𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐆𝐔𝐍: 𝐌𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊..
In mathematics, "unlimited" means having an infinite number of solutions to a given problem, but to Comandor Monica "Vampire" Sollomovici, the word was a lifestyle in itself, describing the steep...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
⋆★⋆
AT 5AM THE SUNRISE HAS NOT EVEN graced the skies above the base, yet Monica was already greeting her wide awake team with a straight posture, a pair of sunglasses -that were not really a preparation for the sunlight to come, but a mere hiding method to how bad of a hangover she was having from the rash decision of getting drunk with Pete Mitchell the night before- and a cunning smile, for she knew far better than the pilots before her what sort of day awaited them all. If her smile somehow was insufficient though, they could always take a look at her clipboard and rest assured 'Vampire' was going to finally take the reigns of being a team leader in the way they've gotten used to higher ranks to be.
The early rise was a classic giveaway, Bradley believed.
He wasn't one for gossip, but, pressured into joining the rest of the team for a card game in Merlin's room, he may have slipped some key details between the avalanche of questions regarding the obvious connection Maverick and Vampire have.
Safe to say that thanks to Rooster, everybody present knew of their bar getaway.
Thankfully, Monica had managed to hide perfectly so far how their night went at all, given that no one had time to ask anything and she wasn't considering giving them the opportunity to either.
She remembered hazy details from the night before once Pete tucked the scribbled napkin in one of her overalls' pockets. It was still there now. Their night talk about wingmen turned into a comment about her being "picky", then into a whole squadron-worth of jokes that somehow winded up with her confessing to him the glossary of bad relationships she's gotten herself into for the past thirty years, between the crammed commissions.
She could have sworn he cursed every single name she mentioned, before they moved on to battle tales. They've both got plenty of those. An amount that would count as 'scarring' to any normal civilian. Though Pete initially avoided boasting as much as he did in his youth, Monica had managed to push him to the point at which he finally started telling her of his accomplishments so far -a "come on, tell me what the end of our relationship really bought you" line was all it took for him to go red and determined on her-, out of which, the most impressive one, she found, was the fact that he was now an ace: five enemy ships taken out in battle.
And they had kept on talking and they had kept on drinking, meaning that once they closed their tab and stepped into the freezing dead of night with an empty beach roaring menacingly not so far away and a wind almost ripping the redness right off their skin, it was far easier to crash at the nearest motel than even consider standing still and trying to see the screen of a phone to dial for a taxi. They could have always asked the bartender to call one for them, but perhaps it was a mutual silent agreement not to do so. Eventually, she had to call one anyway, at about 4AM, when she woke up next to a snoring Pete Mitchell, curled up on a little corner of the double bed they had.
