Page 25 of Aviatrix

Then again, I’ve never believed in aliens either.

Growing up on base, aliens were a punchline. They were sci-fi fodder, not strategic threats. Dad used to laugh them off. Said if they were real, we’d know.

Well.

I guess we know now.

A soft knock sounds at the door. I give myself one last look in the mirror, smoothing the front of my navy uniform with trembling hands before opening the decorative wood.

A clean-shaven Lark stands on the other side in matching dress blues, a blue flight cap perched neatly on his head. I chose not to wear mine. Tucking myself into anything ceremonial feels wrong today.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low.

I nod, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind me. I don’t ask where he slept last night. I didn’t feel him come in, and a small part of me expected him to. After dinner with Amber. After the tears. After everything.

But he didn’t.

And I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

We walk side by side in silence. The tension between us doesn’t need a name. It just lingers. As nervous as I am, I know he’s probably even more anxious. He has to deliver the impossible. That aliens attacked a hidden base, destroyed it, killed thirty-three people, and could strike again at any moment. And after that, he’ll have to stand at a podium and answer questions he has no answers to.

Because leadership isn’t telling him anything.

Which means they either don’t have a plan. Or they don’t trust him. Or maybe they don’t trust anyone at all.

And if command can’t be trusted, neither can the roles they assigned us.

I used to know what my place was. Now I’m not sure if I’m a soldier, a survivor… or just the only one willing to find the truth.

As we near the front of the White House, an aide steps directly into our path and salutes.

“Colonel Jones,” he says, his tone formal. “We’ve received a call regarding your secretary, Gina Douglas.”

My heart jerks in my chest.

Lark steps forward, blocking the aide from my view. “Now’s not the time.”

“Sir,” the aide says, quieter now. “She passed an hour ago from injuries sustained in the attack. Her family has been notified.”

That makes thirty-four now.

Lark doesn’t move. Just stands there, spine rigid, a statue built from restraint. No flicker. No crack. But I see the fist at his side—tight, trembling, barely holding as it curls.

“Sir?”

“Thank you,” Lark replies flatly, devoid of anything human.

He turns and walks, his spine a steel rod. But the fist still curled at his side gives him away.

I stay frozen in place for a beat, watching his back retreat down the hallway, stiff and unreadable.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even twitch.

And yet… I felt it. That tightening in his jaw. That hold of his fingers. The way he held his breath like it might leak grief if he let it go.

I didn’t know Gina. Not really.