What's the worst that can happen when you're forced to co-captain with your rival?
Nova Shields can't stand Leo Hendrix. She hates his arrogance and obnoxiousness, that crooked smirk he does when he thinks he's right. Leo can't stand Nova's wits, t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
NOVA ==== ==== ==== ==== 23/05/2002 - 11am Alto, New Mexico Silverwing Base ==== ==== ==== ====
You know when you're a kid in elementary school, you usually have a day dedicated to what you want to be when you grow up?
I remember it well. 5 years old, I went into school dressed as a surgeon. I had hold of one of those little plastic medical kits for kids and I was wearing scrubs that my Mom stitched out of an old bedsheet.
When it was my turn to speak, explain my career choice. I only had one reason. "I want to help people like my Daddy, who lost their leg."
My Dad is an ex-veteran. He lost one of his legs fighting in Vietnam. I remember him telling me the story; but at that age, he pretended he lost it in a fight with Captain Hook.
I don't think explaining to your 5 year old daughter that your right leg got blown off in a war was considered 'good parenting'. Although, the whole 'good parenting' thing got dropped when I was 8.
Still, I was dead set on becoming a surgeon. That was my plan. If someone had told me at the age of 5 that the only surgery I would be doing would be on my guns, I'd have said one thing.
"What's a gun?"
The faint sound of the radio humming in the background is the only thing cutting the silence of my concentration. In front of me, I look upon my dismantled pistol, splayed across my bedsheets like a map as I clean out its barrel with precision.
This Smith & Wesson Model 39; formerly my dad's from his veteran days, has been strapped to my thigh for every assignment as far back as I can remember. It's my go-to pistol, my lucky gun. Somehow, it's still going.
When it was my 3rd year anniversary of joining the Falcon squad; Commander Vincent bought me a new pistol. The same gun but a newer model. Had a blue stripe across the wooden frame that trailed from the barrel down to the trigger.
There was only one thing; it wasn't my lucky gun. It didn't carry the kill streak of my original; didn't carry the same successes. Because of that, and since I still seem to be stuck in my old ways; the new pistol is still in a dust sodden case under my bed. Untouched.
Old habits die hard, I guess.
Someone cracks their hand against my door, snapping me out of my focus. Still cleaning out the barrel, I make my way across the room and press down on the handle with my elbow. Valerie VanCelli is stood on the other side. Consider her something similar to a spokeswoman, but restricted within the Fleetwood organisation.
She spreads news to us, keeping us in check about the other squads. Her foot is tapping impatiently and her gunmetal eyes hold that same, stressful gaze they always do.
"Val, you don't look too happy." A grin pulls on the corner of my lips as I open my door more invitingly, stepping back to let her inside.
"I'm not happy," she abruptly snaps, ushering into my room. "Did you know Officer Richards apparently got killed 2 weeks ago? For some reason I've only just found out."
