SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

Six Months Later

Alekzandra's hands trembled as she sat in the cockpit of her ZR34-Rumbler. Her ship vibrated with the distant sounds of explosions as the Extractants hammered the last defenses of LZ Sierra. She wiped the sweat from her brow, gripping the controls tightly.

"I'm in position," she said, her voice cracking.

"Lieutenant Trottle," SABER-1's voice came through the comms, calm as always, "abort. Conditions are worse than projected. It's not worth the risk."

"Negative, SABER-1," she replied, her voice shaking. "I—I'm coming in."

Her hands struggled to steady as she guided the Rumbler into the chaos. The Extractants swarmed like a tide, some even leaping at the descending ship. Shield warnings blared as acidic projectiles splattered against the hull. She clenched her teeth, her heart racing.

As she saw him running toward the ramp, her stomach churned. His golden shield flared, warding off attacks as he boarded. The moment he yelled, "Go!" she yanked the throttle, the ship lifting just as the ramp sealed shut.

"Good work," he said after a moment of silence.

She laughed nervously, still trembling. "I'm not sure I can keep doing this."

"You already have," he replied simply.

One Year Later

Alekzandra exhaled shakily, her fingers wrapped tightly around the controls as the Rumbler descended into a new nightmare. The Extractants were faster this time, their projectiles heavier.

"Lieutenant, pull back," SABER-1's voice came through. "Your ship won't hold."

Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to reply, "Negative. I'm already here. Just get to the ramp."

Her shields flickered dangerously, and she could barely suppress her panic. The Extractants began clambering onto the ship's frame, their claws screeching against the armor.

"Almost there," his voice came through, steady as always.

She managed to hold position long enough for him to leap aboard, and the ship roared as she climbed out of the battlefield, Extractants still clinging to the hull until atmospheric pressure ripped them off.

"You're still shaking," he noted.

"Yeah," she admitted, her breath coming in gasps. "But I made it, didn't I?"

Two Years Later

The battlefield was a sea of red on her radar, and Alekzandra's grip tightened on the sticks. Her breathing was shallow but steadier than before. She could see him through the cockpit camera, cutting a path through the chaos.

"Your shields are failing," SABER-1 warned.

"So are yours," she shot back, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

She steadied the Rumbler as he boarded, the ramp barely sealing before a massive projectile struck the hull. Alarms screamed, but she climbed out of the hot zone with a grim determination.

"You're improving," he said.

"I'm still terrified," she replied honestly.

"That's what makes it impressive," he said.

Four Years Later

"Lieutenant, I've got company," SABER-1 said as she approached.

Alekzandra smirked. "What else is new?"

She wasn't trembling anymore. The ship rocked as Extractants bombarded it, but her hands were steady, her breathing controlled. She brought the Rumbler down in perfect position, holding it steady despite the carnage.

"Get on," she barked, her voice firm.

He didn't reply, just sprinted aboard, and she launched the ship with a precision that felt automatic.

"Good work," he said.

"I know," she replied with a small smile.

FIVE YEARS LATER

The battlefield was a storm of chaos and fire, but Alekzandra Trottle navigated her ZR34-Rumbler with unshakable precision. The once-daunting Extractants, whose swarming attacks had paralyzed her with fear in the past, now seemed like routine obstacles. Her hands moved over the controls with the grace of a concert pianist, directing the lumbering gunship through a hail of acidic projectiles and claws without a single misstep.

Her shields flared as another wave of barbed projectiles splattered against them, the warning indicators flashing across her HUD. She barely noticed. "SABER-1," she said over the comms, her tone steady and confident. "You're clear."

"Understood," his voice came back, calm as ever.

From the corner of her camera feed, she saw him sprinting toward the ramp, his golden shields shimmering as they absorbed the Extractants' onslaught. His armor bore fresh scorch marks and acidic scars, but his movements were as fluid and controlled as ever.

The ramp hissed open, and he boarded in one smooth motion. The moment the sensors detected him safely inside, she yanked the throttle, sending the Rumbler soaring out of the hot zone. The Extractants clung to the hull like barnacles, but they were torn away as the ship broke through the upper atmosphere.

Alekzandra allowed herself a small smile. "Easy extraction," she said into the comms.

"You've come a long way," came SABER-1's reply.

She didn't respond. She didn't need to.

Back at the base, Alekzandra strode into the debriefing room, her flight suit still damp with sweat. She carried herself with an air of quiet pride, a far cry from the nervous wreck she'd been during her first missions. The room was sparsely populated, save for the Colonel standing by the wall-mounted tactical display, his arms crossed and expression unreadable.

"Lieutenant Trottle," he began, his voice carrying a sharp edge. "Another successful extraction, I hear."

"Yes, sir," she replied, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

The Colonel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Tell me, Lieutenant, have you ever heard the story of Icarus?"

She arched an eyebrow. "No, sir."

He unfolded his arms, pacing slowly as he spoke. "It's a Greek myth. Icarus and his father, Daedalus, crafted wings made of feathers and wax to escape imprisonment. Before they took flight, Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too high, as the sun would melt the wax. Icarus, drunk on the thrill of flight, ignored the warning. He soared higher and higher until the sun melted his wings, and he fell to his death in the sea below."

Alekzandra tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "So, you're saying I'm flying too close to the sun?"

"I'm saying," the Colonel replied sharply, "that hubris is a dangerous thing. Your repeated volunteer missions to extract SABER-1 are commendable, but they're also reckless. One day, your wings might melt, and when they do, you'll drag others down with you."

She nodded slowly, absorbing his words but not flinching from his intensity. "I understand the risks, sir. But tell me this—if no one else is willing to fly, should I stand by and let him fall? He's not just another soldier out there. He's the one keeping us in the fight. If supporting him means risking my wings, then that's a risk I'm willing to take."

The Colonel's eyes narrowed. "You think this makes you a hero, Lieutenant? Heroes burn bright and fast, and they're remembered for their foolishness as much as their courage."

Alekzandra chuckled darkly, folding her arms across her chest. "Well, sir, if my wings melt, they melt. Until then, I'll keep flying. Because every time I go out there, I'm supporting the only person who's keeping this place safe and providing the intel we need to fight back against the Extractants. If that's hubris, so be it."

The Colonel's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing her words. Finally, he turned back to the tactical display, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

Alekzandra left the room without another word, her boots echoing against the polished floor. Her heart was steady, her stride confident. She had no regrets. Let them talk of melted wings and fallen heroes.

She would continue to fly, no matter the cost. After all, even a shield needs someone willing to bear its weight.

Alekzandra stood in the bustling hangar, her eyes fixed on the sleek, cutting-edge ship before her. The Thunderbird was a masterpiece of engineering—a hybrid of speed, resilience, and firepower that surpassed anything she'd flown before. It gleamed under the bright overhead lights, its angular design giving it the appearance of a bird poised for flight. Unlike her bulky Rumbler, this ship was built for agility and precision while maintaining the durability needed for hot extractions. It was perfect.

A tech officer approached her, clipboard in hand. "Lieutenant Trottle," he said with a respectful nod. "Your new vessel is ready. Congratulations."

She nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing, running her gloved hand along the ship's hull. She was studying every inch, already forming a mental map of its systems and weaknesses. This ship wasn't just a tool; it was an extension of herself, a partner in the skies.

The officer cleared his throat. "Uh, just so you're aware, your callsign has been updated. From here on out, you'll be known as Thunderbird. It aligns with—"

She cut him off with a raised hand, her gaze still fixed on the ship. "That won't be necessary," she said, her voice calm but firm.

"Ma'am?"

"It's callsign Icarus now." She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his confused expression.

"Icarus?" the officer repeated, hesitating. "But—"

She smiled faintly, almost apologetically. "I appreciate the thought, but Icarus is what I'll go by from here on out."

The tech officer scribbled something on his clipboard, clearly uncomfortable. "Of course, ma'am. I'll make the update."

As he walked off, Alekzandra heard the faint murmurs of other personnel in the hangar. Some were puzzled, others amused, but she ignored them. She wasn't doing this for them. She was doing it for herself.

The Colonel's voice carried from behind her, low and sharp. "I see you're making a statement."

She didn't turn to face him, keeping her focus on the Thunderbird. "Didn't realize I needed permission for a callsign, sir."

"You're deliberately thumbing your nose at the lesson I tried to impart. I hope you realize that."

She turned then, her eyes hard but gleaming with a trace of defiance. "I do, sir. And I also realize that lessons only matter if you're willing to learn them. I've learned mine—never let someone else decide how high you can fly."

The Colonel's lips thinned into a line, his jaw tightening. He knew better than to argue with her. Alekzandra could feel the tension radiating off him, but she didn't flinch. After a long moment, he gave her a curt nod and walked away without another word.

As she climbed into the Thunderbird's cockpit for the first time, Alekzandra felt an exhilarating rush of confidence. The controls felt natural under her hands, and as the ship hummed to life, it was as if it recognized her. This was no longer about flying for survival. It was about pushing the limits, defying expectations, and proving that even if her wings melted, she would burn brightly on her own terms.

Alekzandra Trottle had embraced her identity, and from that moment on, when her name was called, it would carry the weight of defiance and purpose.

"Icarus, ready for launch."