sing lullabies to.

More like the type of younger sister who you have to cover for in raging gunfire. She gazes over at me with a frown on her freckled face.

"When do you leave?"

"A week today. The 30th." I groan, rubbing my eyes, "I feel like everything I've got established here is just going to vanish completely."

She shakes her head, offering me a smile. "Not true. You've made a whole lot of differences to this group. Them differences aren't going to change as soon as you leave. Besides, it's not a permanent thing, right?"

My answer is nothing more than a mere shrug. I have no idea if this will be permanent. I certainly fucking hope not. Lisa's grin reverses as she notices my lack of response.

"Damn. I can tell this is a lot to take in for you, especially so suddenly. Any reason why they can't delay it a few weeks?"

"Apparently they've got a big mission coming up that they 'need me on board for'. Not a clue when that is, but I'm guessing it must be pretty soon for me to get shoved 'outta the door." An exasperated laugh escapes my mouth. Lisa squeezes my shoulders gently and reassuringly.

"They've got a lot of faith in you. Don't get me wrong, I'm pissed that you're leaving. Try to look on the bright side, the Hawk group will get to see what a big deal you are." She teases, clearly making an effort to cheer me up.

As we walk, I picture the Redhawk base. The cabins. The training areas. The briefing rooms. All foreign territory. And at the centre of it: Leo goddamn Hendrix.

"Hendrix. Haven't worked with that man since '99," I mutter. "And I'm still mentally recovering."

Lisa snorts. "Just try not to shiv him on day one, yeah?"

I can't help but smirk. "No promises."

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30/05/2002 - 9am

Packing should've been a nightmare, but Lisa took over like a drill sergeant whilst I tied up some business. Everything is folded, labeled, and separated. Clothes, gear, ammo, backups.

Lisa stands beside me in my now-barren cabin. "I ran into one issue while packing," she says, a grin tugging at her lips.

"Let me guess. The overload of arsenal."

"Bingo. You're walking onto that chopper like the lovechild of Rambo and Joan of Arc."

I chuckle. "I like to be prepared."

"No." She passes me the glossy black assault rifle, and I swing it over my shoulder. "You like to be intimidating."

She's not wrong.

"I owe you one. Thanks for helping me get my shit together, Lis," I say as we leave the cabin. The trees surrounding the helipad bend under the gust of the chopper blades. That steady whump of the rotors has always done something to me. Spiked my adrenaline. Make everything feel real.

Standing aside of the chopper, almost getting blown away, is Commander Vincent with his arms folded. He trudges over and meets Lisa and I halfway.

"Shields," he says, tone clipped but warm. "You ready?"

"Always." I toss him a sarcastic salute and a grin.

"Go get your ass on that chopper and do a good job. Don't give North hell. Or do. Just make sure you come back in one piece. Try and not have any issues on the first day, ay?"

"Definitely not my intention, Commander V."

Lisa throws an arm around me. "Try not to die, okay Novie?"

I hug her without hesitation. Tight. She's one of the few people who knows me well enough to deserve that kind of vulnerability.

"Not on the schedule," I whisper into her shoulder.

She pulls back, eyes shiny as I turn away. "Go remind them why they chose you. And Nova?"

I glance back over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

"If Leo Hendrix gives you shit, break his nose."

I chuckle, saluting. "First thing on the agenda."

I sling my gear into the chopper, pull my headset on, and climb aboard. I don't look back. Don't let myself.

People always say I'm fearless. But I'm not. I'm human. Fear doesn't always come from guns or blood or fire. It comes from change. From walking into the unknown and pretending you're not already calculating the worst-case scenario.

I've survived shootouts, ambushes. I've survived the trauma that I keep buried beneath a grave in my mind. I've taken shit and given it back twice as hard.

But walking into that base, face to face with Leo Hendrix again?

That might be the hardest mission yet.

But it's also my only way forward.