AUTHOR'S NOTES: This ends on kind of a cliffhanger, but it was getting too long of a chapter, so the next part will have to wait a bit. The next chapter might have a delay; I'm going on vacation next week (hopefully). I plan on updating while on vacay, but no guarantees.

For you young'uns, the song Yang is singing at the beginning is the Gorillaz's "Clint Eastwood." Sounds like something Yang would like.

Asheville Regional Airport

Asheville, North Carolina, United States of Canada

3 June 2001

"'I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad, I got sunshine in a bag; I'm useless, but not for long, the future is comin' on…'" Yang sang as she and her father took the exit to Asheville Regional Airport.

Taiyang looked at the radio as if it was a virus. "How can you listen to that crap?" he asked his daughter.

"How can you listen to Rush, Dad?" Yang countered.

"You mean the greatest thing to come out of Canada since Tim Horton's? Or the Arrow? Or Wayne Gretzky?"

"You don't even watch hockey." Yang rolled her eyes.

"Well, I was trying to think of something as awesome as Rush." Tai went past the main terminal, towards the general aviation section of the airport.

"The lead singer—what's his name? Getty or something? He sounds like a cat being strangled."

"Oh yeah?" Tai pointed at the radio. "The lead singer of this band sounds like he's high." Yang opened her mouth, and Tai shook his finger at her. "Silence! You will no longer insult the Holy Trinity of Geddy, Alex and Neil." Yang burst into laughter, and Tai grinned. It felt good to hear Yang laugh again.

She'd gotten better, he reflected. Tai would like to think it was the books, but while those had helped, he attributed it more towards a hard program of physical labor. Tai began by kicking Yang out of bed at 0600 and forcing her to come downstairs. She'd yelled and cursed him at first, mulishly refusing to eat or join him on a jog through the woods. Then she'd started eating breakfast, and obstinately walking rather than jogging, letting her father lap her around the house. Then she started jogging. Then she started running. She'd even joined him in mucking out their neighbor's barn. It had taken a week, but Yang was beginning to live again. Tai always knew she would; she was young, she was strong, and just not the type to stay down for long.

She'd surprised him this morning. After finishing her morning run, she'd walked into the kitchen and declared today was the day she would fly again.

They pulled into the Happy Bottom Flying Club and School, which Summer Rose had once declared (after her second tequila; Summer was a lightweight) sounded like a cross between a flight training school and a whorehouse. Actually, it was a tribute to the famous Happy Bottom Riding Club, operated by the legendary "Pancho" Barnes near Edwards Air Force Base in the late 1940s, when Chuck Yeager and Scott Crossfield were trading aerial speed records. Tai had been teaching at Happy Bottom since he'd left the USAF; both Yang and Ruby learned to fly here.

They got out, and Yang took a deep breath of the smell of an airport: jet fuel, hot metal, oil. It smelled good. It felt good. She grinned at her father. "You were right, Dad. I can't stay away."

Tai opened the door to the hangar. "It's in your blood, kiddo."

There were no students at the school this morning, but the other two instructors were there, lounging next to one of the Happy Bottom's Cessna 172s. Both were older men, and couldn't be more different: one was white, short and skinny with graying blonde hair; the other was black, tall and heavyset, and bald as an egg. Weirdly, aside from that, they looked like each other facially. "Hey, Lance. Hey, Pops," Yang greeted them.

"Wayull!" Lance's drawl was pure Texas. No one knew if he was actually a Texan or just pretended he was. "Ah see ya got her down here, Tai." He levered himself out of the chair and winced as several joints popped. "What are ya now, missy? You still a Looey?"

"I'm a Captain," Yang replied, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

He snapped to attention and saluted. "A Capt'n? Below the zone as hayull. You musta blown someone fer that."

"You'd know," Pops chimed in.

"The list is long an' distinguished."

Pops got up and walked over. "You're one sick bastard, Lance." He enfolded Yang's real hand in one of his; she was reminded of Yatsuhachi Daichi. "How are you, Yang?" His drawl was more Carolina than Texas. "Pay no attention to this gross motherfucker. Though you're way too young to be a Captain. Back in my day, you didn't make Captain until you were at least 30."

"Back in his day," Lance said. "Back when you wuz flyin' Nieuports—"

"Will you shut up?" Pops retorted. "I'm trying to talk to the lady here."

"Oh, now she's a lady. No child o' Tai and Summer's is any lady." Lance looked around. "Where's the other one, the little redhead that eats all my dayum cookies?"

"She's a Captain now too," Tai told him. "She's at Hill." Naturally, he couldn't reveal Ruby's actual mission, not even to two of his oldest friends.

"Ruby Rose, a Capt'n? Sheeit. Ah guess I might as well jus' pick me out a plot in the dayum graveyard, ah'm so fuckin' old."

"The way you fly? I'm surprised you haven't bought the farm already."

Yang snorted at the two older men's jibes. She knew they'd been friends for longer than she'd been alive, having flown combat everywhere, from Vietnam to Iran, starting off in F-105 Thunderchiefs and finishing in early model F-16s. Tai cleared his throat so Lance and Pops would quit sniping at each other for a moment; they could do this for hours. "Gentlemen—and I use the term very loosely—Yang would like to fly before she turns 30."

"Right, right." Pops motioned them out of the hangar. Yang noticed that both of the old men had looked at her artificial arm, but neither had mentioned it. He pointed to an off-white aircraft, another Cessna. "You'll start with that."

"Okay." Yang wasn't going to argue. With her still learning how to use her hand, she knew that she had to start all over again. The Cessna 172 was forgiving and easy to fly, and Tai could take over if something went wrong.

"And once you've mastered that…" Pops moved out of the way "…maybe I'll let you fly that."

"Whoa. Holy shit," Yang breathed. It was a P-51 Mustang, its bare metal finish shining in the hot sun, the nose a bright red, repeated on the rudder. It carried invasion stripes and the call letters of the 4th Fighter Group, the precursor to her old wing at Signal. Lance acted like a game show hostess revealing the latest prize.

"Maybe," Pops emphasized. "Restoring that bird cost me half a mil. But we'll see." He steered her back towards the Cessna as Yang took a step towards the Mustang. Tai laughed; Ruby would have already been salivating over the P-51's right wing.

Yang walked to the Cessna, opened the pilot's door, and sat down. Tai got in the right seat. Yang looked around the instrument panel and saw her severed hand lying on the rudder pedals.

What the hell? She blinked. There was nothing there. Now her heart began to hammer. Stop it, she thought. Stop it! You are not having a panic attack! Pussies have panic attacks! She gripped the stick and throttle and forced her brain to remember how to start up a Cessna 172. Her eyes darted around the cockpit, trying to find the pitch control, fuel mix, but she couldn't seem to focus.

Tai didn't notice at first. "You forget how to fly one of these things?" he laughed. He pushed in the mixture knob to get fuel to the engine. "Easy to do. All this is automatic on the F-15."

"I, um…"

"Carburetor heat knob. Push in."

"Uh, right." Yang found it and pushed it in. "Now…now master switch…"

"You got it!" Tai encouraged her.

Yang's hands were shaking as she found the switch and turned it on. "Now…we prime?"

"Don't have to. It's warm. Throttle?"

Yang's real hand touched the throttle. She slowly closed her artificial hand around the stick. It was strange, not feeling the stick, but seeing it in her hand. But now her arms were trembling too. She felt sick. She opened the throttle, but too much.

Tai gently put his hand on her artificial one. "Okay. Let's stop."

"No, Dad." Yang tried to be firm, but her voice was shaky too.

"Yang, I won't fly with you when you're like this. You're a danger to your aircraft, yourself, and everyone in the air with you. Secure the aircraft and climb out."

"But…" Yang hung her head. He was right. Going up in this condition was suicidal. Slowly, she got out of the Cessna.

Tai came around and put an arm around her. "It's okay, pumpkin. It's been a little over a week. It was too soon. Let's go home."

Yang made it through Asheville and halfway back home before she started crying. It came on slowly, she fought it, but the tears eventually would not be stopped. "Dammit," she breathed, wiping away the tears angrily. "Goddammit!" She slammed her hand into the passenger side door, leaving a dent.

"You need me to pull over? Zippy's got enough dents in her as it is."

"I'm fine!"

Tai took the next exit, found a turn-out, and stopped. "No, you're not."

"I am!" Yang shouted.

Tai was patient. A man learned patience raising two daughters. "You had a panic attack when we got in the Cessna."

Yang's hands clenched into fists—including the artificial one. "Only cowards have panic attacks."

"Bullshit. Both Summer and Raven had panic attacks. Summer was a hypochondriac when she was pregnant with Ruby."

"That's different, Dad!" Yang exclaimed. "That's pregnancy hormones and…and not fighter pilot stuff! I love to fly! Why the fuck am I having panic attacks for something I love doing?"

Tai leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder. "Yang. You just had your damn hand blown off. You got shot down. You lost a fight. You think that's not a shock? You think Bader and Mareseyev just hopped onto their artificial legs and back into the cockpit as soon as the docs put them on?" He sighed. "I guess it's my fault."

"How can this be your fault, Dad?"

"I pushed you too hard. I thought if I got you up and moving you'd be ready. My fault, Yang. I should've realized…"

Yang leaned back in the seat. "No, Dad. I needed the kick in the ass. But maybe I'm just…maybe I can't do it, you know? Get back in the seat, I mean." She shook her head. "But I want to, Dad. I want to so damn bad. Ruby's out there. She needs me."

"Yang, I know it's hard to believe—it is for me—but Ruby is a grown woman. She can take care of herself."

Yang smiled and chuckled ruefully. "Yeah, I know. She didn't get her dumb hand blown off or get shot down. Granted, she rammed another airplane, but it's not the same." She reached up and put the cold plastic of the hand on Tai's warm one. "It's like I'm the little baby sis all of a sudden."

They were quiet for awhile, then Tai took off his seatbelt. "Well. Maybe that's what we've got to do."

"What?"

"Baby steps. Got to crawl before you can walk." He opened the door. "Scoot over. You drive."

"Uh, what?" Yang repeated.

"You drive. I know you know how to drive. I taught you that, too."

"But…" Then Yang saw what her father was trying to do. She took off her belt, gingerly got herself in the driver's seat, while Tai went around and took the passenger side. She set her feet on the accelerator and brake pedals, then her hands on the wheel. Zippy was an automatic, so she wouldn't need to shift much. It was kind of like an airplane, at that.

Tai reached down and put the car in reverse. "Ready?"

"I think so." She pushed down on the pedal. Zippy lurched, but she got back on the road. Another shift into drive, and she got back onto the highway. The wheel responded, she used the pedals as needed, and Yang found herself quartering the windscreen—checking her instrument panel, the road ahead, other cars, her mirrors. Without warning, Yang was suddenly enjoying herself.

Yang found herself smiling. I'm useless. But not for long.

USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)

North Atlantic Ocean, 600 Miles West of Ireland

3 June 2001

Blake Belladonna leaned against the railing of the fantail of the huge carrier. The North Atlantic, notorious for horrible weather and a cruel sea that seemed determined to sink anything manmade that dared sail its waters, was relatively calm. She could feel it moving the carrier, over 100,000 tons still subject to the sea's movement. Below her, the Reagan's four propellers churned the ocean into foam. To her right—starboard—the sun was beginning its trip downwards, though dusk was still a good three hours away.

She'd been onboard almost a week, but hadn't flown any missions. It was almost as if the carrier's crew had forgotten her, though she'd sat in on the daily briefings of VF-213, the squadron she was temporarily attached to, and stood a watch or two. It had left her little to do but brood.

"Hey there."

Blake turned to see Sun Wukong ambling towards her, flight suit unzipped to his navel—of course. It brought a faint smile to her lips. She'd been surprised to see him, since Sun was not US Navy, but Chinese Unified Air Force, same as Lie Ren. As it turned out, Sun was assigned to the Reagan to get carrier qualified: China would be fielding its first carrier before long, and it would need naval aviators. He didn't have his FCK-1 Ching Kuo as he had at Beacon, but was temporarily attached, as she was, though he was flying with VFA-115, one of the Reagan's F/A-18 squadrons.

"Hi." She turned back to the sea.

Sun leaned on the fantail railing next to her. Above them was the overhang of the flight deck. "You avoiding me or something? I've barely seen you since you came aboard."

Blake shook her head. "No. You've been busy. And I haven't."

"I thought maybe it was because I reminded you of Beacon."

She turned and graced him with a cold stare. "Anyone ever tell you that you lack tact?"

"What's tact?"

Blake rolled her eyes. "I rest my case."

"Well, if you're bored, I'm just your man." That got another stare that dropped the ambient temperature. "The CAG just sent me to find you. You've got BARCAP tonight. He says you've goldbricked long enough. Time to earn your wings."

A jolt of fear went through her. BARCAP was Barrier Combat Air Patrol. The carrier flew at least two aircraft, 24-7 while at sea, to guard against attack. That part wasn't what bothered her. What bothered her was the missions usually lasted four to six hours…which meant coming back aboard the Reagan at night. She had exactly five night traps in her entire career, the bare minimum to carrier qualify, and each other scared her as much as GRIMM. "Shit," she cursed.

"If it makes you feel better, I'll be flying with you."

"It doesn't." Blake sighed. There was no point in crying, screaming, or otherwise conducting herself unlike a Marine. Orders were orders. She was going to have to land at night, or crash Gambol Shroud. It was that simple.

He pushed himself off the railing, then began walking back into the hangar deck behind him. When Sun realized she wasn't following him, he turned back. "You coming? Or you going AWOL?"

"I'll be there in a minute."

Sun nodded. "Okay. Just meet me in 115's ready room." He continued walking away.

Blake watched the sea for a minute longer. Then she reached up and untied the ribbon in her hair. There were quite a few Faunus on the ship, enough that their prescence didn't even merit a second glance. She would be no different, and it was time to realize that. She'd worn it for so long, hid for so long, but Blake was suddenly so very tired of hiding. She held it for a moment, then tossed it into the ship's wake. It bobbed there for a moment, then was lost in the froth.

A half hour later, Blake was in her flight gear, and climbed up the handholds into Gambol Shroud's cockpit after preflighting the aircraft. The plane captain, a young human male, helped her strap in, then pulled the safeties from the ejection seat and climbed down. The chocks were pulled, Blake ran up the F-14's engines, and she followed one of the yellow-shirted deck crew's directions as she taxied forward. The sea had picked up a little, especially as the Reagan turned into the wind to launch aircraft, and it felt strange to be taxiing on an airfield that was moving beneath the Tomcat's wheels.

Ahead of her, the carrier was getting ready to launch the nighttime E-2 Hawkeye AWACS aircraft, an ungainly turboprop with a large radome atop the fuselage. While she had time, Blake quickly ran through her own prelaunch checklist. Although catapult shots were even more routine and simple than landings on carriers, there was still a lot that could go wrong. The catapults were essentially giant steam pistons that threw aircraft into the air, from zero to 200 mph in less than three seconds. But if there wasn't enough steam in the catapult, there wouldn't be enough speed to get into the air—what was called a "cold cat" shot. Sometimes the pilot could stand on the brakes and stop the aircraft before it went over the bow, but most of the time a cold cat would simply fling the aircraft into the ocean. If that happened, she would have to eject in a hurry and hope the carrier wouldn't run over her. There was also the possibility of an engine failure. She reviewed that procedure in her mind.

The Tomcat vibrated with the E-2's launch, and she watched it climb smoothly into the air. Then she once more followed the yellow-shirt forward, and stopped with his hand signal. Now she was more or less a passenger for a minute or two. Around Gambol Shroud, more yellow-shirts—bridlemen—attached the F-14 to the catapult shuttle. These men had the most dangerous job on a carrier's flight deck, which was saying something: they would have to maneuver around an aircraft which was running its engines. One false step, and a bridleman could walk into a propeller or be sucked down an intake, with survival extremely questionable. They were professionals, and soon the Tomcat was ready for launch. Blake stared down the long gray line of the catapult, to the bow of the Reagan, which moved up and down, giving her a glimpse of the waiting sea.

She looked to her left, to the catapult officer. They would alone give the signal to launch the aircraft. She leaned into the wind and twirled her hands, giving Blake the signal to run up to full power. Blake did so, pushing the throttles to the stops. The Tomcat roared with energy, purple shock diamonds forming behind the engines, thousands of pounds of thrust directed backwards to hit the steel jet blast deflector and direct it away from aircraft behind her own. Gambol Shroud strained at the catapult holdbacks. She quickly ran through checking the rudders and the flaps; all were working. For launch and greater lift, the F-14's wings were swept forward.

The catapult officer dropped to one knee, to allow the wing to pass over her head without decapitating her. Her eyes met Blake's, and waited. Blake saluted her, then took her hand off the throttle to hold onto a handle on the canopy; if she launched with her hand on the throttle, the sudden jolt could cause her to jerk the throttle backwards, causing the engines to quit…and that would be bad. The catapult officer returned the salute, her left hand dropped to the deck, two fingers extended.

Here we go, Blake thought, and readied herself, pushing her head back into the headrest. Any second—

The catapult officer's hand came up and pointed forward. Blake's heart beat once, and the catapult fired. Several times the force of gravity pressed her back into her seat, the carrier disappeared behind her, and suddenly she was in the air. A quick scan of the cockpit—everything looked good—and Blake cycled the landing gear up and climbed. She glanced behind her as she rolled to the right, and saw Sun go off the port catapult, on the angle deck. His launch was clean too, and he joined up. They climbed out to the north and their patrol area, and Blake relaxed. At least she'd get some nice flying in.