Author's note/disclaimer: I do not own Bravo or any other characters copyrighted by Disney. There is no money being made off of this!
Glencombe was a small airport community located in the middle of the Alaskan Panhandle, about hopping distance from Juneau. Perhaps 1200 aircraft and associated vehicles called it home. It had the usual collection of residential and commercial hangars, a few stores, a diner and a small admin center with some pathetic, weathered structure which should have been arrested for attempting to impersonate a control tower. But what really made Glencombe the punchline of local humor was that it was the location of one of the most notorious facilities for "juvenile aircraft offenders" on the west coast. If there was an adolescent in trouble with the law, and they had wings or rotors, it was entirely possible that they'd end up cooling their engines at Glencombe Youth Correctional Facility.
On this Monday, two pitties glided down the aisles of the long hangar section marked as "D Wing." One of them was a veteran, the chief correctional officer for the section, the other a new guard. The chief introduced the rookie, in turn, to the kleptomanic Dash-8, the young warbird with poor impulse control, the Cessna kid who'd been caught dealing illegal substances, and the Sikorsky S-76 who majored in drug addiction, chronic truancy and pathological lying, not to mention being "patient zero" for at least two outbreaks of diseases that, back in the day, would have been delicately referred to as "social". By now, the new guard was sure that he was seeing it all... until a shrill stream of curses from down the aisle broke the sullen silence.
The newbie froze in place for a beat or two. "Who's that, Chief?"
"Wendy again." his superior rolled his eyes in a world-weary fashion. "With that mouth on her, she'd make a hell of a drill instructor if she ever straightened out. But that's as likely as a steamroller winning the Piston Cup. We'll see her in a second." The older pitty cracked a wry grin. "Just brace yourself."
The rookie looked to where the chief's tine was pointing - and his mouth went slightly dry at the sight of a stall enclosed on all four sides with thick steel mesh, with netting on the inside. But all that didn't stop the furious occupant from grating the basket of her muzzle - yes, a muzzle - against the front bars of her lockup as she loosed another torrent of profanity for the benefit of their ear-panels. There was an impression of wild grey-green eyes over the distressed yellow paint of the muzzle, which struck sparks as its wearer dragged it across the bars another time.
"Good morning, Wendy." the chief guard sighed in a half-resigned fashion. "I see you aren't too happy right now."
"Go **** yourself, old man." she growled, pulling back at last. The new pitty took his breath in sharply as he got a full view of her through the bars - a fast, twin-engined mil-type jet in a natural camo pattern of slate blue, grey and white. He would have taken her for a legacy Hornet at first glance, but the angled tops and straight-up configuration of the twin tails suggested a Russkie in her genetic woodpile. Had some F-18 taken up with a Fulcrum and got themselves this prize? In the years after the Cold War's end, it was definitely possible.
"Watch it, son." the chief cautioned. "We got her muzzled and booted for a reason. Little Wendy here's bitten just about everybody in the wing, and the last time she made a break for it, took three relays of fighters from the National Guard and our neighbors in Canada to wear her out. She's fast as hell and has the range of a jetliner. Too bad her parents left her to the wonders of foster care, any kid would hate the world after getting bounced around in that system."
"What are they going to do with her here?" the newbie backed off by degrees, feeling the white-hot fury emanating from Wendy's cage.
"I have no idea." the veteran sighed. "But damn, what a waste." he turned and beckoned the rookie to follow. "Let's go on."
As they departed, Wendy took a few more parting shots, mostly graphic speculations on the circumstances under which her warders were conceived, and what their parents should have done as an alternative to allowing conception to occur.