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“Good luck!”
By now, the cadets were getting restless-- Tired of running the same VR missions over and over again. The general consensus was that they weren’t gonna get any better at piloting by flying through the same several dozen rings in a simulated, contained, Cornerian airspace. Some of them were even going crazy, looking up to try and see those same floating rings in the sky. Not really. . . But that was the rumour that Wolf was spreading around the barracks. He found it funny, but the joke was lost among the flight instructor. Though, with enough persuasion. . . Their wish was ultimately granted, and they were finally cleared for live exercises.They would use the same flight path that was in the simulations, leaving the base and primarily flying over the surrounding isles and avoiding the main district. There wouldn’t be any rings for them to fly through, but still, this sort of practice beats sitting in a chair with a sweaty headpiece on all day. Piling into green-tinted Cornerian Fighters, the cadets were eager to begin, but there was one more hurdle to their maiden voyage. Standing in front of the row of Fighters was the senior flight instructor, SP-1st Class James McCloud. Behind darkened shades were cold, focused eyes. James was an elusive, no nonsense sort, the kind it would take a miracle to impress, and everyone was trying to impress him. A commendation from James went a long way, after all. “I’m not going to bore you with the details. You’ve all heard it before already. This is just practice, not a flightshow. I’ll be watching from the command tower. Keeps your comm open, and easy flying.” With that, James saluted, and left the runway. Minutes later, the cadets were cleared for launch, and at the head of the pack was the ‘star of the show’. . . Wolf O’Donnell. Consistently getting perfect scores on the simulations and examinations, the notoriety that Wolf had garnered was polarizing. On one hand, he displayed a natural talent for flying, and on the other. . . His conduct left something to be desired. To quote the monthly report from the flight instructor: “Frequently showing up late, disobeying orders, flying out of formation during simulations. . . But as far as projected combat effectiveness, he’s the best in his class. A real hotshot.” He didn’t get to where he was because he knew someone, or because his father knew someone. Wolf had made it on his own accord, a piece of his pride that he wore on his sleeve. Smooth take-off. Wolf silenced the chatter coming from his wingmates-- Got in the way of his focus. He kept the line open to command, but he wasn’t exactly in a very talkative mood. They’ve all got their eyes on you, Wolf, he told himself, leaning back in the seat, getting comfortable. He really didn’t fancy this craft all that much-- Felt too flimsy, like the wings would fall off if a slight breeze rolled in. It was mass-produced, and it sure as hell felt like it, now that Wolf was finally behind the wheel of a real one. “Make sure you check your flight computer, ship systems, everything. If you’ve got to take your eyes off the fight to fix your ship, you’re as good as dead.” The staticky voice came in over the radio. Green across the board. Wolf grinned, raising the nose of the fighter just enough to where he was higher than the rest of his squad, dipping the left wing enough to turn the craft in an aileron roll effortlessly. Sure, it was showing off, but hell. . . If they thought flying in a straight line was ‘practice,’ they were planning to drive Wolf insane. He didn’t hear any objections coming from command, so Wolf was in the clear. For now.Before Wolf knew it, the exercise was coming to a close. Everyone was being recalled back to the landing strip where they had initially taken off from. The taste of freedom, even if it was a very strict definition of freedom, was satisfying. Wolf had half the mind to pop open the cockpit window and enjoy the salty, Cornerian air, but that would be shooting himself in the foot. The simple, acrobatic maneuver was enough to put his ass over the fire. He wasn’t gonna push his luck-- Just yet. Wolf’s eyes caught the glowing displays, tapping on them. Something was. . . Off with the craft. He squinted, seeing the sorta message that no one wants to see. Internal Fuel Tank Malfunction. “You gotta be kidding me.” Wolf muttered, the chatter reaching command. “What’s the problem, O’Donnell?” Was the reply. “You giving me second-rate ships is the pr--” The transmission was cut short. That malfunction, with the booster fuel getting somewhere where it wasn’t supposed to be, was a manufacturing error. One in two-point-four million chance, according to the post-incident report. Wolf was just that lucky. The fuel tank exploded, taking the right wing with it, and damaging the left one. “Dammit, dammit. . .” Wolf muttered, gripping the flight stick and yanking it to side and up, trying to muster what he could out of his one remaining wing and keep himself from spiraling out of control. Whatever command was trying to tell him was lost. The first detonation must’ve knocked out the internal communications array. The next was more violent, erupting from the console as Wolf was still trying to pull the ship up. Through the shrapnel, the fire, and the smoke, Wolf found a spot to crash. It was a beach, good enough to serve as an impromptu landing strip-- Or a burial ground. Don’t hesitate. Boots propped up on the dashboard, Wolf pulled with all his might, enough to slightly raise the nose of the ship, enough to have the flaming belly of the fighter to skid across the sand. The impact was violent, thrashing Wolf about in the cockpit, head banging against the broken terminals. Through gritted teeth, he kept his head up, until the craft began to slow down, and eventually, come to a halt. As much as he wanted to sit cozy now, he was still in the thick of it.When the time comes, just act. Biting through the harnesses, Wolf eventually freed himself, punching through the shattered window and clambering out of the flaming wreckage, falling onto the sand with a thud. He had managed to get himself away from the wrecked fighter before the final explosion finally reduced the craft to a flaming heap of scrap. Wolf looked back, laying there in the sand. He was feeling nothing, nothing but a searing line of pain running down the right side of his face, a pain which he held in trembling claw. It was warm. It was hot. It was hell. The last thing Wolf could recall was seeing the cavalry arrive, seeing them swarm him, shout at him, until the sounds blended together. Until there wasn’t anything left. Wolf woke up to a sterile, white ceiling, fluorescent lights blinding him. There was this horrible ringing in his ears, coupled with an unbearable headache. The canine groaned, shifting about his spot, slowly discovering his surroundings. A hospital? Rows of empty beds were besides him, making him the only soul in sight. It felt like a scene out of a bad dream, as if he was going to look down any moment now and see him bound to the bed in a straight jacket, or handcuffed to the frame. Thankfully, none of these outcomes were true. Wolf was able to sit up straight in bed, unfit to just stay there. When he hit the ground, he nearly fell over, and keeping his balance was a struggle, like he was learning to walk all over again. Baby steps. One foot in front of the other. Supporting himself against the wall, the canine shambled down the hallway, every step taking longer than the last. When his paws landed on a door, Wolf fell through in to a bathroom, stumbling in front of the mirror, basking in the horror. “My eye. . . My eye!?” Wolf clutched his face, paws running over a white cloth wrapped around his face. He had felt his stomach drop, a sort of mortal terror that can’t be described. The whole world seemed smaller, like it was closing in on him. Wolf shook with a mix of anger and fear, hunching over the sink, feeling like he might wind up ripping the thing off the wall. “Dammit-- DAMMIT!” Why did this happen-- Why me!? Fist clenched, Wolf struck the mirror in front of him in a fit of rage, the reflection shattering, red seeping out from the cracks, from his knuckles. “Sonuva. . . Why, dammit. . .” His tone had changed-- From something fierce and violent, now, something more crestfallen and betrayed. It was then that he heard footsteps behind him, a whole congregation forming. Wolf couldn’t make out who it was, on account of the whole broken mirror and all. “. . . What do you want?” The grey canine muttered, turning slowly, eye landing on a few of his squadmates surrounding the instructor-- James McCloud. Somehow, Wolf could tell it was him. That glare of his had a particular feeling, the kind that could really burn a hole in the back of your skull. Cold. Unpleasant. “Wolf O’Donnell. . . I was sent in to check on your condition.” “And?” Wolf asked, still not turning around to face McCloud. “That wasn’t all they sent you here to do. Don’t play dumb with me, James. You want a first-hand report-- A reason that paper plane of your’s blew up on me and I crashed.” He finally turned, all that anger suddenly returning to him, now that he had a face to put it to. “You gave me a broken fighter. What the hell was I supposed to do? You’re not gonna pin this down on me-- As some ‘pilot error.’ You’re the one responsible!” Wolf pointed a claw, stuffing it against James’ chest. For a while, James didn’t respond. Didn’t even flinch. Even right now, right in his face, Wolf couldn’t tell what was going on behind James’ shades. The others in the room-- Andrew Oikonny, Leon Powalski, and Bill Grey, were all silent, with looks of anxious anticipation. “. . . You catch all that, Bill?” James asked. “Y-Yes sir.” The cadet stammered. “Make sure you get this part too. Listen Wolf-- If you don’t like it here, you’re welcome to leave. Nobody’s stopping you. I’ve seen your performance, Wolf. This--” James pointed to the bandage covering Wolf’s eye. “Isn’t going to stop you. Wolf, you’re a natural. The best I’ve ever--” “Don’t. Don’t patronize me.” Wolf grinned, one that was hiding his anger. “Just. . . Just shut up, okay? If this is how you treat ‘the best you’ve ever seen’ . . . “ Pushing past the fox, Wolf limped along, and soon, Leon and Andrew followed suit. James and Bill were left alone in the restroom, the only sound filling the air being the hum of the fluorescent lights, leaving a heavy, awkward feeling in the air. It would only be a few months later before Wolf was contacted by a peculiar doctor, stole off with an experimental fighter, and was branded a traitor by the Cornerian military.