Pilot and Angels

Chapter 24: A Pilot's Dream

The soft sound of footsteps felt so loud in the pristine hallway. The air smelled sterile due to the nature of the place. A man was walking with a brisk step down the hallway toward a certain room. There was barely anyone else other than him in the hallway.

He reached the door he intended to. His eyes idly glanced over to the sign on the door that read 'Room 3-5'. The man reached out for the handle, only for the door to slide open on its own, mildly surprising him. Behind it, a certain silver-haired girl flinched in surprise too before quickly regaining her stance. Faint tear marks were visible on her face.

She nodded and murmured an apology, before quickly making herself scarce. The man did not say anything as he watched the girl's retreating back for a few moments before entering the room. He closed the door behind him as he heaved a tired sigh.

Beep. 

Beep. 

Beep.

The monotone rhythm of machinery filled the room. Someone was laid on the bed, unmoving like a statue. His face was so... serene. The man neared his bed as he grabbed a chair. He sat upon it as he once more gave a long and tired sigh. His visage turned to one of sadness and longing as he gazed upon the one on the bed.

"Hey, it's me again." He said, knowing there will be no answer. "Nothing much, just dropping by to see how you're doin', buddy..." He continued, and silence answered him. He exhaled loudly as he turned his attention toward the door. "Y'know, she's been visiting almost every day."

"She doesn't say it, but we know she thinks it's her fault that... you're like this."

"Everyone says otherwise, but you know, she's as stubborn as a rock." He lightly chuckled as he said that. "So, why don't you wake up and tell her yourself?" He turned back his gaze toward the sleeping patient. "Hey... why aren't you waking up?"

"Tell me, what are you dreaming of?"

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Two years.

Two bloody years, but it felt like twenty. Every day was a living hell for you and your fellow cadets. Or what's left of them anyway...

When the course started, your group had over 300 trainees. Now, only a fraction remained. Many dorm rooms lie unused and abandoned by their previous owners. As the time flowed onward, the base seemed to get quieter and quieter for you. The number of survivors had been reduced to around 20. All bruised, battered, and scarred shells of what they used to be.

98%

That was the expected mortality rate of the training program. Every day, some horrible shit would happen, leading to the loss of someone's life. And each time it happened, a piece of you died with them. You may not know them well, but all of you were in the same boat.